#BOTH TURNED INTO MONSTERS AGAINST THEIR WILL

[spideyjimin]

Bloodlines entwined: epilogue | jjk

⤷ having a baby alone was supposed to be easy. but an accidental twist of fate pulled you into a hidden world of werewolves, and ancient bloodlines. navigating your already complicated life becomes even harder as you uncover your past; one tied to a legacy you never knew existed. and in the middle of this chaos stands jungkook, the werewolf king… and the father of your child. 

—  pairing: werewolf!jungkook x female reader 

—  genre: strangers to lovers, parents-to-be au, royalty au, werewolves au, soulmates au, angst, fluff, and smut 

— rating: 18+ 

—  words: 3,077

—  warnings: swearing, breastfeeding, mention of blood, mention of abortion, and teasing

—  author’s note: the adventure with this jk and oc has come to an end, and it honestly makes me so so sad! 😭 i am not ready to say goodbye to them because man, i enjoyed so much writing this series 🫶🏼 i’m gonna drop a little note because i’ve so much to say and don’t want to make this part long as hell 😅 thank you for everything, guys!! hope you’ll enjoy this last part of the series 🫶🏼

Epilogue: papa and mama

SERIES MASTERLIST | previous

“Fuck,” Jungkook groans the second your baby’s loud cries echo through the house.

The cries yank you out of sleep like a slap. You throw a hand over your ear in an attempt to muffle the noise, but it’s useless. With your werewolf super hearing, it’s like your baby is crying right into your ears.

“I’ll go,” Jungkook whispers into your mind before dragging himself out of bed.

Slowly, you turn around to grab your phone from the nightstand. It’s 6 am, so it’s time to wake up. In a matter of time, Kai and Arya will storm into your bedroom. With a quiet groan, you sit up against the bed’s headboard, rubbing the sleep from your face and bracing yourself for the chaos about to hit.

Seconds later, Jungkook makes his way to the room, holding your third child, Minho, tightly in his arms. A smile grows on your face as you see them. Minho isn’t crying anymore, he seems absolutely delighted to be in his dad’s arms.

“This little man is starving,” he says.

Jungkook places your baby in your arms so you can breastfeed the little monster. When your eyes meet your son’s, it’s like the world stops moving. Your hand caresses his sweet face. Even though it isn’t easy at all to raise a little being, it is so fulfilling and filled with love.

While you breastfeed your youngest, Jungkook—or should you say your husband—sits next to you. Three years after the birth of Kai, you got married to Jungkook. You wanted to take your time because marrying him wasn’t a small thing.

Through this marriage, you’d become the werewolf queen, and you’d leave behind your normal and human life. You took your time because you wanted to mentally prepare yourself for it. Saying goodbye to your students was hard, but it felt like a new chapter was starting.  

A year before your marriage, you had given birth to your daughter, Arya. Just like her brother, she was a very desired child. However, she wasn’t born from an insemination. She was born out of an act of love. Well, a very dirty one, but still a loved one.

Right after your marriage and coronation, you got pregnant. Well, actually, you got pregnant on that exact day. Minho was born a couple of days earlier than the due date, but yeah, nine months after that special day, you gave birth to your third baby. Minho was a surprised baby. It was not in your plans to have a baby at that time.

At the time, Arya was still very young, you had just become queen, and you wanted to give yourself a little time to adjust. But life had other plans. Minho arrived sooner than expected. Now, with Jungkook, you're both open to the idea of a fourth child, but you're not rushing it. You're not actively trying for another baby, just leaving it to fate. After all, Minho is only six months old. There's no need to add a fourth little one just yet

Having three young kids is quite a challenge. They run everywhere, constantly want to play, scream whenever they aren’t happy, but they love with their entire hearts. Minho is a bit too young for that, but he still screams when he’s not happy. And let’s not speak about their powers.

All three of them are incredibly powerful for their young age, far stronger than any other werewolf you’ve ever known. Kai, as the firstborn of a ruling king, seems to hold the greatest strength. You believe that’s why his power surpasses even Arya’s and Minho’s. Both of them radiate a fierce energy too, but like all young ones, they haven’t yet mastered control over their abilities. At least not fully, because when it comes to being silly, they seem to know how their powers work.

You and Jungkook have been trying to guide and help Kai and Arya to deal with it. But sometimes, they don’t get it, which you understand perfectly. How can a four and a two-year-old child understand how to control their powers? Thankfully, they haven’t turned into a wolf yet, which reassures you and your husband. Since this is all uncharted territory, you’re constantly scared that they’ll shift too early.  

Together with Jungkook, you’ve been running blood tests on your babies, searching for answers to the mysteries behind their strength. Their blood is remarkably close to yours, a clear proof that they are fully hybrids, carrying almost as much human blood as you do. But it’s their father’s blood that gives their werewolf side an extraordinary power. And layered on top of that, the Shadow’s blood stirs a force that neither you nor Jungkook ever possessed.

With Kai, you’ve already seen what that means. He inherited both the Blood’s healing abilities and the Shadows' vanishing powers. When he loses control of his emotions, he can simply disappear, turning invisible even to Jungkook’s keen senses. Only you can still see him. For his healing abilities, you remember the first time so clearly: Kai healing a bruise on Arya’s knee with nothing but a touch, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

What you've learned is simple, yet staggering: your blood and Jungkook’s are equally strong. Neither side overpowers the other, and the human blood didn’t collapse under the sheer force of the wolf; it stood its ground.

And because of that, because of the balance inside them, your children are something rare, something powerful. A new beginning.

The three of them were born with a blue and a red eye, making them the first three werewolves belonging to two packs. They clearly are the new generation of the royal family. They are going to be the first mixed and hybrid werewolves. And you’re proud to be their mother.

“I wish we could sleep a bit more on weekends,” Jungkook mumbles while pressing a gentle kiss on your shoulder.

“Then, you shouldn’t have had kids,” you say, looking at him.

“I know,” he whispers. “Can’t wait for them to be older.”

You shake your head with a big smile on your face.

“And you’re also the one begging for a fourth,” you add.

Before Jungkook even gets to answer, you hear little footsteps behind the door. Very slowly, the door opens before Kai’s head pops out to check if you’re awake. As he notices you both sitting in bed, he opens the door and walks with his sister to the bed. They literally push Jungkook and sit down between you and your husband.

“Always pushing me away from you,” Jungkook says through thoughts.

The good thing with this soulmate connection is the fact that you can speak through minds without being heard by your kids. Jungkook definitely uses it to whisper the nastiest things when the kids are around.

“Good morning,” they both say while looking at the two of you.

Arya instantly goes into her father’s arms. She’s definitely a daddy’s girl, and Jungkook isn’t going to complain at all about that.

“Grandpa Felix is coming today to pick you up,” you tell your kids.

Felix will be looking after these monsters for the next four days because you’re going on a little romantic trip with Jungkook. Since you became parents, you have barely had any alone time with your husband. You do get some, but the kids are always around. This time it will be just the two of you. There won’t be Kai, Arya, and Minho.

“And you will be staying with him and Iris for four days, okay?”

Your father found love again almost three years ago. He was very hesitant at first, but man, he’s head over heels with her. Iris is an incredible woman, and she deeply loves your father. She has three children of her own, and they became like family, too.

“Will Atlas be there?” Kai asks.

Atlas is Lexi’s child. Surprising, right?

Atlas wasn’t supposed to exist, he was a little accident. The result of a broken condom. Lexi and Elias, her boyfriend, didn’t want to keep him because it was never in their plans to become parents. But after a lot of thinking and consideration—and a lot of crying too—they decided to keep him. However, they made sure that Atlas would be their first and last child. She got her tubes tied, and he got a vasectomy.   

Kai was only ten months old when Atlas was born, and they are very close today. You hope this bond will never be broken, and you’ll make sure it never does.

“Yes, and maybe, Iris’s grandchildren will be there too,” you add.

Iris already has quite a few grandchildren, and they regularly visit her. Your babies and Atlas have been growing up with her grandchildren, and you’re glad your children have more cousins to play with.

“Yeaaah,” Arya jumps with excitement.

“No jumping in bed, Arya,” Jungkook scolds her.

“But papa…” she pouts, trying to push her father to let her do whatever she wants.

“There’s no papa,” he tries to resist. “We don’t jump in bed.”

Jungkook is, without a doubt, the coolest dad on earth. He showers your children with affection, always prepared to whisk them away on spontaneous adventures or sneak them a treat when no one is looking. With him, laughter is never far away. He makes even the smallest moments feel magical.

But as much as he spoils them with love and attention, he’s also firm when it comes to what truly matters. Rules are rules in the household, and Jungkook stands by them. Respect, kindness, and responsibility; he ensures they grasp the significance of these values.

He’s the kind of father who can turn discipline into a lesson of love, making your children feel safe rather than scolded. And somehow, he strikes that perfect balance: being their hero and their anchor, all at once.

“Pff,” she mumbles before sitting down next to you.

“Now she doesn’t love me anymore,” he says to you through thoughts and rolls his eyes.

You smile while brushing Minho’s hair with your fingers.

“You know it’ll only last 5 secs,” you answer. “She loves you too much.”

“So,” Jungkook begins. “Let’s get dressed while mama finishes nourishing Minho.”

Your husband grabs your son and daughter, carrying them on his shoulders before disappearing. Your eyes focus once more on your youngest.

“Very soon, you’ll be joining those two munchkins and make our lives miserable,” you whisper to him.

Even though he can’t speak yet, his powers express everything his tiny heart feels, and the words he hasn’t learned to form. A strong, tender warmth wraps around you like a second skin made of pure love. It hums in the air between you, vibrant and alive, pulling you closer without a single touch.

This energy, this invisible bond, was something you felt even during your three pregnancies. Each of your babies radiated the same fierce, protective warmth before they even opened their eyes to the world. It never gets old, never loses its magic. Every time, it settles into your soul like sunlight through the clouds, comforting and anchoring you all at once.

Around them, you feel safe in a way that nothing else could ever replicate. Like nothing in the world could ever truly harm you, not while these little lights exist.

“It never ceases to surprise me how strong you are,” you add. “Just like Kai and Arya.”

Arya and Minho were different babies than Kai. Since they both heard their siblings' voices during the pregnancies, they instantly protected them as well once out. It’s always so incredible to see. And to be honest, you can’t wait to see what they will become once older. You also want to see their wolf shapes, but there is still time for it. Hopefully, you still have six years before Kai has to navigate through his first shift.

Once Minho drank all the milk he needed, you both decided to join Jungkook, Kai, and Arya in the dining room after putting on some clothes. The two little monsters are already driving Jinwoo, Jungkook’s footman, completely crazy. Poor man. You absolutely feel sorry for him.

There’s a little crib in the room, and you put Minho there so you can take your breakfast. It’s definitely not going to be a peaceful one. There hasn’t been one since Kai’s birth.

“Arya,” Jungkook says with a threatening voice. “Sit down and stop running around with the bread.”

She looks at you, searching for a savior, but you only shake your head.

“Listen to your dad,” you tell her.

The little monster vanishes, a move she's mastered whenever she doesn't want to be caught. But Jungkook, ever prepared, doesn’t even stand. He slides his chair back, extends an arm, and effortlessly grabs the back of her t-shirt, pulling her right out of thin air.

Out of the three kids, Arya is the troublemaker. Bold and mischievous, she does as she pleases. She’s already skilled at wielding the invisibility power she inherited from you. She doesn’t bother trying it with you anymore, she knows it doesn’t work. But Jungkook always knows how to catch her.

“Do I need to punish you this early in the morning?” Jungkook’s voice cuts deep.

Kai, sitting quietly on his chair with a piece of bread in his hand, attentively watches his dad holding firmly his sister’s shirt. Clearly, this isn’t new to him.  

“Papa,” she whines.

She reappears before he places her on the chair next to his.

“Now stay here and finish your bread,” he says. “Then, you’ll apologize to Jinwoo for the mess you made on the floor with the bread.”

She only nods, cheeks puffed out in defiance. You almost laugh, but you keep your poker face. A skill you’ve perfected ever since your kids decided your life was a full-time comedy show.

“Don’t laugh,” Jungkook’s voice echoes in your mind. “It’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“But you’re dying to…” his eyes meet yours. “Should I also punish you?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s too early for that shit, Jungkook.”

“It’s never too early.”

“You’re so nasty,” you almost sound disgusted.  

“Last night, you weren’t complaining…”

Before he even continues, you cut his thoughts short.

“Don’t ever continue that sentence with the kids around.”

Jungkook bites his lip, trying and failing not to laugh, especially after scolding Arya. The kids wouldn’t understand that you’re talking silently. They would probably think that the situation is funny, which it shouldn’t be.

As Jungkook struggles not to laugh and you hold onto your last shred of parental dignity, a sudden thud pulls both your attention. You both turn just in time to see Kai standing on his chair, trying to spread jam on his bread, and managing to get half of it on his face instead.

"Kai, sit," you say, trying to sound stern, but your voice wavers with amusement.

"I'm making it fancy, mama!" he beams proudly, showing off the very questionable, and very sticky piece of bread.

Jungkook shakes his head, a chuckle slipping out despite himself. It was surprising that Kai hadn’t done anything yet. Kai and Arya always create a mess when having their breakfast. It’s like they can’t start the day without going wild.  

"Artist in the making," he mutters, wiping his mouth to hide his grin.

Arya, now back on her chair and pretending to be the model of good behavior, speaks up.

"I'm better at making fancy bread,” she says, shaking her bread in the air.

"Nooo, I'm better!" Kai insists, waving the jammy bread dangerously close to his hair.

Before a full food disaster can unfold, you lean over and steady his hand with a smile.

"You're both amazing," you say sweetly. "But maybe let's keep the fancy on the plate, okay?"

“Papa, can you put more jam on my bread?” Arya asks as she keeps shaking the piece of bread.

This little girl has been leaving breadcrumbs everywhere in this room. You already feel sorry for the staff who will need to clean.  

Jungkook grabs the bread, places it on her plate, and carefully spreads the jam. Arya studies his every move, making sure he’s putting enough jam.

“Good?” your husband asks her.

She nods before grabbing it and resuming to eat it.

As you look around you, a big smile spreads across your face. The house is a mess, the bread is on the floor, and two of your children are showing off their jammy breads, but you wouldn’t trade a second of it. Even amidst the chaos, nothing fills your heart more than being in the middle of it all.

Your entire life, you dreamed of having even just one child. That desperate, stubborn hope led you down the path of insemination, a journey paved with fear, strength, and a faith you had to hold onto even when everything seemed uncertain. And you got your miracle, and then life, in all its wild generosity, gave you three.

The past four years have been a beautiful blur: filled with laughter that shook the walls, cries that shook your heart, and love so big it sometimes felt overwhelming. There were sleepless nights, tearful days, and moments you doubted yourself, but there was never a moment you wished for another life.

Watching Kai, Arya, and Minho grow into their mischievous, stubborn, endlessly fascinating selves fills you with a pride so fierce it almost hurts.

The journey you started alone, driven by pure longing, didn’t just give you Kai. It gave you a partner who loves you fiercely, two more children you never knew you needed, and a life that is louder, fuller, and infinitely richer than you ever dared to dream. Being their mother feels as natural as breathing, as inevitable as the sunrise.

And when you think back to life before them, it feels distant and pale, like a story that belonged to someone else.

It isn’t easy every day. Some days, it’s messy and frustrating and exhausting. But even then, even in the hardest moments, their laughter cuts through the noise. Their smiles light up the darkest mornings. And their love—raw, unconditional, and chaotic—is the purest magic you’ve ever known. You wouldn't just live through it again, you would choose it. Every single time.

This is the life you fought for, and it’s more beautiful than you ever dared to imagine.

[aspenmissing]

HI BOOKIE!! Can I request arcane characters first moments with their newborn, like seeing them for the first time and taking them home? 🥹

ꜰʀᴀɢɪʟᴇ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴄʟᴀɢɢᴏʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 7608 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴛᴀʟᴋꜱ ᴏꜰ ʙɪʀᴛʜ/ʟᴀʙᴏᴜʀ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ!! ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴇᴅ ᴍʏ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ, ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ᴄᴜᴛᴇ ᴏɴᴇ! ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴇᴀʀʟʏ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ɪᴛ! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴄʟᴀɢɢᴏʀ

JAYCE

The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic, but all Jayce could focus on was you—and the tiny bundle cradled in his arms. His baby. Your baby. Your daughter.

He rocked gently on his heels, swaying instinctively as he gazed down at her, his mind swimming with awe. She was so small. So impossibly perfect. Every tiny detail—the soft wisps of hair on her head, the way her little fingers curled into fists against her blanket—was burned into his heart with a fierceness he hadn’t even realized he was capable of.

She shifted slightly in her sleep, her nose wrinkling, and Jayce immediately stilled, afraid to disturb her. He chuckled quietly under his breath, the sound half disbelieving, half overwhelmed. He would have fought gods and monsters if it meant keeping her safe.

You stirred from your spot on the hospital bed, drawing his gaze. You were pale, visibly exhausted, your body still healing from the ordeal just a few days prior. A limp remained in your walk, and every movement seemed to take twice the effort it should have. Jayce’s chest tightened with a mix of helplessness and admiration. You were the strongest person he knew. You had brought this little miracle into the world, and somehow, even now, you still managed a soft smile just for him.

He shifted Amara carefully into the crook of one arm and reached out with his free hand, offering it to you wordlessly. His large, calloused fingers wrapped around yours the second you reached out, steady and reassuring.

"Come here," he murmured, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the baby. His hand moved to your waist, bracing you as you pushed off the bed with a quiet grunt of effort. "Lean on me. We'll take it slow, sweetheart."

You nodded, though your face twisted briefly in a wince as your feet touched the floor. Jayce didn’t rush you. He didn’t even think about moving until you were steady. Then, carefully, slowly, the two of you began making your way toward the door.

=

The journey was painstakingly slow. Every few steps, Jayce would glance down at you, checking your face for any sign of pain you tried to hide. You clung to his jacket with one hand, your knuckles white from the effort of staying upright, and with your other hand, you reached out every now and then to brush your fingers over Amara's tiny head. As if you needed to reassure yourself that she was real.

Jayce’s heart twisted at the sight, at the tenderness in your every movement. He tightened his arm around your waist protectively, silently promising that from this moment on, you would never be alone. Neither of you would.

The hospital discharge process dragged on longer than either of you wanted, full of paperwork and last-minute instructions from nurses. Jayce barely heard any of it. His focus remained singular—on you, on Amara, on getting you both home.

When they finally stepped out into the sunlight, the world felt too bright, too loud compared to the hushed sanctuary of the hospital. Jayce blinked against the sudden light and instinctively bent his head lower over Amara, shielding her as best he could.

He helped you into the passenger seat first, being careful of your limp, waiting until you were settled with a soft blanket tucked over your lap. Only then did he turn his attention to Amara’s carrier, securing it with slow, deliberate movements. Even after he was certain it was locked in perfectly, he lingered, one broad hand resting protectively on the handle, reluctant to let her out of his sight even for a moment.

=

The drive home was quiet, filled only with the soft breathing of the sleeping new-born and the occasional rasp of your tired sighs. Jayce drove one-handed most of the way, his free hand always reaching over to brush the back of your hand or stroke your thigh comfortingly.

And when they finally pulled up to their house—their home—Jayce killed the engine and just sat there for a moment, overwhelmed.

He turned to you, his brown eyes shining with emotion. "Ready?" he asked, his voice thick, rough with unshed tears.

You nodded, blinking rapidly. "More than ready."

Jayce smiled and climbed out. He moved to your side first, helping you out slowly, one arm steadying you as you leaned heavily against him. Once he was sure you could stand, he ducked into the back seat and carefully unbuckled Amara, lifting her against his chest with infinite care.

One strong arm cradled her close, and he kept the other firmly wrapped around your waist, guiding you carefully up the familiar path to the door. When they reached it, Jayce hesitated for just a moment—then, without letting go of you for long, he shifted his hold on Amara slightly, quickly reaching out to open the door.

The moment the latch clicked, he immediately wrapped his arm back around you, pulling you close once again. With a gentle kick, he nudged the door the rest of the way open, and together, the three of you stepped inside.

=

The house was warm, cozy, filled with the scent of fresh laundry and the faint lingering smell of your favourite candles. It smelled like home.

Jayce stood in the doorway for a long moment, breathing it all in. He leaned down, pressing a long, lingering kiss to the top of your head.

"Welcome home, Amara," he whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of everything he felt.

You leaned into him, your hand resting lightly over his heart, feeling it hammer against your palm. Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t look away. You didn’t want to miss a second of this moment.

Slowly, and gently, Jayce helped you over to the living room couch. He waited until you were settled, making sure you were comfortable, tucking a pillow behind your back even as you protested that you were fine. Only once you were safely resting did he sit down beside you, still cradling Amara in his arms like the most precious treasure in the world.

Together, you stared down at her, marvelling at the tiny sounds she made in her sleep—the soft sighs, the little hitches of her breath. Jayce rocked her gently, his big hands almost swallowing her tiny body.

"I don't know how it’s possible to love someone this much," he said after a while, his voice barely a whisper.

You reached out and brushed Amara’s downy hair with your fingertips. "You get used to it," you murmured, smiling tiredly. "It only grows."

Jayce glanced at you, his heart swelling painfully. He leaned over and kissed you—soft, reverent, lingering.

"I love you," he said. "Both of you. So much it hurts."

You smiled against his lips. "We love you too."

Jayce sat back, tucking you both close against him, cradling his family in his arms like he never wanted to let go.

And for the first time in his life, Jayce Talis felt whole.

VIKTOR

The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and fresh linens, but Viktor barely noticed. All he could hear — all he could feel — was the tiny, soft whimpering coming from the bundled form in your arms.

He hovered for a moment at the doorway, cane gripped tightly in one hand, shoulders tense like a man standing at the edge of a cliff. He had faced council halls filled with critics, machines poised on the brink of disaster, and scientific debates that could tear reputations apart. Yet nothing — nothing — had ever made his heart pound like this.

You looked exhausted — hair mussed, cheeks flushed with effort and heat, your eyelids heavy with fatigue — but Viktor had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. You looked like the sun breaking over the horizon after a storm. Fragile and strong all at once, cradling the tiny, miraculous life the two of you had created together.

His cane clicked softly against the floor as he made his way to your bedside, moving slowly, carefully. His gait was unsteady, but it wasn’t just the old weakness in his leg — it was awe, sheer awe, weighing him down. His golden eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, were wide and uncertain as he peered over your shoulder.

"You can hold him," you said, your voice worn thin but warm, like silk that's been loved too much. You smiled up at him — that familiar smile that had once lit up lab benches and late-night research sessions, the same smile that now lit up this tiny, sacred space you shared. Your arms lifted slightly in offering. "He's yours too, Vik."

For a long, aching heartbeat, Viktor just stood there, frozen like a man turned to stone. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest, a thousand fears and hopes crashing into each other behind his ribs.

He forced himself to move. Setting his cane carefully against the wall, Viktor eased down onto the edge of the bed beside you. His hand trembled slightly — not from weakness, but from something deeper, something he could not quantify or analyze away.

You shifted carefully, guiding the small bundle into his arms. Viktor held his breath, terrified to hurt him, terrified to fail before he'd even begun.

Nikolai. Their son. His son.

He was so impossibly small — smaller even than the instruments Viktor had once crafted with meticulous precision. His skin was flushed a tender pink, his fists curled into tiny knots against his chest, his mouth opening in a soft, silent yawn. His nose scrunched up, and Viktor thought absurdly, He is already so expressive.

A rough, broken sound escaped Viktor's throat before he could stop it.

"I… he is perfect," Viktor whispered, his voice cracking audibly on the last word.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, your hand slipping over his, steadying him, grounding him. "He looks like you," you murmured, a tired, teasing smile tugging at your lips. "Same nose. Same scowl."

Viktor let out a watery laugh, one hand cradling the back of Nikolai’s delicate head while the other supported his tiny body. "Poor boy, to inherit such unfortunate features," he murmured with feigned solemnity, though his eyes shone with wonder.

He shifted his hand slightly, tracing a knuckle ever so gently along Nikolai’s cheek.

"But he is lucky," Viktor added, voice softening even more. His gaze flicked up to meet yours, something unspoken and heavy passing between you. "He has your eyes. He will see the world with the same kindness."

The room fell into a thick, warm silence. You just sat there together, soaking it all in — the tiny sounds Nikolai made in his sleep, the weight of him in Viktor’s arms, the overwhelming, profound rightness of it all.

Viktor bent low, brushing an impossibly gentle kiss across Nikolai’s forehead, his breath catching painfully in his chest.

"My little invention," Viktor whispered against his son's soft skin, his voice cracking again despite himself. "My greatest achievement."

=

The cab ride home was a blur. You leaned heavily against Viktor's side, your body still sore and slow from labour, your head resting against his shoulder. The hospital bag sat slumped at your feet, and Nikolai slept bundled tightly against your chest, nestled beneath a thick blanket that Viktor had insisted on bringing himself — one he had sewn with tiny, uneven stitches after countless frustrated hours, but that he was fiercely proud of nonetheless.

When the car finally pulled up outside your building, Viktor fumbled for his coin pouch with stiff fingers, over-tipping the driver without a second thought. His mind was far away, focused entirely on the tiny, fragile treasure in your arms.

The cold air nipped at your cheeks as you stepped outside. Viktor steadied you with one hand while his cane thunked softly against the pavement. Every few steps, he would glance over anxiously, checking to make sure you and Nikolai were all right.

At the door, Viktor shifted awkwardly — his cane in one hand, the key trembling in the other. You reached up, your fingers brushing over his, helping him guide the key into the lock. Together, you pushed it open.

=

The apartment smelled like home — a warm blend of coffee beans, old books, and metal shavings. Familiar and safe.

"Welcome home, Nikolai," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you stepped over the threshold.

Viktor just stood there for a moment, as if rooted to the spot, his eyes sweeping over everything he'd prepared.

The bassinet was tucked neatly beside the bed, the mobile of planets and stars Viktor had painstakingly crafted spinning slowly above it. Soft, handmade blankets were folded neatly over the armchair. Books about parenting and child development were stacked precariously high on the side table, alongside scribbled notes Viktor had written — a scientist to the last, trying to learn everything he could.

His cane tapped once against the floor, breaking the silence, and then Viktor smiled — a soft, disbelieving thing.

"This… this is real," he murmured, voice nearly breaking. His golden eyes flicked between you and the baby you carried, as if struggling to absorb the sight. "He is really here."

You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. "He's ours."

Viktor limped closer, his movements slow and careful, and brushed the blanket back from Nikolai's face. The baby stirred a little, his nose wrinkling in sleepy protest, but he soon settled again.

Viktor's hand — scarred, calloused from years of invention — smoothed gently over his son's downy hair. His touch was so reverent, so painfully tender that it made your heart ache.

"He is going to be brilliant," Viktor said quietly, his voice thick with pride and wonder. "Just like his mother."

You smiled, a tired, tearful thing, and nudged him lightly with your shoulder. "And stubborn, just like his father."

Viktor huffed out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, his hand never leaving Nikolai.

=

That night, after a long, slow evening filled with whispered conversations and tentative smiles, you lay together in bed.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft golden glow of a small lamp. Nikolai slept soundly in his little bassinet beside your bed, his tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm that Viktor found utterly mesmerizing.

Beneath the blanket, Viktor’s hand found yours. He laced his fingers through yours slowly, tenderly, and his thumb brushed slow, steady circles over your knuckles.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to. The silence was full — full of everything that words could never quite capture.

For the first time in Viktor’s life, he felt no pressing need to fix the world outside. No blueprints waiting to be drawn, no research demanding his attention, no council members to impress or battle.

This — this — was his world now.

You. Nikolai. This tiny, breathing miracle. And Viktor had never known such peace.

JAYVIK

The room still smelled of antiseptic and warmth, the kind of scent that clung to memories you knew would never leave you. Outside the window, Piltover's sun was just beginning to dip toward the horizon, staining the sky a gentle peach.

You could hear the faint murmur of nurses down the hall, the quiet clink of glass and metal from carts being pushed past. Life went on, busy and clinical beyond these four walls — but inside this room, it had paused.

Everything had shifted.

And in Viktor's arms — awkward and careful, his cane propped against the bedside where he'd all but thrown it down in his hurry to reach you — was something more miraculous than any Hextech invention he and Jayce had ever crafted.

Eliana.

Your baby.

Only a few hours old, still blinking against the strange, wide world she had been brought into. She was wrapped tight in a soft, pale yellow blanket, her tiny face scrunched up like she was puzzling through the sheer audacity of existence itself.

Viktor stared down at her, the faintest tremble in his hands betraying the overwhelming tide of emotions he fought to keep in check. His thumb brushed over one of Eliana's impossibly small fists — so small she could barely close it fully — and he let out a breathless, reverent laugh. Barely a sound. More wonder than humour.

"They are so small," he whispered, voice hoarse as though he'd run a marathon, when all he'd done was fall completely, helplessly in love.

"They’ll get bigger," Jayce said from beside him, his voice soft and full of pride. His hand found the small of your back, a steadying warmth that anchored you against the nest of pillows you were tucked into. You were exhausted — every muscle sore and heavy, your body still trembling faintly with aftershocks — but your heart was so full it physically ached.

Jayce leaned closer, his face illuminated by the low sunlight, smiling as though he might never stop.

"Not too fast though," he added, chuckling low. "I want to keep them like this for a little while."

You smiled sleepily, your fingers stretching out, desperate to touch. To confirm she was real. You grazed a fingertip over Eliana’s cheek, and marvelled at the softness of her skin — more delicate than spun silk, more precious than anything the three of you had ever built or dreamed of.

"They already look like you two," you murmured, your heart swelling impossibly bigger in your chest. You glanced between Viktor and Jayce, feeling that strange, stunned awe again. Viktor’s messy, wavy hair, Jayce’s strong, kind nose — and somewhere in the mix, something wholly new. A perfect little miracle stitched together by all the love you'd built over the years.

Viktor, moving carefully, lowered himself into the chair beside your bed, relying on his cane for support as he eased down with a soft grunt of effort. He cradled Eliana closer to his chest, protective, reverent. His hand rested along her back, the smallest of shields.

"They are perfect," Viktor said, the words nearly a prayer. His accent thickened the vowels, and something about it made tears burn behind your eyes.

Jayce leaned over then, brushing a kiss to your temple, then another to Viktor’s shoulder, before reaching down to ruffle the soft down of Eliana’s hair.

"Welcome to the family, Eliana," Jayce murmured, his voice cracking slightly.

The three of you stayed like that for what felt like hours — the world narrowed to a single, bright point. You spoke in hushed tones, laughed softly when Eliana yawned, her tiny mouth forming a perfect little 'O'. You each marveled at every small, silly thing she did — every frown, every hiccup, every twitch of her tiny hands.

Eventually, Eliana drifted off, her tiny body going slack and warm against Viktor's chest. Viktor leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers for a long, silent moment. A promise you didn't have to hear to understand.

You are loved. You are safe. We are yours.

=

The apartment was different now.

It still smelled like home — like warm linen and Viktor’s tea and Jayce’s cologne — but underneath it all was something new. Something sweeter. Fresh laundry, baby powder, a hint of formula. The windows were open, letting in the golden afternoon light, and the whole place seemed... softer, somehow.

Jayce pushed the front door open with his hip, juggling the diaper bag and a few of the gifts they'd been given at the hospital. He looked tired — exhausted, really — dark circles under his eyes and his hair a rumpled mess. But his grin was as bright as the sun.

"Home, sweet home," he said with a breathless laugh, dropping the bag onto the floor with a thud.

Behind him, Viktor stepped inside carefully, his cane tapping softly against the hardwood. Eliana was bundled securely against his chest in a soft pink blanket, only the top of her dark hair visible.

You followed, one hand braced against the wall, moving slowly. Healing. But lighter. So much lighter now.

Eliana stirred in Viktor’s arms, letting out a soft whimper. Instinctively, Viktor rocked on his heels — a subtle rhythm, back and forth, the quiet clink of his cane marking time.

"Shh, little one," Viktor whispered, cradling her closer. His voice, low and soothing, seemed to wrap the room itself in a gentle hush.

Jayce kicked his shoes off and practically bounded back to Viktor’s side, peeling back a little corner of the blanket to uncover one of Eliana’s tiny hands. He grinned when she immediately grabbed at his finger, her tiny grip impossibly strong.

"I can't believe they’re real," Jayce said, sounding dazed. He crouched down slightly, getting eye-level with Eliana. "We made this. We made her."

You sank down onto the couch, sighing with a mixture of pain and bliss. Viktor followed carefully, settling onto the cushion beside you with Eliana cradled between you both.

You leaned your head against Viktor’s shoulder, soaking in his familiar scent — old books, metal, clean cotton — and the steady, soothing beat of his heart.

Eliana gave a little sigh, nuzzling into Viktor's chest, and you smiled through the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

Viktor smiled too — that rare, private smile he saved for the quietest, most sacred moments.

"Our greatest invention yet," Viktor said softly, almost reverently.

Jayce chuckled wetly, reaching to brush his fingers through your hair, then Viktor’s. He tilted forward to kiss Eliana’s forehead, lingering there for a moment as if willing all his love into her tiny, perfect body.

The three of you stayed there for what felt like forever — surrounded by soft light, the faint creak of the floors, and the little snuffling noises Eliana made as she dreamed.

The world outside could have crumbled away. None of you would have noticed.

VANDER

The dimly lit room above the Last Drop was filled with the soft sound of newborn cries, the scent of old wood mingling with the sterile yet comforting smell of herbs that Felicia had insisted on for the healing process. Y/N lay on a worn mattress, their body sore but buzzing with the aftershock of bringing two beautiful lives into the world. The pain of labor was still fresh in their body, but it was soon overshadowed by the overwhelming emotion of holding their newborn daughters in their arms.

Felicia had been there, her hands steady and firm, guiding Y/N through the rough, exhausting labor. She’d been a pillar of strength, speaking soft reassurances and offering support in every way possible. But it was Vander’s presence that Y/N had needed most in the end. His calm, steady demeanor had been a quiet anchor, his large hand gripping Y/N’s tightly through the hardest moments. He had been their rock.

Now, Vander stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at his newborn daughters, his large hands trembling slightly as he took them both in. The girls were small—fragile—just like their mother had been when he'd first met her, a life born out of the chaos of Zaun. Their tiny, squinted faces, the soft curls of hair on their heads, and the gentle grip of their hands wrapped around his fingers made his heart ache with a love he hadn’t known was possible.

“Welcome to the world, my little ones,” Vander whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He brushed his thumb tenderly over the forehead of the first baby, a girl with dark hair like her mother.

Her name was Amara. Her features already carried the promise of strength, the same fierce fire that burned within her mother. The second girl, with lighter hair, was named Lyra. She had a peaceful air about her, her deep, soulful eyes wide open as if already taking in the world around her. Vander had promised Y/N they’d choose names together, but in this moment, Amara and Lyra felt like fate’s choice, as if their names had been written in the stars long before their birth.

Y/N smiled weakly, reaching out to gently touch Vander’s hand, still aching but full of pride. “They’re perfect, aren’t they?”

Vander looked at Y/N, his expression softening as his eyes filled with wonder. “Just like their mother,” he said, his voice a low, reverent murmur. His heart swelled with a love he never thought possible, not just for Y/N, but for these tiny beings that now depended on him. He had spent his life fighting, surviving in the dark streets of Zaun, but in this moment, he realized there was something even stronger than his will to survive—his love for his family.

Felicia, who had been busy cleaning up and ensuring that Y/N was comfortable, glanced over at the family. “You both did well. Now, rest. You’ve earned a moment of peace.”

Vander didn’t want to leave Y/N’s side, but he knew she needed rest. He carefully placed the twins into the soft blankets beside her, taking a deep breath as the weight of the moment fully settled on his shoulders. He had never imagined fatherhood would feel like this—overwhelming, powerful, and humbling all at once.

=

The door creaked open, and the sound of small feet rushing through the hallway followed. Vi, barely 5 years old but full of energy and a boundless curiosity, burst into the room, her bright eyes wide with excitement. She was followed closely by Connol, who carefully carried Powder in his arms. The tiny girl’s small fingers clung to her father’s shoulder as she watched the commotion unfold with sleepy curiosity.

Felicia had stayed behind to let the kids visit, knowing how important this moment would be for them all. Vi’s excitement was palpable as she bounded toward the bed, her face lighting up with awe when she saw the twins. She rushed over, her eyes wide with disbelief and joy. “Are they real? Are they mine to play with?” she asked, her voice breathless with excitement.

Y/N laughed softly, the sound tinged with exhaustion but full of warmth. “Yes, sweetheart, they’re yours to love. Their names are Amara and Lyra,” Y/N said, their voice tender but full of pride as they looked at their two girls.

Vi gently stroked Lyra’s cheek with the utmost care, her expression softening as she gazed at her new cousins. “I’ll be the best big cousin ever! I’ll teach them how to climb walls like me,” she said, her face lighting up with an infectious grin. She bounced excitedly on the spot, her little fists clenched as she looked between Amara and Lyra with uncontainable joy.

Vander, unable to hide his smile, couldn’t help but watch the interaction with a warm heart. Despite the rough, often violent world they lived in, this was a moment of pure love. His daughters would be raised in a city full of challenges, but they would never be without love or family. The bond between Vi and the twins was immediate, and for a brief moment, Vander allowed himself to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, there was hope for the future of their family.

Powder, still a few months old and nestled in Connol’s arms, cooed softly as she watched the scene unfold. Her tiny hands reached out, instinctively drawn to the new-borns as if sensing the connection they all shared. Connol gave them an apologetic look, his quiet gaze moving between the twins, Y/N, and Vander, as if unsure whether to step forward or hold back.

Felicia smiled warmly at the sight, her eyes soft with understanding as she observed how the family’s love for each other was growing. She gave Connol a quiet, knowing glance, signaling that it was time for them to step back and give Y/N and Vander some privacy.

“Why don’t we give them a little time together?” Felicia suggested gently. Connol nodded in agreement, though his eyes lingered on his new nieces for a moment longer before he carefully passed Powder to Felicia’s arms. Powder, still drowsy, barely stirred, her tiny fingers brushing against her mother’s hand.

Vi looked up from her cousins, her excitement momentarily replaced with concern. “But, I wanna stay and help!” she protested, her voice small as she looked at her parents.

Felicia knelt down beside Vi, her tone soft but firm. “Sweetheart, your aunt need some rest. Why don’t we let them sleep, and we’ll come back soon? You can help them when they’re awake,” she promised, her voice warm as she stroked Vi’s hair. The little girl hesitated but nodded, her bright eyes still full of excitement despite the quiet shift in the room.

Connol smiled gently at Vander and Y/N. “We’ll give you three some peace,” he assured them, before following Felicia and Vi out of the room, closing the door softly behind them.

=

The room grew quieter, the only sounds now the soft rustling of the blankets and the gentle, rhythmic breaths of the newborn twins. Vander, feeling the weight of the moment settle around him, turned his attention back to Y/N, his expression soft but filled with an overwhelming love.

Y/N, exhausted but full of contentment, reached out for Vander’s hand. “Thank you,” they whispered, their voice full of emotion. “Thank you for being here. For being with me.”

Vander squeezed their hand gently, his eyes meeting theirs with a mixture of tenderness and awe. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” he replied, his voice low and steady. He brushed a strand of hair from their face, his thumb tracing the line of their cheek. “These two little ones... they’re a part of us. And I’m going to do everything I can to make sure they’re safe. We’ll face whatever comes, together.”

Y/N smiled softly, their heart full. “Together,” they echoed, feeling a sense of peace settle in their chest. In that moment, surrounded by the soft weight of their daughters and the quiet hum of life in Zaun, they knew they could face anything.

The world outside might be chaotic and unpredictable, but here, in this small room above the Last Drop, in the warmth of family and love, there was hope. And for the first time in a long while, Vander allowed himself to believe that no matter what came next, they would be ready.

Together.

SILCO

The sun hung low over Piltover, casting a warm golden glow across the gleaming city, the reflection dancing off the sleek buildings and polished streets. The crisp morning air felt different today, still with the weight of something monumental. Silco’s sharp, calculating gaze moved from the horizon to the fragile bundle in his arms—a tiny new life wrapped tightly in a soft, white blanket. His daughter.

"Her name is Zora," Y/N murmured softly beside him, her voice trembling with a joy and tenderness that Silco had never quite heard from her before. Her hand rested gently on his arm, as she too looked at their daughter, still delicate and vulnerable, asleep in her father’s arms.

"Zora," Silco repeated the name, his voice rough yet warm, savouring the sound. There was something almost surreal about the moment—after everything they had been through. The years of fighting, of grappling with power, of bloodshed and endless ambition. They were here, in this fragile, quiet moment, a family. Their family. His family.

The birth had not been easy. Y/N had endured unimaginable pain, her body trembling with each contraction. But through it all, she had fought with a strength that surprised him. She had fought for Zora, fought to bring her into the world.

Piltover’s best medical care had been secured at his command—a decision he had overseen with his usual meticulousness. Money, influence, connections… none of that mattered compared to ensuring Y/N’s safety. He spared no effort in arranging everything, and when the time came for Zora to enter the world, everything went as smoothly as could be expected.

And now, here they were—Silco, Y/N, and their newborn daughter. The weight of it all settled heavily on his chest, but in a way he could not yet fully comprehend. The sharp edges of his usual cold demeanor softened as he gazed down at the sleeping infant. She was small, fragile, and utterly dependent on them. Silco had never known such tenderness.

Y/N, looking exhausted but content, leaned into him, the small weight of their daughter still in her arms. She smiled up at him with a look of quiet joy, the kind of smile he hadn’t seen in years.

The road ahead would be long, and the path fraught with danger, but it was theirs to walk together.

=

The first few days following Zora's birth had been a blur. After the initial shock of seeing his daughter, Silco became consumed with ensuring everything was in order. The medical staff had been dismissed after a day of check-ups, but Silco was still on edge, constantly questioning whether everything had been done right, if Y/N was truly alright, if Zora was thriving. He wasn’t used to being so… vulnerable.

But with Y/N’s soft assurance and their daughter’s steady breaths, Silco gradually allowed himself to relax, if only just a little. There had been a lot to discuss, to plan for, and the weight of fatherhood was a heavy thing, one that pulled at him in ways he had never expected. He had always been a man of control, of power, but Zora had taken something from him. She had shifted his perspective. His desire for control still burned fiercely, but there was now something else in the back of his mind—a need to protect, a need to nurture, to give his family everything he hadn’t had growing up.

Y/N had spent the first few nights in a quiet haze, her body recovering from the birth, while Silco had spent those nights pacing, watching over them both. Despite his best efforts, the quiet weight of responsibility gnawed at him, whispering doubts in the dark of the night. But every time he looked down at Zora, cradled carefully in his arms, those doubts ebbed away, replaced by something new—something he didn’t know how to name yet, but he recognized it. It was love.

=

On the fourth day after her birth, Silco’s patience finally gave way to something that almost resembled anticipation. They were finally leaving Piltover—heading back to Zaun, to their home. The roads had been cleared for their journey, and Silco had gone to great lengths to ensure everything was secure. His best men had been assigned to their convoy, his men stationed in strategic positions, keeping watch for anything that might threaten their safety. Even Sevika, ever loyal, trailed them from behind, her imposing figure a silent promise that no harm would come to them.

Piltover, for all its shining beauty, felt like a far-off place as they set foot back into the familiar, gritty streets of Zaun. The weight of the city, with its industrial hum and the haze of smoke that filled the air, wrapped around them, and Silco felt a sense of return, a sense of home. The Last Drop awaited them—where it had all begun. It wasn’t a palace, but it was theirs. It was where they would raise their daughter, and it would serve as a place of refuge, a sanctuary from the chaos of the world.

Silco had prepared for this moment. The rooms above the Last Drop had been fully renovated, outfitted with the finest comforts that Zaun had to offer. The cold metal that defined the city was softened with plush fabrics and warm lighting. Zora would have the best of everything. She would never go without. And Y/N—she would have everything she needed, and more.

As they approached the building, Silco’s heart skipped in an uncharacteristic way. His hands tightened their grip on Zora’s small form, and for the first time, he wondered what it would be like to hold her as she grew. Would she grow strong like Y/N? Fierce, like him? Or would she be something else entirely, her own person, shaping herself in ways he couldn’t predict? The thought made his heart swell.

"Ready?" Y/N asked softly, her eyes meeting his.

“Always.” Silco’s voice was low but steady as he handed Zora to her mother, the action feeling both natural and monumental.

Y/N held Zora close to her chest, the small, peaceful face of their daughter nestled against her. Silco stepped closer to her, resting a hand on her shoulder as they crossed the threshold together, into their home.

=

The doors opened with a soft groan, and the familiar smell of their home—a mix of worn wood, faintly sweet smoke, and the heavy scent of their own lives—welcomed them. The dim lighting cast long shadows, but it felt safe, like a soft embrace. Zora’s little breaths, the soft rise and fall of her chest, filled the space. This was home. This was their future.

“Everything is ready for her,” Silco murmured, though he wasn’t sure if Y/N could hear him over the overwhelming quiet of the moment. His voice, usually so firm and demanding, had taken on a softness that he barely recognized.

Y/N nodded, her tired smile never fading as she moved to the centre of their new living space. "She’s going to love it here."

As they settled into the rooms above the Last Drop, Silco could feel the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. It wasn’t just about running Zaun anymore. It wasn’t just about his ambitions, his drive for power. Now, it was about Zora. It was about ensuring she had everything she needed, that she grew up safe and loved in a world that was anything but kind.

The air was thick with the weight of the future.

Sevika stepped into the doorway silently, her watchful eyes taking in the scene. Silco gave her a nod of acknowledgment, and she moved to take position outside the door, as she always did. Her presence, ever steadfast and loyal, brought a strange sense of peace, but the weight of the world still hung in the air.

It wasn’t until the house grew quiet, the only sounds the soft, steady breathing of Zora and the low hum of Zaun outside, that Silco allowed himself to release the tension he had carried for days. He stepped closer to Y/N, his gaze softening as he looked at their daughter, cradled carefully in her arms.

“She has no idea,” Silco whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “How much she means to me… to us.”

Y/N glanced up at him, her eyes full of unspoken affection, and there, in the quiet of their home, with the flickering shadows of the night outside, they knew. Everything was just beginning.

CLAGGOR

In the dimly lit room above the Last Drop, the faint smell of herbal medicine and warmth of fresh bedding filled the air. The room, simple and modest, was filled with the quiet energy of a new life. Y/N, still glowing with the exhaustion and joy of childbirth, sat in a makeshift bed, their newborn son nestled in their arms. His small face was scrunched up in that adorable newborn way, his skin soft and a little wrinkled from the journey into the world. His tiny fingers curled around Y/N's hand, gripping with a surprising strength that seemed almost too powerful for such a little one.

Claggor stood by the door, his broad shoulders leaning slightly against the frame as he took in the sight. His heart was pounding in his chest, an unfamiliar tightness twisting in his throat. This moment felt like a dream, but the weight of it was undeniable. The tiny baby in Y/N's arms was real, a tiny human that would grow, learn, and experience a life filled with the hopes and struggles of Zaun, just as he had. But this was different. This time, Claggor wasn’t alone in that fight. He had a family now. And it was all just beginning.

Y/N’s gaze met his, exhaustion written in the lines of their face, but also the unspoken joy of motherhood, of having created life with the person they loved. It was an emotion that transcended words, and as their eyes locked, Claggor could feel everything they had been through—the struggle, the pain, the uncertainty—meld into one moment of profound connection.

“Is it really him?” Claggor’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, as he took a hesitant step forward. His boots scuffed quietly on the floorboards as he moved closer to the bed, as though approaching something sacred, something precious. His rough hands trembled slightly as they reached out, unsure of how to touch, how to handle such fragility. He had been part of the Last Drop for years, but nothing in his life had ever felt so real, so important.

Y/N smiled at him, a soft, tired smile that held everything in it—the pain, the relief, and the overwhelming love that only a new mother could understand. There was exhaustion in their face, but also a calmness that came from knowing the hard part was over. For now, anyway.

“Yes.” Y/N whispered, their voice barely louder than a breath. “This is our son. His name is Arlo.”

Claggor’s chest tightened at the sound of the name. It was a simple name, but in that moment, it felt like a promise. A name filled with hope, a name that carried the weight of their future, their new life. He said it out loud, testing it on his lips like a prayer.

“Arlo…” He let the name roll over him, feeling the weight of it settle into his bones. The baby’s tiny features softened under his gaze, and he reached out with tentative hands, afraid to disturb the fragile perfection in Y/N’s arms. His fingers brushed lightly against the soft curls of the baby’s head, his touch gentle, as if afraid the little life would slip away if he wasn’t careful enough. The sensation of his son’s tiny body in his hands made him feel both powerful and vulnerable, a new kind of protector.

“He’s perfect,” Claggor whispered, his voice thick with emotion. The words felt inadequate for what he was feeling, but it was all he could manage as he took in the sight of Arlo, so small and so full of life. He never imagined a moment like this, never imagined being a father, especially in Zaun, where life was harsh and the future uncertain. But here it was, their future, right in front of him.

Y/N’s eyes softened, exhaustion still there but tempered by the tenderness in the moment. They could see the change in Claggor—his eyes were wide with awe, and there was a quiet strength in him now, the kind that could only come from holding something so precious. They smiled, feeling the weight of the moment settle in their heart.

“We’ll be alright,” Y/N said quietly, their voice barely more than a murmur, but there was a conviction there that made Claggor’s heart swell. He looked down at them, at Arlo, and knew, in the pit of his stomach, that they could face anything together.

Claggor lowered himself gently to sit beside Y/N on the bed. The mattress creaked under his weight, but Y/N didn’t flinch. They leaned back slightly, making room for him, their free hand reaching out to meet his. His broad, calloused hand slid into theirs with a tenderness that surprised him. His touch, normally so firm and commanding, now felt like a protective shield, a promise to care for and protect what was now their whole world.

The baby shifted slightly in Y/N's arms, making a soft sound, his little chest rising and falling with the rhythm of sleep. Claggor's heart melted further as he looked at the fragile little body, the small face so trusting, so vulnerable. Arlo was completely unaware of the weight of the world around him, of the struggles that would inevitably come, but Claggor would make sure that he wouldn’t have to bear those struggles alone.

He reached out once more, his hand hovering over Arlo, unsure of himself but also filled with love for the little one. Gently, he placed his hand over the baby’s chest, feeling the soft rise and fall of the tiny breaths. His son. Their son. The words rang through him, louder now, as though affirming the truth of it.

“We’ll make sure Arlo never has to see the struggles we did,” Claggor whispered. His voice was thick with emotion, and the words came out in a soft promise, a vow to protect their son from the harshness of Zaun’s underworld, from the pain that had shaped him and Y/N. He could give Arlo a better life, one that would be filled with love, even if it had to be in the heart of a broken city.

Y/N nodded, a quiet agreement in their eyes. They brushed a gentle hand over Arlo’s small head, their fingers lingering for a moment, as if to ground themselves in the precious reality of this new life. “We’ll give him a life filled with more than just survival,” Y/N whispered, their voice thick with hope.

In that moment, the weight of Zaun’s oppression, the world that had tried to tear them apart, felt far away. There was no future in which they would allow Arlo to become just another casualty of their world. They would raise him to see more than the darkness, to know love, to know hope, and to know that they had made something pure in the midst of all the pain.

[viienrose]

Honestly, as a hard Wenclair shipper, I don’t hate on Wyler fans. I’ve decided to write an analysis about Wyler as a way to better understand them. Even if I don’t share their love for the ship, it doesn’t erase some good points.

The character of Wednesday, throughout the different adaptations, has always shown some kind of affection for the kind and shy boy-next-door type. Tyler kind of fits this description — even if, in my opinion, Eugene is a literal copy-paste of that stereotype and was clearly relegated to the “little brother” figure.

So Wyler can make some kind of sense. The dark and sharp character paired with the sweet counterpart is always a great combination. Opposites attract, am I right?

Another argument for Wyler is that Tyler turning into a dangerous monster wouldn’t necessarily be a red flag for an Addams. On the contrary, it’s actually a good argument — the Addams family loves the strange and macabre.

However, a Hyde must have a master. There has to be a power dynamic. Tyler will never truly be in control of the beast. And the Addams seem to value balance and equality in their relationships. It would also be unfair to Tyler to be forced into obedience. Even if Wednesday became his new master, it would make their relationship based on a lack of free will from one party. It sounds incredibly toxic.

The part that gets really questionable is the Hyde itself.

Like, I get that Laurel tortured and controlled Tyler, but he admitted to enjoying killing people. I also understand that it’s supposed to be interpreted through the lens of psychological/emotional/sexual abuse, and that Tyler liking the thrill of the dirty work he was forced into could be a trauma response.

But how much control does a Hyde really have?

That’s a big question throughout the show:

• Did Tyler really like killing?

• Is the Hyde another being within himself that subdues his “real” self?

• Or is it just his dark impulses surfacing?

• Is Tyler a good guy under the pressure of the Hyde, or was he the Hyde all along?

That brings us to the next point:

We don’t know Tyler.

We don’t know Tyler with the Hyde.

And through season one, we come to understand that Tyler was the Hyde. But it left us wondering: Was the Hyde Tyler?

Is Tyler a psychopathic murderer, or was he forced to act under the stronger will of a savage alter ego?

Are they the same or two separate beings? How do we even divide the responsibility between the two?

I really hope the show gives us more insight into it.

Since we don’t have answers yet, I can’t imagine Wednesday being involved with Tyler.

She obviously had an affection or at least an interest in the sweet coffee boy — but that wasn’t really Tyler.

The Hyde is part of Tyler, whether he likes it or not. Wednesday liked the version Tyler showed her — not his real self.

He basically lied to her to get close. He led her to Laurel even if he had some liking for her. Was he entirely controlled? Maybe, but either way, it’s safe to say Wednesday no longer holds any real attachment to him.

Another important point — even if it’s just common sense — is that Wednesday would absolutely hate Tyler if he truly meant those murders.

The Addams family might be creepy and kooky, but they have a strong sense of justice and solid values. They’re goth, not evil.

—

Now, some projections based on what we learn about Tyler in the future:

• Best-case scenario: He was subjected by the Hyde and gets help to control it, healing from his trauma. It would take time. He could then be redeemed and reintegrated into the outcast world, with a better understanding of Hydes and protections against the abuse he suffered.

• Worst-case scenario: The dark personality of the Hyde was always part of him, even before it “woke up.” In that case, Tyler holds responsibility for his crimes, is non-redeemable, and goes full villain mode.

Honestly, I’d be happy with either.

The actor playing Tyler is amazing, and I can easily see him nailing both versions.

Still, I think Tyler would be the perfect opponent for Wednesday rather than a potential suitor.

As you might have guessed from this analysis, I really dig his character — mostly for the mystery and potential he still holds.

—

Now that I’ve written this whole text about making peace with Wyler fans, I want to point out something:

We kind of have the same argument as Wenclair fans!

The opposites attract trope. The Addams’ fascination with monstrous creatures.

We’re not so different after all.

Let’s just enjoy the show in our own ways without turning on each other’s throats.

[gracelithorizon]

yyyeah turns out before seatbelt and bike helmet regulation (enforced by cops, wow), kids got pretty heinously injured often enough to have to culturally process the tedium of hospitalisation (and offthecharts nauseating pain) as some escapist powers fantasy, instead of stewing helplessly in angst and resentment and staying hurt (No Kid Likes Being Punished For Crimes They Did Not Commit, and no kid was ever guilty enough to deserve the seizure disorder from the contusion that happened when their after-school sportsteam relabeled their violent racism to 'hazing').

kids of a certain tax bracket, locale, and generation could either experience traumatic medical injury firsthand, or consume media made by those who had, or even just overhear a drunk auntie vetching over the phone about the pre-union days when workplace r*pe was not yet punishable by law.

you can't be pro union and anti detective work. you can't sell your public servants to private interest (higher tax brackets pay cops to live) and then get upset when your neighborhoods rot out from under you in a wave of methlabs, because you, the voters, also sold the affordable housing out from under the asses of the working poor.

(like, you can't have that both ways. that's a polyp. that's a kink in the hose. that's a blocked artery. something gonna burst.)

anyway, the true monsters in the Facility are always the adults getting paid to be there, chemically dosed against the horrors they have to enact in order to save lives -- lot of opioid abuse within medical labor during the endemic and for the same tired reasons as the rest. sometimes, subjects die. sometimes kids find it out too early, what that drifting mortal curtain feel like.

I wonder if “we have to torture this special character. in the lab facility. with secret science.” is an interest all 12-year-old children share or were we just the generation exposed to Maximum Ride

[mintyys-blog]

Hiiii! Can I make a req about reader x variants where the marks are told that their kid got into their first fight and won (e.g. school fight, training fight, fight against some invading enemies, ect)

HEADCANON | invincible variants children get in a fight at school

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: fighting

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work, whether AI-generated or otherwise, without my permission.

© @mintyys-blog

MAIN MARK

You found Mark pacing the living room, anxiously rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, babe,” you called out casually, “guess what? Our kid got into a fight today at school.”

Mark spun around so fast he almost knocked over a lamp. “WHAT? Are they okay?!” You smiled calmly. “They’re more than okay. They won.”

Mark’s jaw dropped. Then — a giant grin spread across his face. He looked like he could fly through the roof. “That’s my kid! Hell yeah!” He scooped you into a hug, laughing into your shoulder.

“Okay, okay,” he pulled back, grinning. “We have to celebrate. Ice cream? Pizza? Both??” Parenting lesson later. Right now, your kid was a champion.

SINISTER MARK

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Our kid beat someone’s ass today,” you said casually. Mark looked up from his book, eyes gleaming with interest. “Details?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.

“Schoolyard fight. Some jerk pushed them first.”

Sinister’s lips curled into a dark grin. “Defended themselves and won? Hah. They’re finally learning something useful.”

He shut the book with a thud. “I’m proud,” he said simply. “But next time, we teach them to hide the body.”

MOHAWK MARK

You found Mark lounging back in a chair, boots kicked up on the table, lazily scrolling through his phone. “Got somethin’ you gonna love,” you said, crossing your arms. He lifted an eyebrow, grinning lazily. “Yeah? Hit me.”

“Our kid? Got in their first fight today.”

He set the phone down, interest piqued. “They win?” You smirked. “Absolutely. Sent them to the hospital, nothing critical— but still”

Mark let out a sharp bark of laughter, slapping his hand on the table. “Ay, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” he said, standing up and bouncing a little on the balls of his feet like he was ready to square up himself.

“Lil’ monster got it from me, huh? You see ‘em? Bet they walked off like a boss, too.”He swaggered across the room, pretending to shadowbox, hyping himself — and your kid — up with every punch.

Later, he called the kid over just to dap them up and say: “Remember — first hit wins the fight. Keep it dirty if you gotta.”

VILTRUMITE MARK

You found Mark sharpening his blade when you delivered the news.“Our kid fought today,” you said simply. Mark didn’t even look up. “And?”

“They won,” you added with a shrug. Only then did Mark glance at you, a small, smug smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.“Of course they did.”

He set the blade down and crossed his arms. “Were they merciful?” he asked seriously. “It was a school fight, Mark.” He grunted, standing up tall and proud.

“Next time, they should leave no room for retaliation.” You sighed. Viltrumite standards were something else.

PRISONER MARK

Mark was sitting on the porch, smoking quietly when you walked up. “You’re gonna like this,” you teased, nudging his shoulder. He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “What?”

“Our kid got into their first fight. Won, too.”

Mark froze, staring out at the street. “Good,” he muttered, a gravelly pride lacing his voice. He leaned back, the corner of his mouth twitching into a rare, tiny smile.

“Means they’re learning.” Later that night, he cooked their favorite dinner — the closest thing he ever did to throwing a party.

OMNI MARK

Mark stood quietly by the window, arms crossed behind his back, observing the sky in silence when you approached.

“Mark,” you said carefully. “There’s been…an incident at training.”

He turned his head slightly toward you, patient and expectant. “Our child fought for the first time,” you continued. “And won.”

Mark’s gaze returned to the horizon, a slow, approving nod following. “They are Viltrumite. Survival is not optional — it is mandatory.” He stayed quiet for a long moment before adding, “Monitor their technique. Strength without control is a flaw.”

You almost smiled — because despite his severe exterior, you could see it: The faintest lift at the corner of his mouth. Silent, restrained pride.

Later that night, he personally oversaw their next training session with greater focus, expecting nothing less than perfection — but inside, he was… pleased.

[chimcess]

⮞ Chapter Four: Dark Fury (Part Two) Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Convict!Jungkook, Escaped Prisoner!Jungkook, Piolet!Reader, Captain!Reader, Holyman!Namjoon 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: 16k+ 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, Side Character Death, Violence, Blood, Talks About Past Characters Dying, Trauma, Graphic Injury scenes, Jaded Characters, LIGHT Religious Themes (I mean no harm and do not want to offend anyone), 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, preforming surgery on one's self, Gardening, terraforming, some mental health issues, survivor's guilt, lots of talking to herself, and recording it, because she'll lose her mind otherwise, bad science language, honestly all of this has probably had the worst science and basis ever, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: So, because Tumblr makes no sense, I'm having to cut this chapter in half because of a text block issue. So, you'll technically be getting two updates at once (even though it's the same chapter). Yay. I love this flatform so much. Thanks for reading!

prev || masterlist || next

The skies above M6-117 were quiet now. Empty, wide, and harsh. The kind of quiet that didn’t mean peace—just the absence of screaming.

The eclipse had ended. The suns had returned, casting a bleached-blue glare across the scorched landscape. The heat came fast, drying blood, baking bones, erasing evidence. The bioraptors had vanished back underground, like the monsters they were—real, but unseen.

The wind hadn’t stopped. It kicked up grit in steady waves, howling across the dunes and cliffs. Thin, high-pitched. Like something still mourning.

In the shadow of a broken rockslide, part of a cave lay half-buried in sand and debris. Inside, it was cooler. Still. The air stank of blood and dust and something darker.

A body lay on the ground, facedown in the red sand.

It twitched.

Then again.

A low, strangled gasp broke the silence. Y/N Y/L/N dragged in a breath like it hurt. Her fingers clawed at the sand, trying to push herself up, but her muscles didn’t answer right away. She blinked, dust clinging to her lashes, and saw only the ground in front of her face.

Her mind spun. Pain screamed at her from every direction. Her ribs were cracked. Something deep in her gut pulsed with fire. But she was alive.

She wasn’t sure how.

She shifted—and the pain in her side became unbearable. She cried out, a rough, animal sound, sharp enough to echo. Her hand pressed instinctively to the source, only to feel the jagged, cold edge of something unnatural jutting from her body.

It was part of a bioraptor. The broken tip of its antenna—long, thin, sharp—embedded just below her ribs.

She stared at it.

Her breathing turned shallow.

She could feel the warm trickle of blood around it. Too much blood.

Her hands trembled as they hovered near the wound.

“Okay,” she whispered. It didn’t sound like her. “Okay… okay…”

She took a breath. Just one. Then wrapped her fingers around the antenna and yanked.

It came free with a wet pop.

The pain dropped her flat again. She couldn’t even scream—her breath caught in her throat like broken glass. For a second, everything went gray at the edges. She fought to stay conscious. One hand pressed into the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Her other hand dug into the sand, anchoring her.

Move. Just move.

She rolled onto her side, breath ragged. Her fingers found the antenna again and, slowly, shakily, she used it like a crutch to pull herself up.

The suns outside were merciless. Light poured through the cracked stone above, stinging her eyes. She squinted, shielding her face as she staggered toward the cave’s opening. Each step was an argument with gravity. Her legs barely held.

But she made it.

Outside, the wind hit her like a slap. Sand scraped at her skin, got into her wounds. Her jumpsuit was torn, crusted with blood and dust. Her lips were cracked. Her throat burned.

She looked out over the desert.

Nothing but dunes. Heat shimmered off the sand in waves. But in the far distance, barely visible, was the broken spine of the Hunter-Gratzner. Half-buried. Still smoldering.

She stared at it like it was a promise. Or a curse.

Then she started walking.

She leaned hard on the antenna, every step like dragging dead weight. Her breath came in low, steady huffs. No room for panic. No energy for hope.

Her mind kept flashing images—pieces that didn’t fit right. Screaming in the dark. Jungkook’s voice, sharp and close. Leo. Namjoon. The ship rising into the sky without her. Or maybe that was just a dream. Maybe it hadn’t made it off the ground.

She didn’t know.

She walked anyway.

At some point, her knees buckled and she hit the sand hard. She stayed there a while, staring at nothing, waiting for her legs to stop shaking. Then she pushed herself back up.

The wreck was closer now.

It took everything she had left.

When she reached the wreck, her legs gave out. No dramatics—just gravity, and her body finally saying enough. She collapsed at the base of the scorched hull, the heat from the metal pressing into her cheek. For a second, she stayed there, breathing shallow and fast, the air burning in her lungs.

She pressed her face to the ship’s skin like it might recognize her. Might remember what she’d given to get back here.

It didn’t.

She dragged herself through the narrow corridor, her hand leaving a smearing trail of blood across the wall. The inside of the ship was hollowed out, quiet in a way that felt too final. Sunlight leaked through bent panels in thin, golden shafts. Dust floated in the beams. Everything else was still.

She found a corner—small, cramped, out of the sun—and dropped there. Her back hit the wall, and she slid down with a grunt, her body one long, dull scream of nerves. The jumpsuit clung to the wound. She peeled it back slowly, trying not to scream when the fabric tore away dried blood.

The wound was worse than she’d let herself believe. Deep. Angry. Still bleeding. She swallowed hard as she probed it with trembling fingers—and felt it. A shard of something still inside her. Bone? Metal? No. She knew exactly what it was: the antenna. A piece of that thing. Still with her.

She almost laughed. She didn’t.

Instead, she grabbed what was left of her belt and tied off a section of fabric over the wound. It was sloppy. Crude. But it was what she had. Her fingers hovered there a moment, pressing, breathing.

Her head dropped back against the wall, her jaw clenched. Every breath came with a spike of pain. And exhaustion… it was creeping in fast. The kind that didn’t ask for permission. The kind that felt like sleep—but leaned closer to surrender.

Memories came in flickers. Not in order. Not clear.

Darkness, wet and full of teeth. The glowworm bottle shaking in her hand. Screams she didn’t know if she’d imagined or made. The taste of her own blood. The moment the antenna had gone in.

But there’d been something else.

Another one of them—bigger, meaner—crashing into the one that had pinned her. Claws raking flesh, jaws tearing. It hadn’t been mercy. Just hunger. A bigger predator taking down the competition. It didn’t come for her. Not then. Just devoured its own.

She didn’t remember crawling to the cave. Didn’t remember sealing the entrance. Just remembered the sound—their claws dragging across the rock, trying to dig her out. The pressure in her ears. Her own heartbeat louder than everything else.

And then, nothing.

Until now.

She blinked the sweat from her eyes and forced herself to move. The med bay wasn’t far. She didn’t think about what would happen if it had already been stripped. She just moved. Every step was calculated, robotic.

The medical kit was still there. Dusty, kicked halfway under a cabinet, but untouched.

She didn’t let herself feel relieved. Just opened it.

Anesthetic. Forceps. Needle. Thread.

Her hands shook too hard to hold anything steady. The syringe took two tries before she got the plunger back. She jammed the needle into the flesh around the wound. Didn’t flinch. Just exhaled, slow and ragged.

The numbing was partial. That was enough.

She picked up the forceps.

For a long time, she didn’t move. Just stared at the open kit. At her own bloodied fingers. At the wound.

Just get it over with.

The forceps slid in.

The pain was savage. She didn’t scream this time—just clenched her teeth so hard her jaw locked. Her body tried to curl in on itself, but she kept going, deeper, until she felt it.

A click of metal against metal.

She yanked.

It came out slick and sharp, the jagged end of the bioraptor’s antenna glinting red in the dim light.

She dropped it to the floor. Let it roll where it wanted.

She had to rest. Just for a second. Just a second.

But the blood kept coming.

She forced herself upright. Threaded the needle with shaking fingers. She didn’t think. Didn’t let her mind go anywhere but forward.

Each stitch was its own nightmare.

When it was done, she slumped again, panting, her skin cold despite the heat. Her hand rested on the bandage, her eyes tracking the slow drip of blood still escaping.

She tilted her head back. Stared up at the ceiling like it might say something useful.

Nothing came.

No voice. No rescue. No answer.

Just her.

She licked her dry lips, voice cracked and flat.

“…Fuck.”

It had been about a week since she’d dragged herself back to the wreck, bloody, broken, and sure she'd die there. Time didn’t work the same on M6-117. There were no nights anymore—just the relentless weight of heat and light from the planet’s three suns, painting everything in bleached gold and bruised shadow. Days blurred. Pain blurred. All of it became one long stretch of surviving.

The wound in her side was still tender, stitched tight by unsteady hands and whatever thread she could scavenge from a torn flight jacket. Every movement tugged at it—sharp reminders that she wasn’t out of danger, just walking beside it now.

But she was moving. That was something.

Her world had shrunk to a routine. A grim, necessary rhythm of searching for water in fractured pipes, picking through twisted metal for anything she could turn into a tool, a weapon, or fuel. And when she wasn’t scavenging, she was listening—really listening. For breathing that wasn’t hers. For claws. For the scratch of something still out there.

The wreck had gone silent after the eclipse ended. No bioraptors. No screaming. Just the groan of stressed metal and her own footsteps echoing off bulkheads.

She'd made a corner of the cryochamber hers. The cryo unit was done for, split open like an overripe fruit, but the space was small, shielded, and out of the way. She’d insulated the floor with old uniforms and a couple ruined blankets. It stank of old coolant and dried blood, but at least it stayed cool when the heat got bad.

The walls still bore remnants of what the ship used to be—old NOSA placards peeling at the edges, blinking panels that flashed error codes in dying green light, and soot trails streaked across the ceiling from the fire suppression system kicking in too late. It was a grave, really. She lived inside a grave. But it was better than nothing.

That morning, she forced herself to explore farther.

Her muscles ached—worse in the mornings, like her body needed convincing to keep trying. She kept her hand on the wall as she moved through the corridor, half for balance, half to feel something solid beneath her fingers.

She found herself at a section they hadn’t touched much before. Starboard storage, mostly sealed during the worst of it. Back when there were others to consider—people who needed her to be strong, fast, efficient. No time for curiosity. Only priorities: food, light, defense.

Now there was only her. And time. Too much of it.

The first door barely gave under her weight—half-crushed, bent inward like it had tried to fold itself shut during the crash. Y/N pressed her shoulder to it, felt the resistance, then forced it open just enough to slip through.

The metal scraped against itself with a harsh groan. She ducked low, her breath catching as the movement tugged at the stitched wound in her side. She winced but kept going, inching through the narrow gap until she was inside.

The air was dry and stale. Hot. It smelled of scorched plastic and oxidized metal, and when she moved, a thin layer of ash and dust rose around her in lazy swirls. Her hand instinctively covered her mouth as she coughed.

The space was wrecked—storage bay maybe, or a utility room. Hard to tell. The walls were blackened with soot, panels popped loose from their bolts. Most of the crates had been crushed flat or ripped open, their contents spilled and warped from heat. Burned rations. Melted circuitry. Garbage.

She kept digging anyway. You couldn’t afford to pass anything up. Every scrap might mean one more hour alive.

Then her hand brushed something solid. Cold. Square-edged.

She froze. Reached again, slower this time. Whatever it was, it was lodged under a twisted shelf. She gave it a hard yank, and it came loose with a pop of static from the surrounding debris.

A camera.

NOSA-issued. Military-grade. Tough build. Matte black casing scuffed and scratched, the sort of thing meant to survive impact, weather, time. Her fingers curled around it like it might vanish. She turned it over, thumb brushing against the ridged power switch.

The screen blinked on with a low whir, grainy at first, then steadier.

The timestamp burned on the corner of the display: the day of the crash.

Her stomach turned. Not from the wound, not this time.

She stared at the date. Blinked. Her thumb hovered near the playback button.

What could possibly be on here? Footage from the wreck? A log? A view of her, maybe, shouting over the storm, trying to keep people alive, trying to outrun the dark.

Or something worse.

She let the camera rest in her lap. Leaned back against the edge of a crate and rubbed her hand across her face. Her skin felt dry and cracked, caked with dirt and dried sweat. The heat in this part of the wreck was worse. Less airflow. Fewer cracks in the hull.

“Right,” she muttered, looking down at the device. “Like any of this would’ve made a difference.”

The camera didn’t reply. Just sat there, screen glowing, lens aimed up like it was waiting. Like it was listening.

She hated that it almost felt alive. Too many days with only your own voice bouncing off the walls, and you started assigning souls to objects.

Still… the idea didn’t leave her. Not all the way. She could use it. Record something. Not a distress call—she wasn’t dumb enough to believe that kind of miracle was coming. But maybe just to talk. Something to anchor her to herself.

She didn’t press record.

Not yet.

Instead, she set it gently on the edge of a crate and stood, steadying herself with one hand. Her legs ached, and the muscles around her wound were starting to throb. She ignored it. There were more rooms to check. More corners of this grave to dig through.

She climbed through a low break in the wall, into another part of the ship—this one better preserved. Still messy. Still broken. But more intact. Storage crates littered the space, some cracked open, some still sealed.

She knelt beside the nearest pile. Pain flared up her side again, sharp and deep. She sucked in a breath and kept going.

Found food packs—sealed. Clean. Enough for maybe another week, if rationed right. A length of rope. A hand torch. Small wins. The kind that could mean everything.

She carried it all back to the cryo chamber in two trips. Set it down carefully on her makeshift bedding. Let herself breathe.

Her eyes drifted back to the camera.

It hadn’t moved. Of course it hadn’t. But it felt like it was waiting. Still. Quiet. Expecting something.

“Maybe later,” she said, mostly to herself.

But even as she turned away, the idea lingered. Not hope. Not exactly.

Just... the need to remember she was still a person. And that maybe, somewhere down the line, someone would want to know what happened here.

Even if it was only the walls.

The camera sputtered awake with a groan, like it resented the effort. The motor’s whine was sluggish, hesitant—like something half-dead remembering how to breathe. The lens jittered before settling, the flicker reminding her of a dying candle—just barely clinging on. It wasn’t a victory, not even close. But after the fire, the impact, and the soul-crushing silence of the days that followed, the damn thing still worked. She didn’t feel triumphant. If anything, it felt like the universe was mocking her.

She leaned into the frame, face streaked with dirt, sweat gleaming under the camera’s dull red light. Her eyes were hollowed by fatigue, lids heavy like sandbags. Hair plastered to her temples in grimy clumps, tangled and wild, a clear message that survival had long since outranked vanity. She squinted at the screen, muttering under her breath as she adjusted the focus. Her fingers, stiff and awkward, moved like they didn’t remember what finesse was.

“Okay,” she said hoarsely, voice cracked like the desert floor outside. She swallowed and tried again, quieter this time. “Okay…”

The timestamp blinked to life: HUNTER GRATZNER – SOL 19 – 06:53. She stared at the numbers, let them sit there, heavy as lead. Nineteen sols. Almost three weeks since the crash. Almost three weeks since everything splintered apart. Somehow it felt like forever and yesterday at the same time.

She leaned back, dragging a hand across her brow and only smearing more dirt across it. “This is… Y/N Y/L/N. Pilot.” Her tone was flat, too drained to bother with formality. She could’ve been filling out a form, not recording what might be her last words. “Logging this… just in case.”

Her voice trailed off into the heat-thick air. The only sound was the low whir of the camera. Then, suddenly, a bitter laugh escaped her—sharp, involuntary. “Just in case I don’t make it.”

Her eyes drifted toward the cramped walls of the survival shelter. They looked closer than before, like they were shrinking inward. She blinked hard, tried to focus. But her thoughts had a way of slipping off-course these days. She blamed the heat. She blamed the silence.

The first week after the crash was a mess of pain and blackout stretches. That damned bone had punctured her side—jagged and deep—and pulling it out nearly knocked her out cold. She’d spent two full days sprawled across the remains of the cockpit, bleeding into the floor, half-conscious and half-delirious. Every movement felt like a death sentence. The bleeding slowed eventually, and she’d tied together enough scraps of uniform to hold herself together.

By day three, she’d clawed her way to what was left of the storage compartments and scavenged a crude medkit. Nothing sterile, nothing proper, but enough to keep the infection at bay. Enough to survive.

Since then, survival had been a matter of cataloging and rationing. What was left? What still worked? Most of the ship was scrap—gutted, burned, twisted beyond recognition—but there were pockets of salvage. A stash of dehydrated meal packs. Some intact water lines, though who knew how long they’d hold. The pressure unit was holding, barely. The oxygen regulator had hairline fractures she hadn’t figured out how to seal yet. Time was running out. Breath by breath.

And the heat. Gods, the heat. The planet didn’t cool. Ever. With three suns in staggered orbit, there was no real night, just a dimming. A pause. She wasn’t sticking around for the next sunset—not when that was a couple of decades away. The constant pressure of it was maddening. Sweat pooled beneath her clothes, dried in salty crusts. Finding a tube of half-used sunscreen in one of the cabins had felt like discovering gold. She'd applied it like it was sacred, smoothing it over her arms and face with a reverence she didn’t even know she had left. For a few moments, she’d felt like a person again.

Now, she stared into the camera, her voice quieter. “Probably won’t make it,” she said, almost like she was sharing a secret with herself. “Not unless I can fix the ship… or find something better.”

Her gaze hardened, locking onto the lens like it was someone to talk to. “It’s oh-six-fifty-three, Sol nineteen. And I’m still here.” She let the words hang, heavy and strange. “Obviously.” It was meant to be sarcasm, but it landed like an empty shell.

She rested her elbows on her knees, her body folding in on itself. “I bet this’ll come as a shock. To NOSA. To… whoever’s watching. Surprise, I guess.” She exhaled slowly, one corner of her mouth twitching in what might have been a smile if there’d been any humor left in her.

“They think I’m dead. All of them. Honestly? So did I.”

Her hand curled into a fist, knuckles pale. Then she held something up—a jagged, bloodstained piece of bone. It caught the light like something sacred and awful. “This tore through me,” she said, eyes locked on it. “Ripped me open like tissue paper. I thought I was done.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I should’ve been done.”

She turned the bone slowly in her hand, studying it like it might tell her something. “But it saved me. Long enough for the bleeding to stop. Long enough to crawl somewhere safe.” She paused, jaw tightening. “Three days. Three godsdamn days. Hiding in a fucking cave. Praying those bioraptors wouldn’t sniff me out.”

She looked toward the viewport, her eyes following the jagged line of the horizon. Nothing but dust and rock and heat as far as she could see—like the planet had been built just to wear people down. No signs of life. No movement. Just stillness and that same bone-dry silence that stretched forever. A place that didn’t give a damn if you lived or died.

Her voice came out barely above a whisper. “Jungkook…”

She paused, swallowing around something thick in her throat. It took effort to keep her voice steady. “If you ever hear this… just know it wasn’t your fault. None of it was. Shit just went sideways.” Her jaw tensed. “You did what you had to. I get it.”

She let the silence sit for a second, then added, softer, “If I’d been in your shoes… I would’ve done the same.”

Her eyes dropped to the floor, and her whole body seemed to cave in on itself, like the weight of everything finally settled on her shoulders. “I’m glad you made it,” she said quietly. “All of you.”

The quiet that followed was thick and suffocating. After a moment, she let out a sharp breath and dragged a hand down her face, like she could wipe off the fatigue. “So yeah,” she muttered, the edge in her voice dulled by exhaustion. “That’s where we’re at.”

She straightened up a little, like it was some kind of formality. “Y/N Y/L/N. Stranded on planet M6-117.” Her eyes scanned the room, as if it still surprised her that this cramped little pod was all she had left. “No comms, because—” She gave a small, humorless laugh. “Well, the ship’s a fireball now. So, there’s that.”

Her hand swept vaguely around the tiny habitat. It trembled a little as she gestured. “Even if I could send a signal, the closest manned mission isn’t anywhere near this quadrant. Not for years. Maybe decades. And I’ve got thirty-one days’ worth of supplies. That’s my clock.”

She took a breath, slower this time. “If the oxygenator dies, that’s it. No backup. I just… stop breathing. If the water reclaimer fails, dehydration’s next. If there’s a breach and this place heats up?” She shook her head slightly. “I’ll cook before I even know what hit me.”

Her voice cracked, barely holding together. “And if none of that happens... I still run out of food.”

Her eyes lingered on the camera lens, but they were distant now, like she wasn’t really seeing it. Like she was already somewhere else in her mind, farther away than the stars.

After a long beat, she reached for the console. Her fingers hovered for a second—then pressed the button.

The screen flickered off, and the silence rushed back in like a wave.

Y/N sat on the makeshift bunk she’d pieced together, her back pressed against the icy metal wall. The chill seeped through her jumpsuit, a sharp contrast to the constant, oppressive heat of M6-117. Her stitches pulled faintly with every shift of her weight, a dull, nagging reminder of how fragile her body had become. Heavy lifting? Out of the question. Even breathing too hard felt like it might tear her apart. Every motion had to be slow, deliberate, calculated—none of which came naturally to her.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the wall in an uneven rhythm, the faint sound filling the silence around her. The days had started to blur together, stretching endlessly into a haze of pain and exhaustion. Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like days. She had no way to tell how long she’d been sitting there, staring at the opposite wall and letting her thoughts wander like loose debris floating in zero gravity.

The ship was a wreck. It had been from the moment it slammed into the desert, but with every passing day, it seemed to decay further. Panels hung precariously from the ceiling, some blackened and melted from electrical fires. Wires dangled like severed vines, swaying faintly every time she moved or the ship groaned in the wind. Dust—or maybe ash—coated the cracks in the floor, a constant reminder of the violence that had brought her here.

The smell was the worst: a mix of burnt plastic, old sweat, and something metallic that she couldn’t quite place. It clung to her skin, her clothes, the walls. There was no escaping it.

She shifted slightly, wincing as her stitches tugged again. Her fingers fell still, resting limply in her lap, as her thoughts drifted to the others. She hoped they were safe now, wherever they were, but the not knowing gnawed at her.

Jungkook’s face appeared unbidden in her mind, sharp and vivid as though he were standing in front of her. His eyes came first—those strange, unnerving, beautiful eyes. They were like polished silver, catching the light in ways that didn’t seem possible. They’d always made her feel a little unsteady, like he could see through her, into the parts she tried to keep hidden.

Where was he now? Safe on some station, no doubt, his cocky smirk driving everyone around him crazy. The thought made her stomach twist, a mixture of relief and something else she didn’t want to name.

And yet, her mind refused to let him go. She remembered his laugh, low and rough around the edges, and the way his shoulders always seemed too broad for whatever cramped space they were stuck in. She thought about the time he’d leaned close to her after she went back for Captain’s log, blood dried to her knuckles, and licked the blood off her hand like it was nothing.

The memory hit her like a jolt, and she flinched, physically recoiling from the thought. What the hell was wrong with her? Thinking about him like that, here, now, when she didn’t even know if she’d survive the week?

Her jaw tightened, and she shook her head, forcing the memory down into the depths of her mind where it belonged. Jungkook was gone. Namjoon and Leo were gone. And she was here, alone, on a planet no one cared about, clinging to life in the ruins of what used to be a ship.

She ran a hand over her face, exhaling shakily. Forcing her mind away from Jungkook, she thought about Namjoon and Leo instead. Namjoon, steady and calm even when the world was crumbling around them. He’d been the one to keep everyone together after the crash, the one who made everything seem so miniscule in the grand scheme of things. Who hoped and prayed to a God that she openly mocked. Well, look where that got her.

She hoped he’d found some semblance of peace, though she doubted he’d ever let himself rest.

And Leo—sweet, quiet Leo, who’d seemed so afraid and brave all at the same time and had a laugh that could light up a room. She could still hear her humming softly to herself as she worked, could still see the way her hands moved with the boomerang that she’d grown fond of during the short stay here. She deserved safety. She deserved a future.

Y/N could only imagine what the girl faced on these ships that made her pretend to be a boy.

Y/N knew because she had her own stories to tell. It was a shame the two of them never got to bond. She was a good girl, a sweet girl, and needed a home like Jimin had. 

Oh God, Jim… He must think I’m dead.

Her chest ached with the weight of it all. She wanted to believe they’d made it, that the escape shuttle had gotten them somewhere safe. But hope was a dangerous thing out here.

Her gaze drifted to the cracks in the floor again, her fingers tapping absently against her knee. The silence pressed in around her, heavy and suffocating, as her thoughts spiraled in slow, relentless circles.

She wanted to move. To do something—anything—to break the stillness. But her body rebelled against her, reminding her with every ache and throb that she wasn’t ready yet.

"Tomorrow," she muttered, her voice hoarse and thin in the empty room. "Tomorrow, I'll start again."

But tonight, she would sit in her makeshift bunk, staring at the scorched walls, and try not to think about the eyes she couldn’t forget or the faces she might never see again.

The horizon had that strange, muted glow again, the kind that came when only one of the planet’s three suns was awake. It wasn’t exactly dawn—not in the way she remembered it from Helion 5—but it was the closest thing this godforsaken rock could offer. Y/N sat on a flat patch of charred metal outside the remains of the Hunter Gratzner, watching the pale orange light crawl across the jagged landscape. She knew the second sun would start peeking over the horizon soon, and if her mental clock was still reliable, that meant it was about six or seven in the morning back home.

When the third sun joined the party, it’d feel more like late afternoon, and the heat would grow even more unbearable. For now, the air was heavy but tolerable. A small mercy. She stretched her legs out in front of her, boots scuffed and battered, and stared out at the endless expanse of sand and rock. Nothing moved out there, not even a whisper of wind. This planet didn’t do “gentle.” It just existed, glaring down at her with its triple suns, daring her to survive another day.

She sighed and got to her feet, wincing as her muscles protested. The Hunter Gratzner was more like a wreckage with a roof than a proper ship these days, but it was home—for now. She ducked through the hatch and into the cramped quarters, the smell of metal and stale air greeting her like an old, annoying friend.

Her first stop was the toilet. Not glamorous, but necessary. The vacuum system roared to life, sucking the waste away and beginning its overly complicated drying procedure. Y/N stood there, half-listening to the machine whine and hum, her mind wandering. When it finished, she glanced back at the result—a silver bag sealed tight like a little alien gift.

She tilted her head, studying it. An idea started to form, half-baked and ridiculous, but the beginnings of something useful. “Huh,” she muttered under her breath, filing it away for later.

The rest of the morning was dedicated to inventory. Again. It wasn’t exciting, but it was important. She crouched next to the ration packs she’d pulled from the wreckage over the last few days, stacking them into neat, slightly obsessive piles. Most of it was unremarkable—protein bricks, nutrient paste, the kind of stuff that made eating feel more like a chore than a comfort. But one case caught her eye.

“DO NOT OPEN UNTIL SOLVARA,” the label read in bold, almost cheerful letters.

Solvara. Y/N snorted. The odds of her making it to Solvara felt about as likely as the suns setting on this planet anytime soon. Still, she tapped the edge of the case thoughtfully before moving on. Maybe it was worth saving. For morale or whatever.

The hours blurred after that. She worked on autopilot, sorting through supplies, patching what she could, ignoring the gnawing hunger in her stomach. By the time the second sun was high enough to heat the air into its usual suffocating blanket, she found herself sitting in the semi-darkness of the ship, surrounded by stacks of rations and scattered tools. She stared at the walls, at the faint flicker of the broken console, at nothing in particular.

It was the kind of stillness that didn’t feel restful—just hollow. Her thoughts circled back to the same questions, the same numbers. How long could she last? How much water did she really have? What if the pressure machine gave out tomorrow? Or the oxygen pack? There were too many variables, and the math was starting to feel like an enemy she couldn’t outsmart.

Y/N shook her head, forcing herself to sit up straighter. Enough. She needed to do something, anything, to stop the spiral. “Get up,” she muttered to herself. Her voice was rough, dry from dehydration and disuse. “Come on. Move.”

She pushed herself to her feet, scanning the room with purpose now. Her fingers trailed over the scattered wreckage, pausing every so often as she searched for... something. There. Tucked into the corner of a storage compartment. A pencil. It was small and unassuming, the kind of thing that would’ve been forgettable on any other day.

But not today.

She yanked a notecard free from one of the ship’s dusty manuals, the paper slightly yellowed but intact. Back to basics. No screens, no touchpads, no malfunctioning tech—just pencil and paper, like it was the old days.

Y/N sat down at the tiny table bolted to the floor and started writing. The pencil scratched across the card, leaving behind numbers and symbols, equations that didn’t look like much but felt monumental in her mind. Water consumption rates. Oxygen usage. Repair estimates. She wrote it all down, no matter how grim the answers looked.

“Let’s do the math,” she whispered, her voice steady this time. She kept writing.

The camera was rolling again, its tiny red light blinking steadily as Y/N adjusted its angle. She leaned into the frame, her face slightly less tragic than it had been in previous recordings. She’d cleaned up—sort of. The layers of grime and sweat were still there, and her hair, while still tangled, no longer clung to her forehead like a second skin. She looked more human. Barely.

She exhaled slowly, straightened her back, and looked directly at the camera lens. “After arriving in New Mecca,” she began, her voice steady but edged with dry sarcasm, “my crew was only supposed to be awake for thirty-one days before going back into cryosleep. For redundancy, NOSA sent enough food to last for sixty-eight days. For three people.”

She paused, letting the weight of the numbers settle in her mind—and maybe for whoever might watch this someday. “So for just me, that’s three hundred days. Four hundred if I get creative.” Her lips twisted into a tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Which means I still have to figure out how to grow food. Here. On a planet where nothing grows.”

Reaching for one of the mission briefs, she held it close to the lens. The bold, official lettering across the top read Co-Pilot, but just above it, in her own handwriting, the word “Botanist” had been scrawled in jagged letters. She tapped the scratched-out title with a finger. “Luckily, I’m the co-pilot for a reason,” she added with mock cheer. “God, I’m so glad I studied botany.”

Her voice turned deadpan, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “M6-117 will come to fear my botany powers.” She let the silence hang for a moment before cutting the feed.

The camera’s perspective shifted as Y/N carried it outside, the glare of the twin suns washing the screen in a harsh, blinding white before the auto-filter finally kicked in. Slowly, the barren world beyond the wreckage came into focus. Jagged red sands stretched endlessly in every direction, the dunes rippling like frozen waves. It was beautiful, in a way, but beauty couldn’t hide its cruelty. The planet was desolate, a hostile wasteland that mocked her with its emptiness.

Her boots crunched against the sand as she trudged forward, every step a deliberate effort. The sharp tug of her stitches with each movement was a constant reminder of her limitations, a small but insistent pain that kept her grounded in the reality of her fragile survival.

Tucked securely under her arm was a stack of sealed silver bags, their reflective surfaces gleaming in the oppressive sunlight. Compost material. Every single one of them. It wasn’t glamorous or pleasant, but it was necessary. She’d scrounged every bit of organic waste she could find over the past weeks, hoarding it like treasure. If her plan had even a sliver of hope, she would need it all.

Her destination loomed ahead: the Hab. It wasn’t much to look at—a mismatched structure cobbled together from the remains of the ship. Panels that once carried vital systems now served as patchwork walls. Observation deck glass had been repurposed into crude, dusty windows. Dented cryochamber lids insulated the roof. The entire thing leaned slightly to one side, as though daring the wind to knock it down.

But it wouldn’t. Y/N had made sure of that.

It had taken her weeks of slow, painstaking effort to build the Hab, every minute a struggle against her aching body and the unforgiving heat. Every bolt she’d fastened and panel she’d secured had been an act of stubborn defiance. It wasn’t pretty. It didn’t have to be.

As she stared at the Hab, she couldn't help but remember Koah Nguyen, her old crew mate. She still saw his face in her mind, the way his eyes sparkled when he talked about engineering, his hands always moving in that precise, methodical rhythm. Koah had been the pilot of the Starfire, and an engineer to boot. He’d been a walking encyclopedia of mechanics, someone who could fix anything—from starship engines to the tiny gadgets that never seemed to work quite right on the ship.

When she first met him, Y/N had been a little intimidated by how effortlessly Koah could repair everything. She’d been content to stay in her co-pilot role, figuring her job was keeping the ship flying while he handled the nuts and bolts of it. But Koah had a different idea. “You’re gonna need to know this stuff if you're gonna make it,” he’d told her one night, flashing her that crooked grin of his as he set down a welding torch. “A ship doesn’t fly itself, you know?”

The two of them had spent hours together, over the course of many trips, with Koah showing her the basics of engineering. He’d taught her how to patch a hull, how to recalibrate a plasma vent, how to wire a circuit when it wasn’t quite cooperating. At first, it was just another thing to tick off her list, but soon she found herself enjoying it. The rhythmic process of taking something broken and making it whole had its own kind of satisfaction. Sometimes, after long days of flying, they’d meet up outside of work and work on one of Koah’s welding projects. It wasn’t just about fixing things anymore. It was about creating something, about making beautiful things out of metal scraps and old, discarded parts.

Koah was an artist with metal. He’d often bring out pieces he was working on—small sculptures made of twisted pieces of scrap metal, intricate shapes that, at first glance, seemed like chaotic messes but came together in unexpected ways. Y/N had always admired his ability to see art in something that most people would throw away. They’d spend evenings together in his workshop—sometimes laughing, sometimes in complete silence as they both focused on their projects. He always made her feel like she was part of something bigger than just the ship and the mission.

If she had stayed on the Starfire, she wouldn’t be here now.

She shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away, but they lingered like a stubborn fog. He would’ve found it hilarious, Y/N thought, glancing back at the Hab. She could almost hear his voice teasing her now, the lighthearted tone he’d use when he saw her struggling with the wiring or the metalwork. “Not bad for a botanist,” he’d say, giving her a sarcastic wink, “but you still can’t hold a candle to my welds.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. She could practically see him there, grinning, as he passed her a welder’s mask. They’d work on metal together until the stars outside began to dim, the quiet hum of the ship their only company.

Now, the Hab stood as a testament to everything Koah had taught her, and she hated to admit it, but it was comforting in a way. Each metal panel she’d carefully cut and welded into place, each beam she’d reinforced, each crooked corner—was a small victory. She could hear his voice now, an echo in her mind: “You’ve got this, Y/N. Just one piece at a time.”

And she had done it, one painful piece at a time. She had taken scraps and forged something functional from the wreckage, just as Koah would have.

It wasn’t pretty, but it didn’t have to be. The Hab was a survival mechanism, built from the remnants of her past crew, from the skills Koah had shared with her. He’d never have imagined that she’d be here alone, making a home out of the wreckage of her ship, but Y/N could almost hear his voice in her ear: "You always did make the best of things."

Inside, the air offered little relief. The temperature was only marginally cooler, but it was enough to keep her moving. She placed the silver bags onto a counter made from a scavenged section of the hull, then walked to the water reclaimer in the corner. It hummed faintly as it dispensed lukewarm water into a container. Not fresh. Not clean. But drinkable.

She carried the container back to her makeshift kitchen station, where a rudimentary compost bin waited for its next grim addition. The bin was a patchwork creation, much like the Hab itself, built from leftover crates and reinforced with scraps of metal. Its lid hung open, waiting expectantly.

Y/N set the container down and stared at the silver bags. Her stomach twisted in anticipation of what came next. “Okay,” she muttered, more to herself than anything. “You can do this. It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

Her fingers hesitated on the seal of the first bag, but she forced herself to tear it open.

The smell hit her instantly—a wave of rot and decay so pungent it felt like a physical blow. She gagged, stumbling back a step, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she choked out, her voice muffled behind her palm. “What have I done?”

The answer was obvious, but there was no turning back. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath of what passed for fresh air, and tore open another bag. The stench deepened, an unholy mix of decomposition and an odor she couldn’t identify but knew she’d never forget. She dumped the contents of each bag into the bin, one after another, her hands trembling as she worked.

By the time she finished, her stomach churned, her mouth dry. She leaned heavily on the counter, gasping for air that didn’t reek of death. Her eyes watered, and she swiped at them with the back of her hand, determined not to lose her nerve. The compost bin was full now, its contents a nauseating slurry of organic matter that sloshed slightly as she moved.

She stared at it, her nose wrinkled and her expression grim. This mess—this putrid, rancid soup—was supposed to be the start of her plan. Her first step in growing food on a planet that had never known life.

She let out a heavy sigh, running a hand over her face. “M6-117 will definitely fear my botany powers,” she muttered, her tone dry, almost bitter. She glanced at the camera perched on the counter, its red light still blinking. “Don’t laugh,” she added, pointing at it as though it could respond.

Turning back to the bin, she grabbed a stirring rod and braced herself for the next unpleasant step.

The dirt was dry. Too dry. Each grain of sand seemed to mock her, unyielding, as if the planet itself had conspired to make her struggle just a little bit harder. Y/N scooped it into the container with a small shovel she’d salvaged from the wreckage. Her movements were slow, deliberate, each scoop a reminder of the reality she couldn’t escape. The relentless heat pressed down on her like a weight, suffocating any energy she might have had. She’d been at this for hours, maybe days—it was impossible to tell anymore. The days had blurred together into an endless cycle of exhaustion and tiny victories, and she could no longer tell when one bled into the next.

With each scoop, the shovel hit the ground with a faint clink, like a tiny rebellion against the barren land. It wasn’t much—just a handful of dry dirt, nothing more—but it was all she had to work with. She winced as her wrist twinged from the impact, shaking it out before continuing, her fingers raw from the constant effort. She couldn’t afford to stop. Not yet. Not when she was so close.

The walk back to the Hunter Gratzner was short, but the container felt heavier with each step, its weight dragging at her arms. By the time she reached the airlock, her muscles were burning, her joints screaming in protest. She muttered something under her breath—probably a curse, probably aimed at the planet itself—and trudged through the airlock, her face set in grim determination.

Inside the Hab, she placed the container down in the corner she’d cleared a few days ago. The dirt spilled out in a dry cascade, joining the small pile she’d started. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It had to grow. She needed it to.

Time continued to pass in a blur, but by the time Sol 25 rolled around, the pile of dirt had grown considerably. Y/N stood in the doorway, arms full of another container, her face a mix of exhaustion and determination. The pile of dirt looked almost ridiculous in the center of her Hab, a mountain of Martian soil in the middle of a place that was meant to be her shelter. But it didn’t matter. Ridiculous was better than dead. She wasn’t going to let herself fail.

On Sol 28, the plan began to take shape. Y/N spread the dirt across the Hab’s floor, smoothing it out with her hands, the reddish dust caking beneath her nails as her fingers worked through the dirt. It was tedious work, but it was necessary. The heat made everything feel like it was happening in slow motion, each movement taking more energy than it should. She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, not even pausing to think about the pain in her body. Her stitches tugged uncomfortably, but she ignored it. There was no time to slow down.

As she spread the dirt, her gaze flicked toward the compost bin in the corner. The smell that radiated from it had only gotten worse in the past few days, growing stronger and more unbearable. She glared at it for a long moment, nose wrinkling. She had to deal with it. She had no other choice.

“Okay,” she muttered, steeling herself. “Let’s do this.”

Taking a deep breath, she opened the compost bin. The smell hit her immediately—sharp, rancid, and overwhelming. She gagged, instinctively covering her nose with her arm, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Every step she took, every task she completed, was part of the bigger plan. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the bin and began dumping its contents over the dirt. The mixture of decaying organic matter sloshed out in a wet mess, and her stomach churned. It smelled worse than she’d imagined, like something was rotting inside of her, and her throat burned. She stumbled back, gasping for air, but forced herself to move forward. She couldn’t afford to stop now.

“Oh God,” she wheezed, stumbling back a step. “That’s... that’s horrible.”

But she kept going. She opened bag after bag, each one worse than the last, the smell making her gag and her vision swim. She couldn’t even tell if the foul stench was from the bags or the sour taste in her mouth. When she finally finished, she stood there, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling in sharp gasps. The pile was an ugly, soupy mess now, but it was a necessary evil. The dirt and compost would have to be the foundation for something greater. She wasn’t sure what that would be yet, but she had to try.

By Sol 31, the Hab had transformed. It wasn’t just the floor anymore; the dirt had spread across every available surface. The countertops were covered, the bunks cleared away and replaced with layers of soil. Even the table was buried beneath a thick layer of dirt. The Hab looked like a mad scientist’s lab, chaotic and strange, but there was no other way. She had to make it work.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, a knife in hand, carefully cutting into a pile of potatoes. She sliced them into neat quarters, making sure each piece had at least two eyes. The process was slow, meticulous, but it was soothing in its own way. It gave her focus, something to ground her mind as her thoughts often spiraled. She placed the potato quarters into neat rows in the soil, pressing them gently into the dirt. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t much. But it was a start. It was the first step in building something that could sustain her.

As she worked, her hand brushed against something small and metallic in the corner of one of the bunks. Curious, she reached down and picked it up. A data stick. She squinted at it, turning it over in her fingers. “Huh,” she muttered to herself. She hadn’t seen one of these in ages.

Plugging it into the computer, she leaned back in the chair, fingers crossed as the contents loaded. A list of files appeared on the screen, and she clicked on the first one. The screen flickered to life, and a cheesy title card filled the frame. It was Star Trek. She couldn’t help but laugh. Of course it was. Shields had loved this show. He’d talk about it for hours during quiet moments in between shifts—rambling on about warp drives and the Prime Directive like they were the truth, his excitement contagious. Y/N had rolled her eyes at the time, dismissing it as childish, a distraction from the mission. But now, as she sat there in the silence of her broken Hab, the sight of the show made her smile.

“Of course,” she murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

It was strange, the little things that could make her smile now. She hadn’t known how much she’d miss these trivialities, these small bits of normalcy.

But then it hit her. The smile faded as the reality settled in. Shields would never watch this show again. He was gone, just like Captain Marshall, just like the rest of the crew. The weight of that truth hit her harder than the barren landscape outside. She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as she pushed the thought away. There was no room for grief now. She had no time for it.

Instead, she leaned forward, determined, as if making a silent promise to herself.

“Star Trek it is then,” she said quietly, her voice just above a whisper. She would make it her new favorite show. And in doing so, she would keep a piece of them alive.

"The problem is water," Y/N muttered to herself, her voice barely more than a whisper. It came out thin, brittle, like the very air she was dragging into her lungs. It wasn’t the first time she’d voiced this frustration, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. There was always something, wasn’t there? Water. Food. Air. The constant gnawing feeling that the planet itself was conspiring against her, as if Mars resented her every step. Today, though, it was water. That was the issue that was eating away at her with the most urgency.

Her eyes narrowed as she adjusted the straps of her gear, the weight of the shotgun pressing against her chest. The weapon felt reassuring against her ribs with every step—solid, reliable. A reminder that she wasn’t entirely defenseless out here, not yet. It wasn’t much in the face of an unforgiving world, but it was something. She needed to keep moving, keep thinking. Focus. She had to focus.

The walk to the settlement was long—longer than it used to be—and the terrain was uneven, with cracks and ridges that slowed her pace. The air was thick with dust, the ground coated with a fine layer of reddish sand that clung to her boots like an ever-present reminder of the planet’s hostility. Every step left a trail, as if the planet itself wanted to track her every movement. The twin suns hung overhead, relentless, their heat pressing down on her, baking everything in sight. The light was harsh, unforgiving, and it made the shadows look sharper, more dangerous, more alive.

She tried not to think about the cracks in the stone, or what might be lurking within them—whether some predator was watching her from afar, or something worse was silently biding its time. The thought gnawed at her, but she pushed it back. There was nothing to be done for it, not right now.

Her breath came in shallow bursts, steady but strained. Her body was moving almost automatically now, one foot in front of the other, the path she’d been following for what felt like forever etched into her muscle memory. Her stitches tugged at her side with every step, but the discomfort was dull compared to the burning ache in her chest, the weight of the abandonment still heavy there.

When the settlement came into view, Y/N couldn’t help but pause. The place looked even worse than she remembered. It had once been a bustling outpost, a last chance for survival, but now it was a graveyard—metal skeletons, shattered hopes, rusting away under the relentless assault of the Martian elements. There was nothing left here, nothing but the bones of a failed dream. This was the place where Jungkook, Leo, and Namjoon had found the skiff that they used to escape. The same skiff they’d used to leave her behind. She could almost picture them, as if they were still here—Jungkook’s quiet determination, Leo’s nervous energy, Namjoon’s steady faith in something greater than themselves.

They had thought she was dead. Y/N couldn’t blame them for leaving. Not really. The wound she’d sustained—it had been deep, jagged, the kind of wound that should have finished her off. But somehow, she’d survived. She’d dragged herself back from the edge of death, stitched herself back together with the same stubbornness that kept her walking every day. She remembered Jungkook’s face as they left, that final glance filled with hesitation, confusion, guilt. He’d thought she was gone. And for a moment, she almost had been.

Shaking her head, Y/N forced herself to focus. She didn’t have the luxury of self-pity here. Not anymore. Not with survival on the line.

The settlement was eerily silent as she approached, the kind of silence that pressed in on her, thick and suffocating. The only sounds were the faint crunch of her boots against the dirt and the soft hum of the wind that stirred the dust in lazy eddies. Her shotgun felt heavier in her hands now, the weight comforting as she scanned the area. Every instinct in her screamed at her to stay alert. The place had been abandoned for weeks, but that didn’t mean it was safe. This planet had a way of surprising you when you let your guard down.

Y/N moved carefully through the wreckage, her eyes flicking over the scattered debris, looking for anything useful. The first thing she found was a set of blueprints, the faded paper curled and torn but still legible enough to be useful. They had to be. She rolled them up tightly, tucking them into her bag. Something else caught her attention—small, solar-powered gadgets, scattered haphazardly across a broken table. They probably wouldn’t do much, but they could come in handy later, and right now, she couldn’t afford to leave anything behind.

Her fingers brushed over the eclipse dial next. The metal was cold beneath her gloves, smooth and unyielding. She paused for a moment, her heart skipping a beat as memories of that suffocating darkness washed over her—an endless void that had pressed down on her, stealing her breath, her sanity. She hated that dial. It wasn’t just a tool; it was a reminder of that terrible night when everything had gone wrong. A symbol of how close she had come to losing it all. But sentiment didn’t have a place here, not anymore. With a resigned exhale, she grabbed the dial, shoving the memories to the back of her mind.

The next stop was where the skiff had been, the spot where it had been hastily abandoned in the wake of their escape. The sand around the area was still disturbed, the evidence of their flight still visible in the shifting dunes. Y/N scanned the ground, her eyes sharp, looking for anything they might have left behind. She needed anything that could help her survive—anything at all.

Her gaze landed on something distant, something that caught the light in a way that made her heart skip. She moved toward it, her boots crunching softly against the sand, her shotgun still at the ready, even though she knew the chances of something hostile were slim.

It was another sandcat—or rather, what was left of one. The vehicle’s frame was bent and crumpled, its front half caved in like it had been struck by something massive. It wasn’t going anywhere, not in this lifetime. But Y/N didn’t care about that. Her eyes swept over the wreckage, and then—there it was. Beneath the undercarriage of the sandcat, barely visible from where she stood, something caught her eye.

A Hydrazine tank.

Her breath caught in her throat. She knew exactly what this meant. It wasn’t much, not yet, but it was something. Something that could be useful. She crouched down, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her glove. The heat from the suns was relentless, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. The connections on the tank looked fragile, delicate. This wasn’t a job for brute strength. No, she needed patience, steady hands—things she didn’t exactly have in abundance right now.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself, trying to steady her breathing. “One thing at a time.”

Her fingers were trembling as she reached for the first connector, the metal cool against her skin. She took a slow breath, steadying herself before loosening the first piece, then the second. It wasn’t easy. The tank was heavier than she’d expected, the connections stubborn. Every movement felt like it took more energy than she had. But she kept going. She had to.

With a final grunt of effort, she managed to free the tank from the wreckage, setting it down carefully beside her. She sat back on her heels, breathing hard, the effort of the task still making her pulse race. For a long moment, she just stared at the tank. Her mind raced with the possibilities. It wasn’t the solution to her water problem—not yet.

“I’ve created one hundred and twenty-six square meters of soil,” Y/N said into the camera, her voice steady despite the rivulets of sweat dripping down her temple and disappearing into the grime streaked across her face. Dirt clung stubbornly to her skin, and her hair stuck to her neck in damp, wild tangles. She wasn’t trying to look triumphant—it wasn’t like there was anyone left to see her—but there was a flicker of pride in her voice anyway. “But each cubic meter needs forty liters of water to be farmable. So, I gotta make a lot of water.”

She paused, leaning forward slightly. The faintest twitch of a smile ghosted over her lips, but it didn’t last long. ��Fortunately, I know the recipe. Take hydrogen. Add oxygen. Burn.” She held the word, let it hang in the air, her tone dipping into something darker. “Unfortunately… burn.”

Her breath escaped in a long sigh as she leaned back in the chair, turning her head to glance at the chaos behind her. The Hab looked less like a living space and more like the aftermath of an explosion in a junkyard. Piles of salvaged parts cluttered every available surface, jumbled together with tools, wiring, and half-built contraptions. At the center of it all, sitting smugly on her workbench like a prize, was the Hydrazine tank she’d dragged from the wreckage of the sandcat. It gleamed under the weak artificial light, a reminder of just how thin the line was between salvation and annihilation.

“I have hundreds of liters of unused Hydrazine,” she continued, gesturing toward the tank. “If I run the Hydrazine over an iridium catalyst, it’ll separate into N2 and H2…” Her voice trailed off as she stood, picking up the camera and swinging it toward her workbench. “Science time.”

The next few hours were a blur of sweat, ingenuity, and no small amount of duct tape. She started with the basics, piecing together a crude laboratory using whatever she could scavenge. Torn trash bags became the walls of a makeshift tent draped over her workbench, their edges secured with layers of tape. It wasn’t pretty, and it sagged in the middle, but it would do the job—or so she hoped.

“Not bad,” she muttered, stepping back to inspect her work. Her hands were already filthy, her gloves doing little to protect her from the grime that seemed to coat everything in the Hab.

Next, she turned her attention to ventilation. She’d torn an air hose from an old EVA suit earlier, the edges still jagged from where she’d ripped it free in a fit of frustration. Now, she taped it to the top of her makeshift tent, securing it to the ceiling to act as a chimney. “That’ll do,” she murmured under her breath, wiping her brow with her sleeve.

The room was quiet except for the faint hiss of the oxygen tank as she vented it. She leaned in close, sparking the gas with a few frayed wires from a battery pack. The flame that leapt to life was small but bright, and Y/N couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face. “Whoosh,” she whispered, as if narrating the moment for an audience that wasn’t there.

The next step was more delicate. She adjusted her goggles, the scratched lenses fogging slightly as she exhaled. Her hands hovered over the Hydrazine tank, careful and deliberate as she started the flow. The liquid sizzled the moment it hit the iridium catalyst, disappearing in a flash of vapor that shot up the chimney. Her eyes followed the plume, watching as small bursts of flame sputtered out the other end.

“It’s working,” she whispered, her grin widening. Her gaze flicked to the instruments she’d rigged up—a mix of actual equipment and salvaged scraps—monitoring the temperature and flow rate with hawk-like focus. She repeated the process again and again, each cycle of vaporized Hydrazine bringing her one step closer to the water she so desperately needed.

By the time she sat down in front of the camera again, her muscles ached, and her hair clung to her face in damp, sweaty strands. The chaos of her makeshift lab spread out around her like a disaster zone. She wiped her goggles clean with the edge of her shirt, leaving a streak of dirt in their place. “Then I just need to direct the hydrogen into a small area and burn it,” she said, leaning slightly toward the lens. “Luckily, in the history of humanity, nothing bad has ever happened from lighting hydrogen on fire.”

She stared at the camera for a long moment, her expression blank but faintly amused. Then she blinked, shrugged, and continued. “Believe it or not, the real challenge has been finding something that will hold a flame. New Oslo hates fire because of the whole ‘fire makes everyone die in space’ thing. So, everything we brought with us is flame retardant. With one notable exception…” She reached off-camera and pulled a pack into view, unzipping it with practiced ease. “Namjoon Kim’s personal items.”

Her grin turned sharp as she pulled out a small wooden cross, holding it up to the camera and turning it over in her fingers. “Sorry, Mr. Kim,” she said, her tone mock-apologetic. “If you didn’t want me to go through your stuff, you shouldn’t have left me for dead on a desolate planet.”

She reached for the knife strapped to her belt and began shaving thin curls of wood off the cross, each stroke precise and steady. The sound of the blade against the wood filled the room, a rhythmic counterpoint to the hum of the equipment around her. “I figure God won’t mind,” she added, glancing up at the camera with a raised eyebrow. “Considering the situation.”

The knife moved slowly but deliberately, the pile of shavings growing with every careful pass. Y/N’s hands never wavered, her focus razor-sharp. This was survival, messy and dangerous and imperfect. And she’d take it over nothing every time.

Y/N was still at it, even though every muscle in her body begged her to stop. Her arms felt like lead, her shoulders stiff from hours hunched over her workbench. The air in the Hab was thick and stale, clinging to her skin along with the sweat and grime that had become her constant companions. Time blurred here—had it been hours? Days? She didn’t know, and she didn’t care to check. Survival was the only clock that mattered, and it kept ticking, whether she kept up with it or not.

She swiped her forearm across her forehead, smearing a dark streak of grease across her temple. Her hair clung to her damp skin, strands sticking out at odd angles where the heat and her helmet had flattened them earlier. Her lips were dry, cracked from dehydration, and her throat burned with each shallow breath, but none of that mattered. Not yet. Not until this worked.

The steps were second nature by now, her hands moving with the kind of automatic precision that came from repetition rather than confidence. Vent the oxygen. Ignite the torch. Burn the hydrogen. She murmured each step under her breath like a mantra, her voice thin and raspy, barely audible over the quiet hum of the equipment.

Her eyes flicked to the atmospheric analyzer. The numbers blinked back at her, steady and impersonal. She frowned, leaning in closer. Was that reading… higher than usual? It was a tiny discrepancy, just enough to tickle the edges of her exhaustion-fogged mind. She should have stopped. She should have double-checked the setup, recalculated the variables. But she didn’t. The weight of her own fatigue pressed the thought down until it slipped away entirely. It was fine. It had to be fine.

She struck the torch.

The explosion was immediate, a roar of heat and light that sucked the air out of the room. For a single, terrifying moment, Y/N was weightless, her body thrown backward as the force of the blast ripped through the Hab. She slammed into the wall hard, the impact jarring every bone in her body.

Her ears rang with the deafening aftermath, the sharp, high-pitched whine drowning out everything else. She lay crumpled on the floor, her chest heaving as she struggled to pull in air. Her lungs felt tight, her ribs screaming in protest with each shallow inhale. Her head spun, a dull ache blooming at the base of her skull where it had struck the floor.

For a moment, she stayed there, staring up at the ceiling with wide, unfocused eyes. Her brain scrambled to piece together what had just happened, but the only coherent thought she could muster was: I’m alive. Somehow.

She pushed herself upright slowly, her arms trembling with the effort. Every inch of her body ached, and her skin prickled uncomfortably where the heat of the blast had singed her clothes. The edges of her sleeves were blackened, threads curling like burnt paper. Her hair, already a tangled disaster, now sported uneven patches that smelled faintly of burnt keratin.

She groaned, a hoarse, broken sound, and crawled toward the camera, which, miraculously, had stayed intact. It blinked at her like a curious bystander, untouched by the chaos surrounding it.

Y/N collapsed in front of the lens, sitting back heavily against the wall. For a long moment, she said nothing, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Then, finally, she looked up, meeting the camera’s unblinking gaze.

“So,” she began, her voice scratchy and uneven, “yes. I blew myself up.”

Her lips quirked into a weak smile, the expression more wry than amused. She gestured vaguely toward the wreckage behind her. “Best guess? I forgot to account for the excess oxygen I’ve been exhaling when I did my calculations. Because I’m stupid.”

She leaned her head back against the wall, her eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before she forced them open again. The ringing in her ears hadn’t stopped, but she was getting used to it now, the noise settling into the background like white noise.

“Interesting side note,” she said, her tone conversational, almost detached. “This is how the Jet Propulsion Laboratory was founded. Five guys at Strikeforce Academy were trying to make rocket fuel and nearly burned down their dorm. Rather than expel them, General… East? I want to say East? Anyway, he banished them to Aguerra Prime and told them to keep working.”

She waved a hand lazily, the movement more a suggestion than an actual gesture. “And now we have a space program. See? I pay attention.”

Her gaze drifted back to the camera, her expression softening into something more resigned. “I’m gonna get back to work. As soon as my ears stop ringing.”

She didn’t move. Instead, she stayed where she was, her legs sprawled out in front of her and her shoulders slumped against the wall. The Hab was eerily quiet now, the earlier chaos replaced by a strange, heavy stillness. Smoke hung faintly in the air, curling upward in lazy spirals, and the faint smell of singed metal lingered in her nose.

Y/N let her head fall forward, staring at the ground with unfocused eyes. For a while, she just sat there, her body too tired to move, her mind too drained to think. She wasn’t done—not even close—but for now, she let herself rest.

Y/N was back at it. Her movements were steady, almost methodical now, but there was still a hint of tension in the way her shoulders hunched and her jaw tightened. She checked her math for the fifth time, fingers tapping absently against the edge of the table. The numbers were good. The O₂ levels were where they needed to be. Everything was in place.

She glanced at the camera, raising an eyebrow as if daring it to witness her fail. Then, with a small, humorless smile, she crossed her fingers. “Okay,” she muttered under her breath, wincing as she lit the torch.

Nothing exploded. She exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Phew.” The Hydrazine started to vent, the faint hiss of the gas escaping into the controlled environment a comforting sound. Controlled chaos—her specialty now.

Hours later, she stepped back from the table, her body aching but her mind alight with hope. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve, smearing sweat and grime into the creases of her skin. Her hands were clammy, slick with sweat that hadn’t been there earlier. Something caught her eye, and she turned toward the walls.

Condensation. Tiny beads of water dotted the smooth surfaces, glinting faintly in the artificial light. She reached out, tracing a droplet with her fingertip, watching as it slid down the wall. It felt surreal, like a rainforest trapped inside the sterile walls of her Hab. She blinked, then turned toward the water reclaimer.

Her hands trembled as she lifted the lid from the tank. It was full. Not just damp, not just a few measly drops, but filled with water. Her breath caught, and then, finally, she smiled. A real, honest-to-God grin that lit up her tired face. She let out a shaky laugh, the sound breaking the heavy quiet of the room.

Over the next few weeks, time became a blur of movement and repetition. Days stretched endlessly under the triple suns of M6-117, each one bleeding into the next as Y/N worked tirelessly. The sun wouldn’t set again for another twenty-five years, not on this planet, but she’d already lived through its terrifying darkness once. She didn’t need a reminder of what the eclipse brought. For now, the constant daylight was her ally, even if the heat and pressure made every task harder.

Inside the Hab, every surface was a testament to her persistence. Soil covered the floors, tables, bunks—anywhere she could make room. Her equipment, rigged together with salvaged parts and duct tape, gave the place a chaotic, mad-scientist vibe. The atmosphere was a strange mix of desperation and ingenuity, every corner filled with evidence of her determination to survive.

Her days followed a relentless cycle. She vented Hydrazine, checked the readouts on her makeshift lab, and collected water from the reclaimer. She spread the precious liquid over the soil, making sure each patch got just enough to stay damp. She ate quickly, barely tasting the nutrient-dense food bricks she rationed so carefully. Then she went back to work.

She slept when her body forced her to, collapsing onto her makeshift bed in the corner of the Hab. Her dreams were restless, filled with flashes of her crew, the skiff disappearing into the sky, the dark shapes that had hunted them during the eclipse. But when she woke, she put the ghosts aside and pulled on her patched-up spacesuit. The air on M6-117 was technically breathable, but the higher pressure and lower oxygen levels made every task feel like running uphill. With the suit, she could work faster, longer, without the constant ache in her chest.

She hauled more dirt inside, her arms burning with effort as she carried the heavy containers. She vented Hydrazine again. She ate, she slept, and she worked.

Days sped by, a blur of movement and monotony, but Y/N never stopped. The pile of soil in the corner grew larger, spreading across the Hab like a living thing. Her hands were constantly dirty now, the dark grime of the soil embedded under her nails, a permanent part of her.

In the quiet moments, when the work slowed, her gaze would drift toward one particular patch of soil in the corner. It was smaller than the rest, a deliberate experiment within the larger chaos. She’d spent extra time on that spot, watering it carefully, checking the light, running her fingers through the dirt like she was coaxing it to life.

And then, one day, it happened.

The first sign was small. A tiny green sprout, barely breaking the surface, its fragile stem trembling as if unsure of its place in the world. Y/N froze when she saw it, her breath catching in her throat. She crouched down and all she could do was stare at her miracle.

[madhatterbri]

Vampire | D.P.

Summary: Reader tries to kill the vampire Damian Priest.

Damian Priest Masterlist

WWE Masterlist

Taglist: @theworldofotps @smallestsnarkestgirl @mrsarcherofinfamy @terrortwinunicorn @brideofinfamy @miss-kuki-nz @hotwheels1108 @new-zealand-chic @magicalbuttertarts @missbmc94 @surdelcielo @hodgepodge-musings @eringobragh420

You slowly walked through the bedroom of the dreaded vampire Damian Priest. His mansion was quiet except for the crackle coming from the fireplace. A stake clutched in your sweaty palm. There was no room for error on this secret mission.

The vampire had been causing trouble to your village for years. He nearly wiped out noble families such as the Balors and the McDonaughs. Now, he attacked your family, the McIntyres. This was a suicidal mission, and you knew it, but you couldn't let your brother die. He was your best friend.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you watched him. Damian laid motionless on the bed. His black hair kept neat despite his sleeping state. His chest slowly rose and fell.

You raised the stake high in the air. The pointed end pointing towards his chest. You faltered before telling yourself you had to do this. Rid the world of this monster once and for all.

"I was having a good dream," he suddenly muttered. Your mouth dropped in shock that he woke up. Fear gripped your spine.

The vampire grabbed your wrist. His fingers pressed on pressure points on your wrist. You tried to deal with the pain, but soon, it became too much. The wooden stake fell to the floor. Your only defense on the ground now laid useless. His black eyes were void of any emotion, yet they stared at you.

"The McIntyres sent a woman to kill me in my sleep? Pathetic."

Your heart pounded wildly in your chest. He looked at your chest and smiled. The fear amusing him. You had every reason to fear him. He never let anyone live very long after he caught them.

Damian sat up, causing you to move backward. His grip tight around your wrist to make sure you didn't fall.

"In case you were wondering, I heard you coming from a mile away. Pretending to be a hunter, but your fear was so loud."

Your captor stood up from his bed. His hand gripped your chin roughly. You didn't dare look him in the eyes. You couldn't. Fear had taken hold of you and wouldn't let you move. Breathing was hard enough as it was despite knowing that you wouldn't be much longer.

"Foolish or brave?" He asked and moved your head from side to side. You closed your eyes and clenched your jaw.

Damian leaned close to your ear. He knew you were no longer a threat. A mere woman in the home of a deadly vampire. His lips slightly grazed against the shell of your ear.

"Next time, my little huntress, at least give me a sweet little kiss goodbye."

He turned his attention to the stake on the floor. "I should kill you for that."

You flinched at his words. He kicked the stake away farther from the both of you. The sound echoes off the walls. As if life was mocking your current predicament. You finally willed yourself to open your eyes.

"What's the matter?" He asked with a teasing tone. "Not so brave without your little twig?"

Damian felt your hand ball up in a fist. "I'll find another way to kill you."

In a flash, you moved from standing next to his bed to your back pressed against the stone wall. Your heart pounded loudly in your chest. Worst yet, he pinned you against the wall with his body. His hands gripped your wrists above your head.

"Shaking like a leaf yet no chill in the air," he accused. "Afraid?"

"Never," you forced yourself to choke out.

He laughed. "Liar."

Damian leaned in close to you. For the first time, you looked in his eyes. His breath was hot against your sweaty skin. He swerved to whisper in your ear once more.

"Next time you come for me, little huntress, don't hesitate."

Damian suddenly walked away. You noticed your hands were above your head and dropped them immediately to your sides. The vampire grabbed the stake off the floor. You braced yourself for him to throw it at you. Instead, he fiddled with it in his hands before throwing it in the fireplace.

"Run along, dear. Do not keep me waiting for too long."

He vanished, leaving you alone in his bedroom. You gathered what little dignity you had left and ran out of the mansion. Damian watched you from the shadows.

[brklynbxby]

Her skin was warm beneath his hands, and still his grip tightened. Not enough to break her—enough to mark. His fingers wrapped around her wrists like manacles, calloused palms branding her delicate bones. He needed proof that she wasn’t leaving. Proof that she still should. “No,” he said quietly. “It won’t.” He knew no matter what he did, Luna would never turn her back on him. And he didn’t understand why. Because already she had seen a lot that no-one should ever see. And still she didn’t run. “You’re not afraid of me, Luna. That’s the problem.” His body was heat and shadow and tension strung so tight it hummed. His breath came rough—too close to hers, too loud in his own ears. He hated the way she looked at him. Like she saw. Her voice—soft, steady—was an intrusion in the storm of his head. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t tremble. Never did. Even as his grip bruised. Even as the darkness clawed beneath his skin, begging to be loosed. Even as the monster he’d spent years becoming reared behind his ribs, furious that she wouldn't run. He didn’t know how to exist like this. Pinned between wanting her close enough to sink into, and shoving her far enough to forget she ever reached for him. He had been forgotten. Over and over. A mother who turned her back. A father who measured worth in scars. A brother who ran fast and never looked behind. He had survived, alone. And that survival had teeth. Had claws. Had learned to bite first, tear first, before anyone could ever get close enough to hurt. And still—still—she didn’t run.

Her wrists, caught in his hands, pulsed against his skin like a rhythm he couldn’t ignore. Trust, where there should’ve been fear. Fire, where there should’ve been frost. He wanted to snarl at her. Shake her. Shove her away from the wreckage she was stepping into. But his hands—traitorous things—loosened. “Don’t ask me to be soft. I don’t know how. Don’t ask me to stay again, because I’ll want to. And god help us both if I do.” And still, he didn’t let her go. He wanted her. All of her.

The room was warm, faintly scented with lavender and old pages, but it did nothing to thaw the frost clinging to his skin. It was obvious this room had never known the stench of iron-rich blood, the rattle of breath torn from a body that wouldn't see the sunrise. This was a sanctuary. And he didn’t belong in sanctuaries. “You haven’t woken up in bed with me the morning after Ive had to cut a man’s tongue out just to send a message. When I’ve slit throats and eaten thirty minutes later.” He didn’t need to move—he was already there, chest brushing hers, breath hot against her skin. But even standing still, he radiated danger, like a lion coiled around its prey, barely restraining the urge to bite. “You weren’t there when I came home soaked in someone else’s blood. When I had to bury a friend with my own hands. You haven’t seen me.” But she did. And she didn’t flinch. That’s what got him. Most people did—when the shadows crept in, when the cold wrapped around them like a noose, thick with violence and memory. But not Luna. She stood in the soft amber light of her bedroom, her silhouette wrapped in the thin sheen of moonlight bleeding through gauzy curtains. No fear. Just calm. Just her—barefoot on creaking hardwood, arms loose at her sides, looking at him like she could see through all the blood and bone. And that was a problem.

He slammed his palm against the wall beside her head, the impact rattling the framed photo above her shoulder. His other hand was at her waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. “You think just because I saved you and touch you like you matter, that makes me some tortured saint?” His breath was hot against her cheek now, his chest heaving. “You like this version of me you built in your head. The one who shows up just in time and always in control. But you don’t know the part that sleeps best after a fight. The part that can’t stop watching people to figure out what they’d scream like if I broke them.” His jaw clenched. Fury and want colliding. “You wanna see the worst of me?” he whispered, forehead pressing to hers, eyes dark. “Then stop pretending you already know it.” His hand slid up her side, slow, rough, possessive—then grabbed her wrists and planted them on the wall beside her head. Because God, she was real, and she stayed. He kissed her then—the kind of kiss that punished them both. When he pulled back, his voice was raw.

[theflowerrooms]

His Game • Spencer’s masterlist • main masterlist

Playing House

chapter 6 • back to chapter 5

Chapter summary: Sweet and soft, spencer has everything he needs from you, and you have everything you need from him. With all the stress and fear out of the way, maybe you and spencer can live a sweet and domestic life. Maybe.

warnings: dark themes, manipulative behaviour, kidnapping, smut, oral sex (r receiving), marking, dubcon

A/N: I’m back! HG is back!! chapter 6/10, I have the rest of the story mapped out, we’re not done here!

WC: 4k

You woke up in a cold sweat, naked and exposed with Spencer's arm thrown across your lower back. Pushing yourself up onto your elbows, your eyes found your captor, travelling down his toned back and thin waist. You swallowed thickly, recalling the events last night, you could have left.

You could have left and instead you went back inside your cell. Not only that, but you gave yourself to Spencer, the man who ripped you from your home, killed someone because of you, the man who's been holding you captive, keeping you to himself- away from everything you know and love. Yet despite all that, he was the man who you were content lying next to. The man you were happy to lay next to.

There wasn't any way you could understand your feelings regarding Spencer, or the situation the two of you were in. The situation he put you in. It was a constant war in your mind, two people arguing. One person angry at Spencer, and one person Sympathetic for him. Both, however, painfully aware of the rapidly developing feelings toward the man.

Blinking the night's sleep out of your eyes, you slid awkwardly out from underneath Spencer's grasp. He didn't stir or notice your absence and it hurt your feelings, just slightly. When he left you, it felt like your skin would catch fire.

The person staring at you in the bathroom mirror was a stranger wearing your face. You didn't know who they were anymore. You know it's you, of course it's you. But who are you? Who are you outside these walls Spencer gave to you? You couldn't remember anymore.

Sometimes, since being here, you'd purposely avoid the mirror. The feeling of loss and confusion that gazing into your own eyes gave you was startling.

You turned away from the mirror, an uncomfortable chill running down your back as you turned on the water in the shower, as hot as possible- like usual. At least since you'd been here.

  You tended to have the most clarity in times like this, when you were alone. You weren't quite washing yourself, just staring at the water bouncing off of the shower wall, running down the tile and slipping down the drain, much like your grip on your own mind.

  You should be using this solace and clarity to just think, to wrap your head around the situation you've been put in, but before you notice, time has passed and your skin is littered in goosebumps from the water, once hot now freezing against your bare skin.

  You don't take your time getting out, wrapping your hair in a towel, and throwing on a robe, warm against your chilled skin.

  The mirror in front of you now shows you someone you remember better. You remember the takeout you would eat, the car you drove, your apartment, your job.

  You were a good profiler, a good agent, "an asset to the team" you could remember Hotch saying. You're smart, and skilled, you can find a way out.

  The bathroom door sounds louder than you remember when you re-enter. Smart enough to get out. Your eyes find spencer immediately, he still lays there peaceful, arm thrown across his stomach, soft puffs of air passing through his lips. You wouldn't get out.

  You couldn't stop yourself from staring at him for a moment, feeling grateful to be taken by someone as intelligent and caring as him, especially compared to some of the gross monsters you've seen who've kidnapped other women. Spencer treated you so lovely, nothing like the abductors you'd seen in your job.

  And you were, really good at your job. And you could find a way out- but maybe you didn't need to. Spencer was taking incredible care of you, and Milo. You have nearly everything you could need and you don't have to worry about anything. Why would you leave?

  Of course you weren't developing Stockholm syndrome, because staying with Spencer was a choice, especially after he gave you the opportunity to go home. You chose to stay. He wasn't doing this to you, you were doing this together.

After brushing your teeth, you dried your hair, but didn't bother changing your into clothes, comfortable in your robe as you entered the main room. You yawned, Milo gliding against your leg as you walked, trilling contently as you filled his food dish.

Nearly startled by the sound of your stomach rumbling, you decided to go ahead and make breakfast for yourself- and for Spencer. There wasn't too much food there, you'd have to let Spencer know to get more groceries the next time he was out. Regardless, you had the necessary ingredients to make some pancakes.

It didn’t take very long, but it was fun. You hadn’t realized how much you missed normalcy, having something to just space out and do thoughtlessly. You were broken out of your comfortable daze by two gentle hands on your hips and soft lips on the back of your neck.

“Good morning my angel.” Spencer spoke softly. “What’s going on here?” He asked, kind smile on his face. You admired the look, his domestic and caring gaze meeting your own.

“I uh, I made us breakfast.” You replied sweetly, your smile matching his. “We um, we didn’t have a bunch of stuff here so maybe next time you’re out you can get some groceries?” You asked, finishing one of the last few pancakes.

He nodded before kissing your cheek, his hand sliding off of your waist as he moved away from you to grab two plates and place them at the island. Together, the two of you plated your pancakes and pulled out a few toppings before sitting aside one another, his hand finding the small of your back once again as the two of you ate.

“Did you sleep well?” You asked, comfortable small talk. You didn’t find the need to have a conversation, the silence was comfortable, but you chose to talk to him anyway.

“Of course I slept well, next to you.” He said, bringing a blush to your cheeks. The way he felt about you wasn’t ever a surprise anymore, but you loved and appreciated it regardless. “Thank you for letting me make you feel good last night.. I bet it helped me sleep so good- I mean it produces plenty of serotonin which supports the production of melatonin- it helps you relax.”

You blushed harder, swallowing your food and taking a shy sip of the juice he poured for you. “You’re welcome- I mean thank you.” You replied shyly, kicking your feet at the bottom of the stool where you sat, your eyes looking into Spencer’s brown ones.

You were still surprised with yourself for having sex with spencer last night. Not disappointed in yourself whatsoever, it was good, and building trust was good, because now that you felt safe you felt happy as well, you were happy here with spencer.

He took your plate from you when you finished eating. “You go pick something to watch and i’ll clean up, okay?” he offered. You smiled and nodded, happily moving from the stool to the couch before turning on the tv. You put on one of the newer movies spencer had brought back, you didn’t recognize it but you didn’t mind, maybe it was once Spencer liked.

It didn’t take long for him to do the dishes, it was only a few after all. When he was done he came and sat next to you, facing you more than the television. When you turned to ask him about the movie, his lips were suddenly on yours, rough and soft at the same time.

You moaned quietly at his hand tangling in your hair, guiding you back against the couch, tugging your hair slightly as he moved himself above you. His teeth grazed your lip slightly as his found your neck, kissing you gently before sucking the skin into his mouth, surely leaving a mark. But it didn’t matter, nobody was there to see it but him.

You didn’t know what had gotten into him, but that didn’t matter all too much. His lips on you made you dizzy, the intimate attention he gave you, he was training your body to need him and you weren’t too upset about it.

Your breath caught in your throat when he pulled your comfortable robe open, exposing you to him. He pulled one of your legs up to move in between them, calloused fingers pressing into your thighs as he examined your body. “You’re so beautiful..” He admired you and you blushed, your legs wanting to close at your shyness but he held them apart, looking closely at everything you had to offer.

It was nearly startling, how fast he went from kneeling between your legs, just looking at you, to laying on his stomach with his tongue as deep inside your pussy as he could get it.

Content whimpers fell from your mouth, it wasn’t exactly stimulating what he was doing, but it was beyond satisfying. and his dark eyes looking up at you as he soaked your cunt with his mouth was so hot. He moaned against you, sending vibrations to your core.

You moaned loudly, right hand gripping his hair while your left reached to toy with your clit but he knocked your hand out of the way, his own thumb pressing into it and rubbing fast and tight circles.

His free hand rested on your stomach, thumb caressing your lower stomach as he ate you out. you appreciated the loving touch, back arching, pushing her hips against him, whining loudly at the touch.

“God, Spencer~” You moaned his name loudly, causing him to moan against you, only further enhancing your pleasure. You moaned again noticing that he was humping the couch beneath him, it was so endearing to know how much you turned him on.

He lifted his head, rubbing your clit faster. “I will eat this pretty pussy every day angel.” He spoke, his voice dark and dripping with hunger and possessiveness. “Taste so sweet. I am going to eat this pretty pussy every single night.” He said, watching your face closely as he rubbed your clit.

“Feels s’good Spencer-” Your hips shook as he bullied your clit with his thumb, leaning down to pepper kisses over the inside of your thighs.

The shaking moved from your hips to your legs, cunt twitching as he rubbed your clit. You could feel him smirking against the inside of your leg, before he looked back up at you. “Are you getting close to your orgasm angel? If you want to cum for me you have to ask.” He spoke, voice dripping with care and authority.

Nodding your head, you looked down at him. “Please can I cum? please, please-” You moaned loudly when you felt him say a soft ‘mhm’ against your clit.

You practically screamed, legs kicking at his sides as you clenched around nothing, hot energy shooting from your feet to your head.

Gently rubbing you still, spencer slowed his thumb down before stopping, placing a kiss on your still twitching clit before he kissed a trail upward, over your stomach, belly button, chest, neck, chin, and finally back to your lips. “Was that alright? Felt good?” He asked and you were nodding before he’d even finished speaking.

“‘Course it was, felt amazing… You’re really good at that Spence..” You kissed his wet chin, blushing at your own taste.

He blushed in response, listening to you call him ‘Spence’. He remembered when he was so taken by the fact that Jj would call him that. He hadn’t given her a second glance since he met you. He smiled. “Thank you, I’m glad. I did plenty of research, I wanted to make sure I did good for you.” He said. You found it remarkably endearing.

He kissed you once again before standing up. “I’m going to quickly take a shower, you just rest, alright?” He spoke softly and you smiled and nodded, but your heart ached at the thought of not being with him, and ached even more as you watched him walk away to the bathroom.

You rested on the couch for a little while, listening to him turn the water on. It wasn’t long before you heard a repetitive buzzing sound, following the noise until you found Spencer’s phone ringing on his bedside table.

Derek was calling him.

For a moment, you almost answered it yourself. The way out was right there, so easy, so simple. You picked up the phone, but instead of answering it you brought it into the bathroom.

“Your phones ringing.” You spoke and spencer turned off the shower, opening the door. Eyes beaming with pride at your obedience. Taking the phone, he read Derek’s name, taking note of the weary look on your face, it made his stomach hurt.

“Hello?” he answered the phone, holding eye contact with you. You kind of spaced out, you could easily hear Derek’s voice, but not a single word he said. You may have spaced out for longer than you thought, but the phone call seemed to end just as quick as it began.

Spencer frowned at you. “I have to leave- for work. But I’ll be back, my angel.” He spoke solemnly at having to leave you. You frowned back at him, not exactly sad; but a strange deep pit sat in your stomach and your chest was in your throat.

That feeling didn’t leave the entire time you sat on the edge of your bed, watching Spencer get dressed for work, and listening to him leave. There you sat, alone once again.

✽-

All day that feeling lived inside of you. Until it was late and you were growing somewhat tired. You rummaged in your kitchen, grabbing a handful of grapes that you ate while standing wistfully at the sink.

It wasn’t just that Spencer had left again. Hearing Derek’s voice threw you for a loop. It had been so long since you’d heard a voice that didn’t come from a movie or Spencer himself. Hearing Derek reminded you of not only how much you missed him, but missed yourself.

You remembered helping Derek study for exams, and him helping you practice for your interview with Hotch- he didn’t bother telling you that the job was practically yours to begin with. Derek was always so much more than just a friend to you, you remembered your mother sat with his on their back porch while you ruined your new shoes, playing in mud with him and his sisters.

You remembered comforting him when his father died, all the nights he spent with you and your family during that time. God, you missed your family. You missed everything.

You finished your grapes, a tear you didn’t notice falling dropping from your chin to the floor. As you turned to go back to the bedroom, you noticed the door. The same door that had been there every night, keeping you in. Except Spencer didn’t lock it.

You approached it cautiously, hand reaching for the handle and pulling it open. You stared at the other door too. You wondered if the second door at the top of the stairs was locked as well, but before you could wonder for very long, you were already up there and pushing the very much unlocked door open.

Perhaps Spencer was testing you again. But this time he wasn’t asleep in your shared bed. You were alone, suddenly very afraid, and you missed your family more than you could comprehend.

All this time you had spent settling for being a victim, brainlessly watching movies, eating yummy food, and letting your kidnapper have sex with you. Meanwhile your family was probably worried sick, wondering if you were dead or not, arranging for a potential funeral. All your friends either stopped going out, or started going out in your memory. Derek, Derek was definitely still looking for you. You knew it had been long enough that while they were still tirelessly looking for you, your disappearance couldn’t stop them from helping other victims. But you knew that your case would be keeping Derek up at night until you were home safe, and that was no way for anyone to live, let alone someone you loved so much and held so dearly to your heart.

You walked back down the stairs. It wasn’t like you had much to grab. You put on sweatpants and a t-shirt, wanting warmer and more comfortable clothes. Milo’s cat carrier was still left there; so you guided him into it, giving him a handful of treats and a blanket before ascending up the stairs with him in your hand. “Let’s go home now.”

Actually standing outside, shoes on the grass, the adrenaline made you feel like you had just stepped off of a boat. And for a while you just stood there, hand gripping the handle of the carrier until your knuckles turned white. It was dark, and you were so deep in the woods. You had no idea where you were, and every direction looked the same.

Eventually, you decided just to walk straight. If you walked in the same direction, you’d find something at some point. A house, a road, a river, hopefully a town.

One foot after another, you began to walk. The cold air was nipping at your cheeks. You didn’t remember it being nearly as cold on the nights before Spencer had taken you. It made you wonder how long you had really been there. You couldn’t even remember what month you were taken, let alone know what month it was now.

It felt wrong, straying so far. So lonely. It felt like there was an invisible tether pulling you back to the little bunker that Spencer had stuffed you in. You couldn’t even think of him, without feeling so guilty. He was going to be so torn apart and heart broken. It was a physical chore to remind yourself that you were doing the right thing, whatever he would feel was only a fraction of what he’d made you, your friends, your family, and the rest of your team feel.

You would be so proud if a kidnapping victim found their way out and took it. You were doing the right thing, the further away you were the better off you were. You’d been considerably very lucky with your circumstances. In comparison to a lot of other cases, spencer had been very good to you, attentive and respectful. But that didn’t change the fact that he still took you against your will. When you would’ve agreed to be his girlfriend had he just asked.

After plenty of self reassurance, you felt good about leaving. Walking further and further away from your cell.

You didn’t feel his eyes on you.

taglist:

@niyahwhoreworld @tuesday-yellowxx @sauveur-de-lenfer @eddies-van86 @the-sun-died-out @aesthetics-villa @bucknastyyy21 @giasssslife @bunny-script @ceramic-raven @amberpanda99 @thinkingaboutcows @cosavuoi-me @academiareid @rentaldarling @shalissathiq @scentedharmonymiracle @archerxnn @wilcherwatchers @justanerd1 @justacitizenhere @taintedstranger @gloomyhistorics @dollissante @mysticwonderlandinternet

[fadedpiink]

stay one-shot

best friend usopp x gn!reader

synopsis: something shifts between them, and nothing feels the same

contains: best friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, soft angst, emotional comfort, first kiss, confession, sunshine x anxious romantic, 1.3k word count

author's note: ilove usopp so much guysOMGG

you weren’t sure when it started. maybe it was the night he sat beside you during a storm, both of you pretending you weren’t scared — him of the thunder, you of the dark. or maybe it was always there, tucked between the laughter and the long conversations, hiding in plain sight.

either way, it lingered.

tonight, the crew had gone to sleep early. dinner had turned into storytelling — luffy loud, nami sharp, sanji floating somewhere between flirting and frustration. usopp had stolen a little extra time, like he always did, just for you.

you sat side by side on the deck, backs against the railing, knees brushing. the ocean was quiet, just soft waves against the sunny's side. he was rambling about a sea king he'd “totally defeated” once, hands moving wildly, eyes catching the lanternlight.

you smiled, chin on your arms. “you really gonna keep telling that story like it wasn’t a crab the size of a barrel?”

“hey!” he shot back, offended but not. “you weren’t there, you don’t know what kind of monster i had to face. besides, it was biting me.”

“it nibbled your boot.”

“semantics.”

you laughed, breathy and warm, and his smile softened like it always did when he got that sound out of you.

“you always do this,” you said quietly after a beat.

he glanced over. “do what?”

“make everything feel… okay. even when it’s not.”

his eyes lingered on you, searching for something. “well… you do that for me too.”

you nodded once, not trusting yourself to speak.

because the truth was — you didn’t know when being around him had stopped feeling like just fun, and started feeling like safety. like home. like something you weren’t supposed to need but somehow did, deep in your chest, behind your ribs where the big feelings go to hide.

“you ever think about what happens after all this?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

he tilted his head. “you mean… after the one piece?”

“yeah. like… where we go. who we’ll be. who’ll still… stay.”

usopp was quiet for a moment. not in a way that made you nervous — in a way that told you he was really thinking.

“i think…” he started, voice slow, “i think i want to build something. a home. maybe a workshop. something that’s mine.”

you turned to him, surprised. “really?”

he nodded, eyes on the stars now. “yeah. i think i’m tired of proving myself. i just wanna be. y’know?”

you did.

you really did.

“and…” he continued, more careful now, “i think i’d want people i care about to be close. people who’ve always been there.”

your heart skipped.

not in a romantic, sweeping way — in a quiet, maybe this is a turning point kind of way.

he turned to look at you again, and this time he didn’t look away.

“would you stay?” he asked.

the question wrapped itself around your chest. not desperate. not dramatic. just… real.

“if you asked,” you said, “i would.”

a beat passed. maybe two. he looked like he was about to say something, lips parting — but then he just smiled, soft and a little sad.

“cool,” he whispered. “cool.”

you leaned your head onto his shoulder, and he didn’t flinch or freeze like you half expected. he just leaned a little closer too.

the moment settled.

you sat like that for a while, the night pressing gentle against your skin, like the world didn’t need to move if you didn’t.

but then, right before you both stood to go back inside, he said it — just loud enough to be real, just soft enough to pretend it wasn’t.

“i think i love you. but i’m scared to ruin everything.”

you didn’t answer right away. just looked at him, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere halfway.

and then, almost too quiet for the sea to hear: “me too.”

he nodded, once.

you smiled. it trembled.

he reached out and took your hand anyway.

and for tonight, that was enough.

the days after blurred together, soft and strange and a little bittersweet.

it didn’t happen right away.

after that night on the deck — after the trembling “me too” and the warm press of his hand — you both fell back into a rhythm. one that still carried the same laughter, the same late-night talks, the same easy closeness.

but now… there was weight.

like every shared glance had something unsaid behind it. like every shoulder touch lingered just half a second too long. and usopp… usopp didn’t hide it well. he never had.

you’d catch him staring sometimes. looking at you like he was memorizing you for a goodbye he hadn’t spoken yet. like he was still deciding if he was brave enough to have you fully — or if having you halfway was safer. easier.

and you didn’t push. not because you didn’t want to. but because you understood.

you’d seen the way he doubted himself.

you knew the stories he told weren’t just entertainment — they were armor. carefully spun shields against a world that had tried too many times to convince him he wasn’t enough.

so you waited. because loving him meant knowing when to hold on quietly.

but tonight… something was different.

the ship had docked for supplies. most of the crew had gone into town — luffy dragging zoro toward food, nami muttering something about needing more tangerines. you and usopp had stayed behind, both of you pretending it was coincidence.

the sun was just starting to set, sky bleeding gold over the water. you were sitting at the top of the crow’s nest, legs swinging over the edge. you heard his footsteps before you saw him. careful. steady.

“thought you might be up here,” he said, settling beside you.

you smiled. “you always find me.”

he didn’t answer right away. just let the silence stretch, the wind lifting pieces of his hair.

“i haven’t stopped thinking about it,” he said finally. voice low. like if he said it too loud, it’d break.

you didn’t ask what “it” was. you already knew.

“me either.”

he looked down at his hands, like they held the answers.

“i keep playing it over. that night. the way you looked at me.” he glanced at you then. “the way it felt like i could breathe again and not at the same time.”

you laughed — soft and sad. “yeah. it kind of wrecked me a little.”

his head tipped toward you, eyes wide. “really?”

you nodded. “in a good way. but yeah.”

he exhaled slowly.

 then:

“can i tell you something?”

you turned to face him fully. “always.”

he fidgeted for a second — nervous, but determined. then he said:

“i don’t want to be afraid anymore. not of this. not of you.”

and then… quietly…

“i want to kiss you.”

your heart cracked open.

not from shock. not even from the tenderness. but from the relief.

like every minute you’d waited — every slow burn second of holding back — had finally found its reason.

you leaned forward, forehead brushing his.

“then do it,” you whispered.

he didn’t move at first. like he wanted to memorize the permission. then — gently, almost reverent — his hand came up to cup your jaw. calloused fingers, warm and shaking just slightly.

and then he kissed you.

not perfectly. not like the stories. his nose bumped yours. your teeth clicked.

but it was real. soft and steady and full of everything he hadn’t been able to say.

he pulled back first, eyes searching yours like he was scared he’d broken something.

but you just smiled. and leaned in again. because he hadn’t broken anything — he’d finally let it begin.

the second kiss was better. less careful. more yours.

when it broke, you didn’t move far. just stayed tucked against him, legs tangled, hands resting over his heartbeat.

“what now?” he asked into your hair.

you sighed, content.

“now we keep going. same as always. but this time… you don’t have to pretend you don’t want to hold my hand.”

he laughed, light and warm and real.

“deal.”

and right there, with the sea whispering below and the sky burning above, something shifted.

best friends, still. but no more pretending.

no more almosts.

just you and usopp, choosing each other

masterlist hope you enjoyed! please like + reblog to show support, and feel free to leave feedback and comments through rb tags, anon messages, or dms!

© fadedpiink 2025

[vermilionsun]

veremhin please.. i’m starving 😞

And I shall deliver~~

Word count: 1. 5k Relationships: Mhin & Vere, Mhin/Vere Tags: Gore (somewhat), Blood and injury, forced proximity, inspired by "Hunter" by Paris Paloma, Warning: Vere

They meet at the edge of the ash-grey, crumbling wastelands outside Eridia. The air is heavy with rot and dust. The sun is weak, just a pale disk through clouds.

Mhin had crouched behind a jagged outcropping, watching, waiting for the thing—the abomination stitched from nightmares and worse—to show itself properly. Praying for the other problem to get infected and succumb to a deadly disease, too. 

Vere stood casually amidst the ruins, hand playing with his harness, like he owns the damn earth. The Senobium's pet Monster, sent probably under the threat of "Clean this mess up, or we'll find something worse for you to do."

Mhin almost spits.

They, meanwhile, were quietly contracted by someone outside the system; a shadowy tie to Leander’s network, because the Senobium can’t be trusted with anything important. (And of course Mhin didn’t know Vere would be there, or they would’ve made other plans.)

They had agreed to stay out of each other's way, but, you know, Vere is Vere.

Mhin keeps low, breathing shallow, eyes never leaving the beast stalking the wreckage nearby. It’s even worse up close: Hunched like a broken mule, skin stretched thin over ropy muscles, patches of mange revealing sagging grey flesh. Its eyes—gods, its eyes—a dozen bulging, oozing orbs embedded in its sides, rolling wildly, leaking pus. A snout split too wide, stuffed with jagged shark teeth. Two curling horns, serrated and dripping black filth.

It sniffs the air, turns around, spotting Vere, and charges. The ground shakes. A scream tears itself from the beast’s ruined throat; an awful, human noise that doesn't belong in its chest.

Vere moves, claws sharp on his fingers, grinning like a lunatic. He ducks the first swing of the beast’s massive horn, then laughs as it slashes again, catching him across the ribs. Blood arcs into the air.

Mhin doesn’t move, not yet. They watch, calculating, as Vere stumbles, blood blooming bright against his veiled shirt. The Soulless looms over him, thick clawed hands swinging down to crush him. Vere rolls away at the last second, but he’s slower now, bleeding harder, breathing ragged.

Good.

Mhin moves, silent and surgical.

While the beast’s back is turned, distracted by Vere’s faltering, they sprint forward. One dagger slams into the creature’s hock—a deep tendon just above the hoof. It howls, twisting, and Mhin yanks the blade sideways. The tendon snaps with a wet, stringy sound.

The beast collapses onto one side, legs kicking spasmodically. Its teeth gnash, its many eyes bulging in agony. Mhin doesn't stop; They scramble up its twisted flank, boots finding purchase in torn flesh. Their blade punches into a seam between two rolling eyes, jamming deep into what might have been a skull once.

Black blood erupts, hissing against their hands and arms. The Soulless thrashes, almost throws Mhin, but they cling tight, driving the dagger deeper, twisting it with all the strength they have left.

Below, Vere staggers to his feet, grinning wide and bloody despite the gash leaking from his ribs. "Missed a spot," he croaks, voice rough.

Mhin ignores him. Another shove, another twist, and finally, with a sickening, rattling gasp, the beast goes still.

The silence after is almost worse than the fight. Mhin yanks their blade free, black slime dripping from it. They drop down from the carcass, landing hard enough to rattle their knees.

Vere leans against a shattered wall, leaving a crimson smear behind him.

"You're welcome," Mhin mutters, crouching to carve a chunk of twisted bone and core from the beast's remains—proof enough for payment.

Both of them are breathing hard, bloodied and tired. The wind shifts—a sour, electric tang of rain in the air.

"Storm," Vere mutters. Mhin doesn’t reply.

Both of them spot the cabin at the same time: a crumbling relic barely standing against the wasteland winds. Mhin doesn't look at Vere, doesn’t offer help, doesn’t care if he bleeds out in the dust. They just start walking. If Vere wants to survive, he can follow.

The cabin door slams behind them, the storm raging outside like the dying breath of a god. The inside stinks of mold and old blood, but it’s enough of a shelter. Mhin strikes a sad fire together from stubborn, half-rotted wood. It flickers enough for them to see the exhaustion carved into both their faces.

Mhin crouches by the fire, cleaning blood from their knife in short, savage strokes. Vere paces the edges of the room, restless like a caged animal.

It should end there. It doesn’t. It never does.

"You should’ve stayed gone," Mhin mutters, not looking at him. Thunder rumbles—low and angry. The first drops of acidic rain sizzle where they hit the ground.

Vere laughs. "And miss you tripping over your own feet? Not a chance."

Mhin stiffens,their fingers flexing on the knife handle. They’re already so tired, and now this thing that refuses to leave them alone.

"You’re nothing but a coward," Mhin snaps, finally looking up. "You think survival makes you strong. It just makes you pathetic."

Vere's grin sharpens like a blade honed on hatred. "And what does that make you, little hunter?" he drawls. "Clinging to scraps. Pretending you’re better. Pretending you’re still..." He trails off, watching them with glittering, predatory eyes. "...human." The word lands heavy; an accusation and a mockery all the same.

Mhin stands slowly, every movement controlled. Their knife glints in the firelight. "I'm not the one rotting from the inside out," Mhin says, voice razor-thin. "You gave up everything for power. Even your humanity. You're not a hunter. You're a fucking parasite."

Vere's face shifts. Not hurt—no, he doesn't feel things that clearly—but something darker, colder. "Humanity," Vere repeats, almost tasting the word like it’s something foul. He steps closer, slow and deliberate, boots crunching on the dusty floorboards. "You think I was human?" Vere asks, voice like a knife twisting into soft flesh. "I wasn't. I’m not. I never will be. And you—" He lunges, hand flashing out faster than a blink.

Mhin barely dodges, stumbling back, but Vere grabs them, slamming them against the rotting wall hard enough to make the whole cabin shudder.

Mhin grits their teeth, knife at Vere’s ribs, but not stabbing. Vere leans in close enough that Mhin can feel his breath, hot and ragged. "I could kill you right now," Vere whispers, feral. One hand clamps around Mhin’s wrist. "I could rip you apart," he breathes.

But then, he staggers. Vere’s knees hit the floor with a thud, hand pressed hard against his side where blood leaks between his fingers.Mhin stands over him, dagger drawn, breathing hard.

This is it. All the hatred, all the chances, all the reasons. Vere looks up at them, defiant even now, like he’s daring them to do it. Mhin raises the blade—

The dagger slips from their fingers and clatters to the floor. They exhale. A loud, broken sound.

Their hand closes into a fist around nothing. Shaking. "If I was easy to kill," Mhin says, voice barely above a whisper, "you would have done it already." It slices cleaner than any blade, gutting the space between them.

The fire pops, loud in the silence that falls between them. Vere watches them, smirk gone, expression unreadable. Something cracks across his face—not guilt, not mercy, but something close.

They tear some old cloth from the cabin’s once curtains and kneel down with stiff, jerky movements. Mhin tilts their head, inspecting the wound and wrapping the cloth around Vere, patching him up, hands rough, breath coming in shallow bursts. They tie a makeshift bandage around his ribs, pressing too hard, maybe on purpose, maybe not. Vere grunts but doesn't push them away.

When it’s done, Mhin slumps back against the wall. Fumbling with a dented metal cup, they scoop up some of the grimy water left in an old barrel. They try to drink—

But their hands won’t stop shaking. The cup wobbles, sloshing water down their chin.

Vere watches. Amusement flickers across his face; sharp, fond, cruel all at once. Then he leans over and with two fingers, shoves the bottom of the cup up, forcing it to their lips.

Mhin jerks away instinctively— but Vere is stronger. Not rough, not tender; just insistent. "Drink," he says, voice still dangerous. "You're no good to anyone dead."

Mhin glares at him over the rim, water slipping from the corners of their mouth. But they drink. Because they’re both exhausted, and for one moment they're not enemies, not monsters, not prey and hunter. Because neither could find the strength to kill the other.

Not tonight.

B̴̢̛͔̣̬͎̹̙̪͙̣̩̃̒̀̈̈́̏̂̀̾͐̈́̍̈́̃͜e̵͙̟̖̟̜̺̙̬̖̙͈̤͚͌̾̃̈̋́͌̌̋̏̚c��̙̭̥̤̠̝͎͇̖̙͔͚̟͛̀͜ͅà̴̢̢̧͉̫͇̙̫̊̌̓̏͑͐u̵̧̨̲͕̞̼͈͍̪͉̟͚̩͓̐̈́̅͗́̌͊̍̀̍̌̾̚ͅs̷̛͍̺̉͋ė̷̡̢̖̖͈̯̤̹̆̀͗̀̂̑̄̂̄̓ͅ ̴̛̺͍͈̬̹̥̯͙̲̙͚̲̥͂̆̈́͗̈̀̆̇͂̄̀͐͜š̴̨̡̢̗̼̬͎͚͍͚̲̹̠̅̋͂ǫ̵̧̢̬̟͛͋̎́͐̀̂̉̃̄̃̏́̊͘m̶̜̼̆́̾͐́́̎̑̿̀͛̇ȇ̴̩͕̖̬̃ ̵̧̛̦̺̠̼̙̹͍̥̹̳́̈́͑͂̎̒̚͝s̸̛͎͇͈̞̘̼̦̳͈̝̙̫̹̻͛̔̈́ͅt̴̛͖͖͙͔̳̼̘̭̮̘̀̇̌̈́͊̿͛̊̏̚̚̚̚ų̵̜̘̞̋p̷̧̲̥̱̻͎͔̊̈̉̾̀͘ͅi̵̬̱̇̇̀d̸̳̗̲͙̬̻̏͐́̑̽̂,̸̨̠̥̮̃̔͐̉̈́͆͛̃͘͜ ̸̩̰̊̈̒̈́̿̆̿́̊͑̊͝b̵̟̟̥̫͕̦͕̿̀r̵͎͕̣͂̅́̉̑̄͋̊̈̏̊͜͝ơ̴̻̱̺̲̟̎͋͌̂̒͒̃̆̽́̉k̸̢̧̥̯͚͕̫̠͉̠̫͂͑̐́̒̏̍̋͑̈́̚͘͜͝͝ê̴̢̞͚͕̙̳̦̇̿̐̎̂́̑͒̕͠ͅn̴̘̹̜̟̬̒̂̓́̈́́͌̈́̄̀̔̓̈́̍̽ ̶͙̦̦͉̥͎͂͒̑̀̏̐̏͌ͅp̸̖̬͙̞̳̈̓͊͗̃̈́͝ȁ̵̹̩̘̥̘̭̠͍̣͚̪́̓̾̓̈͋̂̍̕̕͘͝ͅr̶͙͉̞͎̙͇̞͉̞̙̩͋̄̔̓͛ẗ̷̛̛͎́̎̈̉̈́́͝ ̷̢͎͚̦͚͚̯̆̓͌̽̀o̷̼͍͔̮͓̲͓͌͆f̶̛͚͉̮̩̱̩ ̵͓̟̖͍͎̼̔̈́͘̚M̸̢̘͙̗͕͍̥̔̐̅̾̾̂͋̄̚̕ḩ̵̫̖̩̙̣͇̫̟̱̑͐̅i̷̢̥̟̭̗̫̾̓͊̅͗̄n̶͓̩̯̻̙̪̽ ̴̧͖̥͎̹͈̜͉̦̦̈͑̒̃̾̈͆̊̃̐̕͝͝ͅt̵̺̀̓̋̽̈́͑̊̉̒̔̚̚̕͝ṛ̷̓̆͌̾̍̆̂̊̆̀͘͠͝ù̷̺̲̝̙̌͊̎̈͒̆̊͘̚̚͝ș̸͙̗̖͔͔̝̠̖̝̤͖͍́̀͆́ͅt̶̨͖̗̻͑̒̉͐͐̎̀̚̚͘͝s̴̨̧͉͖͓͍̹̮̬̮̆̾͆̒̚͜͜ ̶̡̺͕̱̖͈͇̙̝̂̃͌̎̄̑͊̾͐͗͛̓͘ḩ̵̨̣̦̼̝̙̜͍̱̦͚̥̋̒̓̓͛͐͗̒͝͠͠ͅį̷̡̧̝͓͔̥̎̾̊̕ͅm̷̡̱̥͈̗͇̾̐̈́͜.̸̡̙̬̻̗̂͐̐̏͗͒̋ͅ

[chronicdisasterwrites]

you couldn’t stand him. him; with his fiery spirit and loud ass voice. his overly positive persona and his ridiculous motivational speeches. everybody loved the happy-go-lucky flame hashira, rengoku kyojuro. everyone except you.

you were his complete opposite. the ying to his yang. the stormy clouds to his clear skies. if he was happiness, you were pure disdain. he was the light, you were the shadow. 

—-

you had been a hashira for a little while before he first showed up. growing up on the streets of the entertainment district, you were used to seeing seedy men and shady women. children always roamed these narrow lanes. bastard children, orphaned children, sick children, rich children, poor children, and children who had no recollection of their past. you fell in the last category.

there were all types of people treading on the streets of the entertainment district. those who seeked pleasure, those you offered pleasure, those who wanted blood and the ones caught in the crossfire. you didn’t know your parents. your mother could’ve been a whore, your father could’ve been a pimp; either way you were a bastard, an orphan, a nobody. the streets were equally shiny as they were tainted. tainted with lost dreams, tears and greed of everyone who made that place stand on its feet. shiny for the rich alone. 

you had seen a lot of darkness in your life. with young eyes you saw the horrors of your little corner of the world. people were sleazy, fake, liars, cheats and all they ever thought about was their own desires. be it money, women or global domination. men only wanted one thing and women did whatever they could to survive. the children of the streets were like rats. left to fend for themselves since being brought into the world against their will. you were one of those rats. scampering and skittering around dark alleys, sniffing out the smallest of crumbs for another day in the sun. 

the first time you killed a demon was out of pure curiosity. it was a small demon and you were a small girl so the playing field was level. the only thing you can remember now is the taste of blood that filled your mouth and the feeling that filled your heart when you stared into the yellow eyes of the monster that had its claws wedged into your cheek. it snarled at you and spewed some bullshit you couldn’t possibly remember. you saw darkness and felt yourself sinking into the shadows as the pain overcame your senses. at that point nothing mattered. you felt pure, bubbling hate. hate towards the world, the people, and now these creatures. and you don’t know what happened after that. one thing led to another and the last thing you remember is standing on your two little feet with your little hand clutching the demon’s disappearing head. 

you killed men and demons; both synonymous in your mind. you liked to watch as the soul left their body. you relished the feeling as you watched their bones turn to dust. the feeling of pain and killing filled your heart with longing. longing you had never felt before in your little life. you longed for food, kindness, warmth as a child. yet you received pain, starvation and the cold, wet surface of the rough streets of the entertainment district. men used you, women feared you and the children loathed you. it was then you realized, you had a hunger for killing. maybe it was to quench your anger at the world. maybe it was righteousness. mostly it was to feel something. but killing didn’t make you feel joy. it didn’t soothe your longing. it only made you feel like you were the one in control. since corpses can’t hurt you.

then kagaya ubuyashiki found you. he was unlike any man you had ever met before. his demeanour was soft, calm. like a cool breeze on a hot, summer’s day. his voice eased your stormy mind and hazy soul. his wife, lady amane ubuyashiki was much the same. kind, gentle, motherly. however, she had a sort of hatred in her eyes. not towards you; more towards something greater, something more vast. something you hadn’t encountered yet. they saved you and since then you had wholeheartedly dedicated your turbulent existence to fight for their cause.

you got your hands on a scythe and trained from dusk till dawn. slaughtering any demon that crossed your path. the day was spent killing rapists and murderers and the night was reserved for the soulless. by the time you were 18 you had killed over 70 demons, one or two lower moons and god knows how many men. the master had taught you about breathing styles and sword techniques. after which you created your own breathing style: shadow breathing. you were a rat. you excelled at sneaking around soundlessly, slitting throats left and right, before they could make a single sound. you were like the shadows creeping around in a mind’s eye.

from the streets of promiscuity and shadows, you became the shadow hashira in the demon slayer corps. wielding a long, lean scythe with a shadowy black blade you knelt before the master along with your fellow, fucked up colleagues. then comes along rengoku kyojuro, the subject of your disdain.

—-

rengoku kyojuro was your complete opposite. the man oozed justice, truth and righteousness. you remember when he first showed up at the ubuyashiki headquarters instead of his father, shinjuro rengoku, the former flame hashira. a hopeful young man with eyes filled with determination and a heart filled with fire. his voice was pure, untainted and booming with power. but nothing about him was selfish. everything he did was for the good of humanity, to protect measly humans, to fight for the weak. you were selfish whereas he was the most selfless human being you had ever seen in your life.

“i will defeat the lower moon in the stead of my father,” he announced. “what bullshit,” you thought. yet he came back, battered and bruised with the same smile on his face, whilst adorning the signature flame hashira haori. he was intriguing, you couldn’t deny that; but god, did he piss you off.

——————————————————————————

a.n: yeah, so this is not proofread or well-thought out in the slightest. this is not complete either. i might complete it, if you guys want more 😀

[nightmaresanskin]

Brother

)just a silly littel idear that had to leave my head(

No one was sure what had triggered the fight. Between Dream and Nightmare any attempts to stop them were hopeless. It was already too late. The feelings they had long buried bubbled to the surface. All the emotions they had swallowed down to keep the fragile peace finally broke free.The multiverse held its breath as the battle unfolded a clash that could easily throw everything back into another devastating war.

Nightmare blamed Dream for everything, for not seeing his pain back then, for not stepping up when he needed him, for not stopping the villagers. In Nightmare's world Dream had turned a blind eye to his suffering, leaving him completely alone.

Dream, on the other hand, argued that they had only been eight years old. He hadn’t seen Nightmare’s pain, he hadn’t realized what was happening — but that wasn’t his fault. Nightmare could have said something, could have voiced his worries instead of shutting himself off more and more.

Dream insisted that he, too, was a victim. He pleaded, telling Nightmare how difficult it had been to wake up from his stone prison, only to find everyone he had known was dead

His friends.

The Tree.

Their Mother.

And then, to see Nightmare, his own brother, turned into a monster, trying to kill him...

He had still been just eight years old. He had been so, so alone.

Nightmare lashed out, his tentacles sharpening and twisting violently.Dream complaining to veen alone he had no idea what it ment to be alone Nightmare had been truly alone for five hundred years, awake through it all, with no one.

But Dream cut him off sharply.

"We were both alone,"

Nightmare flinched. He was too angry to truly accept those words, but he couldn’t find anything to throw back at Dream either.

And thats why Dream kept going, his voice trembling with pain:

"I was forced to grow up fast — to balance you out but so were you. Suddenly, I had to fight the only family I had left but so did you. I had to navigate a strange and confusing world... all by myself but so did you."

There was a long, heavy silence between them. Then, Dream whispered, almost too softly to hear:

"I don’t want to fight with you anymore im so tiered. But... it’s clear we both hurt each other. I just wanted my brother back i just want to be things like they were ."

Nightmare’s expression darkened. His voice was low, bitter:

"I'm not that brother anymore and you cant change me things can not be the same ever again"

Dream sighed, tears finally slipping down his cheeks and falling to the ground. He gave a small, broken nod before turning and running away, unable to stay any longer.Nightmare, left alone, lashed out against everything in his field of vision his anger and sorrow exploding outward in a storm of darkness.

And they made up again neither Nightmare nor Dream would be the same but with a lot of work they could be something new

[casinorabbit]

Yuuna herself is aware of the people that glanced their way until they were sitting at the table, but it felt like the bunny girl herself was throwing glares their way so they would stop staring; her focus back to Sanae once she picked the menu and asked about the strongest drink.

"You may want whiskey or vodka." She's been here so many times, that it didn't take Yuuna long to point to the list where beverages that combined with whiskey or vodka were listed, at the same time that her eyes wandered to look at their surroundings.

"Mind if I order some yakitori for the two of us? So the alcohol doesn't fall on an empty stomach and all." Some self-control she had, because she really wanted to get wasted, and while she did know on an empty stomach the alcohol would hit her faster and harder, she honestly didn't want to end throwing up or getting sick.

Partially, she could almost feel the tension in the air, letting one of her own hands rub over her own throat, like if she was the one holding herself from exploding…but it was the woman in front of her.

"We only…live once." She repeated for herself, before she looked back at Sanae and let both of her arms cross to rest on the table.

"Ya know…I used to be the most popular girl at school." After starting, she let one of her hands rest on one of her hands as her elbow took her weight against the table.

"Popular at school. Top grades. Everyone was after my ass. My parents raised me well…I liked music, so I thought I could eventually become a musician…great! Isn't it? I had the control of my life at the palm of my hand! With my talent, I could get anywhere I wanted. I could have a future, make my parents proud, and probably find someone to fall in love with! I was a hopeless romantic then."

She made a pause, but for one reason or another, she couldn't help but let out a soft laugh.

"But even when it feels like life's already solved for you, it can turn around completely, and there's nothing you can do to keep it from falling apart…lovers that would cheat on me, or that would simply get with me to use me. Some that didn't put the same effort in the relationship as I did- and that was a child's game in comparison to what would happen next."

Even when she made a brief pause, Yuuna was still smiling. To a point, her expression softened further and she was almost grinning, as if her own bad experiences were amusing to look back to.

"My mother died when I was about to enter college…I got into the one I wanted, but she died on us from breast cancer before I could even tell her- it was, sudden." It was very subtle, hiding behind that attitude of not caring anymore about things that already passed. "Then, my father started to abuse me. Sexually. It made me wonder if I've had been living with a monster for all those years, or if the monster only appeared as soon as mama died."

It's then that she hummed softly, before smiling rather smugly and half-closing her eyes.

"Once I couldn't take it anymore I came to Tokyo to run away…finding a job…I knew from experience I could abuse my looks and my voice to get something, and well…here we are. Now all I'm good for is being a slut. I broke countless hearts, to the point that seeing you argue with Miku reminded me that I'm a fucking idiot, for thinking everyone has the same intentions.

There was a girl once that actually put effort in trying to have something with me, but I ruined it. I stomped on her heart like I did countless times before with others, because I didn't feel it was genuine. I thought they only had an idea of who I was in their mind, that they didn't know Yuuna, just the Lucky Bunny." While she took this as a chance to share a piece of herself, this also was used to lead her to a conclusion.

"The same way a 'perfect' life can fall apart from day to night, I feel some opportunities could have the opposite effect." She swallowed, and even if she wanted to break eye contact, she managed to keep looking at the bartender. "Maybe it's too late to take me out of this rabbit hole, but I feel things can still get better for you, Sanae-san."

Even as she charges in, the internal chain she keeps herself on tugs at her heart. As if she were some bad dog that was misbehaving, needing a good pull to the leash to get herself back in line.

It's because of this that she holds the door open for Yuuna, as much as she would rather pretend like it was her idea to come to this place alone. That Yuuna was just tagging along to annoy her.

But no, she's had enough of pointless acts for the night. What she needs is to forget she has a heart at all, even if it screams in her iron tight clutch. She wipes her eyes on her sleeve, the dampness leaving a spot behind, but her expression is...

Blank. She's practiced this before. So much so that she'd have to force herself to cry, if she wanted catharsis from the constant, painful aches.

She doesn't meet the waiter's eyes, nor say a word. Simply follows Yuuna to the table, trying to mentally block out the noise from the other patrons. Some of whom kept staring at the new arrival.

She is too scared doesn't care the way she looks in their eyes. Just survive this, and you'll get to go home.

Picking up the menu, it takes every bit of strength to keep her voice monotone. Yet it remains low, and quiet, not wanting to draw any more attention to herself than she already has.

"What's the strongest drink on this menu?"

[rookdaw]

monster X monster hunter

[mayhasopinions]

i am going to throw myself out of a window