#every one of the characters is fleshed out and feels like a real person and most of them have arcs

[paintpanic]

> Someone remind me to elaborate on how I want to characterize Kirby later

:) ? I'm curious now

Like I said on the post that prompted this, he's a nice silly boy who's also the strongest being in the known universe. He's pretty emotionally mature for his age and always wants to help people out. Kirby radiates positivity to everyone around him. He's the kind of person that makes a really great friend.

He loves simple pleasurable things, like eating and sleeping and playing. When he's not saving the world, he's out somewhere enjoying himself, probably with a buddy.

His life isn't perfect. He's unsure of himself and doubts if he deserves everything he's got. He feels guilty for not always being able to save everyone, regardless if that's even possible. He loses his patience sometimes, most often with people like Marx or Magolor who like to push his buttons. He struggles with identifying and dealing with his feelings, especially negative ones.

When he feels bad, though, his friends have his back. They care about him a lot, especially his closest friends like Bandana Waddle Dee and Gooey.

[skrunksthatwunk]

not my dad not liking moral orel season 3 🤭🤭🤭that's so embarrassing for him (<- he's not wrong for feeling that way but i think it's like 60% because he doesn't like it when art gets weird and that's so so tragic for him)

[irisinluv]

Isekaied as the Yandere Villain!? PT 1

All I could do was stare at my reflection. This had to be a joke. I was going to wake up in my bed, right this instant.

“FUCK!”

Ok, so, pinching myself hurts. That’s fine. This is like. Some sort of lucid dream. What do they say to do if you’re lucid dreaming? Oh, that’s right, put your finger in your palm, it’ll phase through!

I resist the urge to scream as my finger meets solid flesh.

You see, I’m not in the right body. Or the right world from what I can tell. No, I’m supposed to be back home, waking up in a panic as I realize my alarm didn’t go off cuz my phone died after I stayed up way too late reading manga.

But of course, I’m not late to work, I’m in a lavish bedchamber right out of the latest webcomic I’d been reading! And by the looks of it…. I’m the crown princes crazy fiancé! As much as I love reading about the Isekai trope, I never wanted to be in one! And come on- as the Yandere Villain!? Couldn’t this at least be original? There’s hundred of stories just like “my next life as a villainess,” why couldn’t I be like… a stable hand or something? Ugh. Ok. Think!

I need to get home. Do the protagonists ever get back home in the stories I read? I pace around my room and rack my brain over every webcomic I’ve ever read, every manga I waited in line for, every anime I binged, even the unfinished manhwas! I can’t think of a single fucking one where they get home?

Well this isn’t going to stop me. I have a cat who’s going to absolutely flip if she’s not given fresh kibble in the morning. She has enough in her bowl for another 2 days but she needs it topped off ok! She’s a princess! I can’t be stuck here! Who’s going to throw her pompom toy for her if I’m not there???

What did all these have in common? What’s the barebones trope layout? Ok let’s see

1) person either died or falls asleep and wakes up in a new world…. Check

2) person is the villain!…. Check

3) to avoid the characters terrible death, person tries to change the story, ends up being new protagonist…

Ohhh… hey…. Do these Isekai characters ever just…. Play along? Even the “reincarnated as a baby” ones, they only play along till they’re old enough to try to run away or rework the political structure of the entire city. Maybe that’s it. Make it to the books natural end, and you’ll wake up where you belong. It’s like when you get part of a song stuck in your head. Play the whole song, and it’ll get out.

Ok, I’ve trained most of my adult life for this- I can totally ace this trope! I just have to stalk the crown prince, act totally in love with him, and be a bitch to the female lead. Then my finance will leave me, I’ll do some crazy dramatic act to try to kill the female lead, and then I’ll be exiled or executed, and wake up to feed my cat. How hard can it be?

Hard. It’s very hard.

Where the hell did he go!? My fiancé, the crown prince Eric, was JUST HERE. I swear! He turned that corner back there and then went down this hall… at least I think it was this hall? Ugh! This is impossible! For someone with such loud shoes and an armed escort, you’d think he’d be easier to follow! Now my feet just hurt. They don’t make these fancy shoes to run around the castle all day. They’re meant to daintily peek from beneath my many skirts as I host a tea party or some shit.

Ok. I’ve got this! I’ll just peek into each room until I find him, maybe I can get a better feel for the layout, or maybe find his office and see if he has a schedule or a day planner or something I can use to make this whole stalking thing easier.

I begin snooping, and it’s a bit of thrill to be honest! Back in my real life, I’m the kind of person to hide a wrapper deep in the trash can if I’m babysitting, sitting on the floor playing a game on my phone after the kid goes to bed rather than “making myself at home” the way the parents insisted as they showed me how to access Netflix. I’ve never been a snooper. Now…. Well. It’s totally on brand for this character! I’m not me, I’m a psycho lovesick fool! I giggle a bit at that as my fingers trail over a shelf of beautiful pottery in some sort of sitting room.

“What’s so amusing dearest?”

I practically screech as my heart leaps to my throat and I whirl around, and see the very person I’d been searching for has snuck up on ME…. That’s so unfair!

“W-what? O-oh! Nothing! I was just- uh, admiring the pottery?”

I stutter out as I try to recall how to act like a human being while simultaneously trying to stop feeling my own pulse in my ears. The idiot has the nerve to LAUGH! Full on snort and everything!

“What are you doing in this wing anyways? Weren’t you meant to be out riding today?”

Shit. I was so busy trying to figure out his schedule, I didn’t consider maybe the body I was shoved into had a schedule of her own. Ok. Play it cool- I’ve got this!

“Yes, well, I decided I wasn’t in the mood and wanted to stay in today instead.”

His brows furrow

“Oh, but you love riding? Are you feeling ill? I can fetch the royal physician for you if you-“

“No! That’s- that’s quite alright! I simply wanted a change of schedule, that is all. Um… what about you? What are your plans for the day?”

He looked a bit surprised at that, and a small smile danced on his lips.

“I was just going to the library to do some paperwork, boring stuff really, and then of course our dinner at its regular time.”

I nod like that means anything to me. Ok think, if I were crazy in love with this man, what would I say?

“Would you like some company? Reading in the library sounds really nice, maybe we could have some tea as well?”

Ok. I’m already fucking this up. He looks confused…. God damnit …. I knew I shouldn’t have skimmed over those early chapters- but the translation was shit ok!?

“Well… I’d actually love that. But are you sure? You haven’t exactly shown interest in reading, and you’ve never requested something like this before…. In fact I don’t think I can recall the last time we’ve interacted outside of dinner or a scheduled social event in… well. Ever.”

Wait…. What? Isn’t my character like goo-goo-ga-ga over him? Are you telling me she never asks to just… spend time with her lover? They only talk during dinner and parties or whatever?

“Of course, I think it’ll be relaxing! Just lead the way!”

My brain is working overtime as I smile politely at him as we reach the library and I pretend to browse for books. I’m missing something here. What is-

Oh. Shit. That’s right. I’m supposed to be really insecure and awkward about him. That’s why she stalks him- she spends all her free time obsessing over this man from the shadows, threatening the competition…. Yet chokes up when it comes to how to act natural. Her inferiority complex is what drives her entire character. And then to him, they’re just two nobles in an arranged marriage who speak on dull subjects like the weather and horse rides…. And who barely interact.

This must have been a real big shake up, she always stays out of sight, they never run into each other by chance. And she certainly never would ask to sit and read with him…. Maybe watch him do his work from a hidden keyhole somewhere, but that’s right…. She IS more of a traditional lady with her hobbies. She was raised to be the perfect noble wife, so naturally, her hobbies include things like dancing, needlepoint, and horse riding. The only studies she’s interested in are etiquette and things that noble ladies are supposed to know.

Well…. Shit. That’s so like me to already have fucked this up. But that’s ok. That’s ok- he’s going to meet the female lead and fall in love and so I just have to be the obstacle they need to overcome. Surely the details don’t matter too much…. It’s my first day in the job ok? Not everyone’s perfect!

I find a book that honestly actually sounds interesting, it’s historical, but it’s giving Hellen of Troy, the closest to a dark romance I think I’ll get from an academic personal library like this. I settle into what looks like the comfiest chair in the central area, and begin reading. The prince and I exist comfortably, the only sound being the scratch of his pen, and the occasional rustle of paper as he flips a document or I finish a page. We continue like this for several hours until he puts down his pen and clears his throat, getting my attention.

“I know it’s a long way from dinner…. But I was thinking I’d grab something light for a mid day meal and then take a walk about the gardens …. Would you care to join me?”

Honestly, some lunch and pretty royal gardens sounds like so much fun, so I agree. As we begin walking, I ponder how I can recover from all this.

You know what.. this can totally still go to plan. This is just me being the evil villain and sinking my claws into him! The female lead will appear, and I’ll reveal my true, nasty side to her! She’ll have to fight to save the prince from his marriage to me!

*insert evil laughter!*

“You’re smiling.”

“W-what?”

“A smile. It suits you. You’ve been doing that a lot today….. I like it.”

Ok and now I’m blushing. I go to reply when I suddenly find myself weightless for a moment, and then hit the ground with a hard thump.

“Ow! What the-!?”

My eyes snap up and glare at this pretty blonde girl who just rammed into me, and sent me flying

“Do you not know how to watch where you’re going!? Owww…. Ugh.”

Ok I’m sorry I’m usually a nice and understanding person but I’ve never been literally knocked over before! Who does that to a person?

Eric helps me to my feet and sends a reproachful glare toward the girl, asking me if I’m alright with most concerned look…. And the girl gasps and says,

“C-crown prince Eric! I apologize! I’d didn’t recognize you!”

She drops into a curtsy and lowers her eyes all demure and modest as if she hadn’t just bulldozed me. I send an incredulous look toward Eric…. She… didn’t see HIM? I’m the one she took out? He gives me an equally puzzled look and so I decide, you know what, fuck it. I’m this evil person in this world…. I need to act like it!

“And not recognizing his highness is an excuse for taking out the princess consort, soon to be crown princess? Are you blind or just daft?”

Oh my god I really just called someone daft! This feels like when you stay up late thinking all the witty comebacks you could’ve used against your high school bullies, except actually using them in the moment!

And Eric is being a sweetie and letting me handle this, waiting expectantly for blondie to answer me, just prompting her,

“Well?”

“Forgive me…. Princess consort…. You are right. My oversight in inexcusable. It appears neither of us were looking where we were going. I hope we can start fresh!”

I scoff- that’s it? Who does this bitch think she is? Yes, I was looking at Eric, but I was going a walking pace, who rounds a corner with so much force that you knock someone over?

Suddenly something clicks- oh shit! This is the female lead!!!! This scene happened in the story, just without the prince here. This is good, that means this is on track. Although I gotta say- I was much more on the female main characters side when reading it. Now, I just feel like she’s one of those mean girls in high school who’s not *technically* doing anything mean. Anyways- what was I supposed to say? That’s right.

“Yes…. Well. I’m sure we won’t be seeing much of each other anyways. If you’ll excuse me-“

Nailed ittttt…. Now her line?

“Well, actually…. My name is Lady Cressida, and I’ll be staying in the place for several months as my father is a foreign ambassador overseeing trade agreements with his highness the king. So I imagine we will be seeing *plenty* of each other. That goes for you too your highness! So please- forgive me, I look forward to getting to know each of you better!”

Oh that’s so cool, seeing her recite the lines from the story. But ok- I have a role to play as well. I scoff and grab Eric’s arm, pulling him behind me as I storm off, playing the part of entitled lover, stuck up and irritated at this ambassadors daughter who DARED to speak to my love.

Yea, this will work, Eric will think Cressida is a genuine sweetie, and see me as being the unreasonable bitch who’s refusing to accept her apology, or apologize for not looking where I was going either. And now I’m manhandling him- totally unlady like. God I’m killing this aren’t I? Minimum wage job and demanding cat, here I come!

What I don’t see, as I lead Eric by the arm, is the cold glare he shoots towards Cressida, before smiling down at our connected hands, an unreadable look in his eyes.

Part 2

SERIES IS DISCONTINUED- sorry y’all, just not inspired to write this anymore and don’t wanna force it.

[insertdisc5]

sincerest apologies if you've been asked and said something about this before, but i'm curious what your process for coming up with your characters is! the way the isat cast are written is so good and well rounded, they each really feel like a person. how do you develop them to that point! for that matter, was there any interesting Character behind the scenes development between comic!siffrin and game siffrin as their story changed and became more fleshed out? thank you so much if you decide to answer, and if you don't that's ok too and i hope you have a good day!

ok i feel like i have answered this before, but it's not in my #reference tag so you get a whole new answer!!!!!!

-figure out a Trope. a Fella full of Tropes. like omg thats a Fella who Likes Puns. take your Trope Fella thats your basis.

-give them a secret. or more. the secrets will drive their actions. this Fella has amnesia and also has abandonment issues. do not reveal the secrets until the Right Moment, but you should often allude to it

-with those two things you will get Rules. this is a Fella who likes Puns. they use puns to deflect. so if someone asks a question that is a little too close to home, they will ALWAYS DEFLECT.

-write them in so many situations. how would they react to this? what would they say here? how would they answer when someone asks about their favorite hobby? would they be honest about it? or are they lying about it? why?

-every situation theyre into should go back to the rules. even if you're the only one who knows it. just a sprinkle to make people go "huh that was a weird reaction...."

-that way, people experiencing the story again will be able to go "OH MY GOD... THAT WASNT A PUN OUT OF NOWHERE... THAT WAS A /DEFLECTION/" and they will love it.

-rules are here to be broken. but only for the best moments ever

-lastly, give them a hobby or two to make them seem like real people. be REAL specific about it. this girl doesnt just like romance books she likes MONSTER ROMANCE

[frailsituation]

Tips for building immersive plots

1. Start with your core idea

• Every plot begins with a spark—a question, a concept, or a character. Build from that seed.

• How? Ask, "What excites me about this story?" and focus your energy there.

• Example: A story about a magical curse could explore themes of redemption or betrayal.

2. Brainstorm freely

• Don’t start by thinking about structure. Instead, write down every idea you have—plot points, character traits, world details—without judgment.

• How? Use mind maps, lists, or “what if” questions to expand your ideas.

• Example: “What if two rival kingdoms were forced to unite to stop a shared enemy?”

3. Map out key events

• Divide your plot into beginning, middle, and end, and identify major turning points. These events should shape the character’s journey.

• How? Use the three-act structure, or simply think in terms of setup, confrontation, and resolution.

• Example:

Beginning: A thief steals a sacred artifact.

Middle: The artifact begins to curse them, forcing them to seek help.

End: They must choose between keeping the artifact’s power or destroying it.

4. Plan with cause and effect

• Immersive plots follow logical progression. Ask yourself: “What happens because of this event?” for every key moment.

• How? Make sure each event impacts the characters or world.

• Example: A hero saves a village → the village leader reveals a secret about the hero’s past → this drives the hero to confront their estranged parent.

5. Flesh out your subplots

• Subplots add depth and make your world feel real. Tie them to the main plot for maximum impact.

• How? Use subplots to explore secondary characters, add emotional stakes, or introduce twists.

• Example: While on a mission to defeat a villain, the hero struggles to repair their broken friendship with their ally.

6. use story beats to stay organized

• Break your story into smaller moments: inciting incident, midpoint twist, climax, resolution.

• How? Write one sentence for each beat to outline the flow of your story.

• Example:

Inciting incident: A cursed item bonds to the protagonist.

Midpoint: They discover the curse is tied to a powerful enemy.

Climax: They must sacrifice their freedom to destroy the curse.

7. Think of immersive twists

• Twists keep readers engaged and make your story unforgettable. They should feel earned, not random.

• How? Ask, "What would surprise the reader but make sense in hindsight?"

• Example: The mentor helping the hero turns out to have caused the conflict in the first place.

8. Build emotional stakes

• Plot isn’t just about events—it’s about how those events affect your characters. The stakes should feel deeply personal.

• How? Tie the plot to your protagonist’s fears, desires, and growth.

• Example: A hero who’s afraid of failure is forced to lead a mission where the cost of failure is catastrophic.

9. Create a planning routine

• Writing immersive plots takes time and refinement. Set aside regular sessions to brainstorm, refine, and test your ideas.

• How? Use tools like storyboarding, sticky notes, or apps like Scrivener to organize your ideas.

• Example: Start each session by reviewing your previous notes, then tackle one section of your plot.

10. Test your plot

• Once you’ve mapped out your story, summarize it to see if it holds together. Does each event flow logically? Are the stakes clear?

• How? Share your outline with a friend or writer’s group for feedback.

• Example: “A reluctant hero must destroy a magical artifact to save their world, but doing so will cost them their memories.”

Follow for more!

[literaryvein-reblogs]

How to Write a Character

For creative writing to have as deep an impact as possible, you need to give the reader strong characters they can relate to on a personal level.

By borrowing from tried-and-true character archetypes and giving them your personal spin, you can create heroes, villains, and sidekicks that will affect your readers as if they were real people they knew.

Come up with a backstory

Crafting a backstory can help you flesh out an interesting character profile.

“When I’m dealing with characters,” says legal thriller author David Baldacci, “and I’m trying to explain somebody's situation and motivations, you have to look into their past, because [the] past always drives motivations.”

Ask what experiences your character had in elementary school or high school that shaped who they are today. Your character’s backstory can greatly inform your plot.

Develop a character arc

A character must evolve throughout a story.

“The character has to change,” insists crime fiction writer Walter Mosley. “The character doesn’t have to become better. The character doesn’t have to become good. It could be the opposite. He could start good and become bad. He could start off hopeful and end up a pessimist. But he has to be impacted by this world that we’re reading about.”

Plan out your storyline based on your character's goals and how achieving or not achieving them will change them as people. This sort of template can help anchor your narrative.

Do research

If you plan to set your story in a specific locale or period, do enough research to make your characters seem true to life and believable.

“What does it mean, for instance, in the Tudor era to be a male person?” asks Margaret Atwood, author of The Handmaid’s Tale. “What does it mean to be a female person? What do those things mean when they’re at different social levels?”

Empathize with your characters

No matter what the type of character you’re developing, try to find some reason you and your reader can relate to their internal conflict.

“You’re living with these people every single day for months at a time—in some cases, years at a time,” says acclaimed children’s author Judy Blume. “You had better feel for them. So, for me, yes, I have great empathy for them.”

When people can empathize with characters, they’re more likely to find them compelling.

Experiment with different approaches

If you usually write characters from a particular point of view (or POV), change things up to challenge yourself.

“Write about someone entirely through the eyes of their friends and family,” suggests journalist Malcolm Gladwell. “So do a profile of someone where you deliberately never talk to the person that you’re profiling.”

There are plenty of ways to craft compelling character descriptions—free yourself up to try new alternatives.

Give your characters flaws

To craft believable characters, you need to give them flaws.

“One, it makes the characters human, just by default, because everybody recognizes that we all have flaws and mistakes,” David says. “But two, it gives you plot elements and plot opportunities because somebody makes a mistake. Why? Because they’re flawed.”

Learn from real people

Pay attention to real people’s mannerisms, personality traits, body language, and physical appearances.

Do research, and be respectful, when you want to write characters with backgrounds that you are not familiar with. Become familiar with different people's cultures, sexual orientations etc.

Talking to people about their experiences will help form your character’s personality.

Let your characters surprise you

Character development can proceed down a host of different avenues.

“Spend a lot of time with your characters and getting to know them,” Judy suggests. “And the way that you get to know them can be different from the way I get to know them. But my way is: They don’t come alive until I write about them, until I put them down on paper.”

As you write, your character’s motivation or perspective might change from what you originally planned.

Play characters off each other

Ask yourself how a secondary character’s personality might thwart the main character’s motivation.

“One of the best ways, as I said, to develop a character is to put that character in relationship to another person,” Walter says. “So as they talk, as they fight, as they work together, we find out more about who they are and what they are.”

The character’s close friends, adversaries, and acquaintances might all have different effects on their behavior.

Take an organic approach

Over the course of the story, be ready for your characters to surprise you as much as the people you know in real life might, too.

Your characters may take on a life of their own.

Avoid static characters by letting yours have their own lives and personalities. Let their stories take you where they lead.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[recareels]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ what they’re like during sex (aka how they fuck!)

anonymous asked: how do you think sunday and aventurine are during sex?

characters: aventurine, sunday warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem reader, rough sex, marking, overstimulation, consensual noncon, dacryphilia, implied blood, implied degradation words: 1k

⋆₊˚⊹♡ aventurine

aventurine is sadistic 97% of the time. aventurine needs to constantly push things to the extreme, to the very edge of a perilous cliff, in order to feel anything at all. as such, i think he has pretty hard kinks (cnc, heavy degradation + dumbification, marking/branding, impact play, bondage play, power dynamics but never total power exchange (he wants some fight in you or else it’s boring), dacryphilia, intoxicated sex/intoxication, exhibitionism in very risky locations). his cursed luck enables him to get sex easily and quickly, so simple vanilla romps just don’t do it for him. there’s no thrill, no spark, no fun, especially if the person is faceless, nameless, and thrown away the next day. 

soft sex isn’t impossible with him but it is extremely rare, and you’d have to 1. be someone incredibly close and trusted to him, and 2. catch him at the right time, in the right mood (which is to say, he’d need to be really fucking upset, and be seeking solace or comfort in the form of flesh and pleasure). if you do manage to meet those two conditions, then consider yourself very lucky—you’re seeing a side of him that no one is ever allowed to see: small, vulnerable, weak. in a way, aventurine’s soft sex is more real, more raw. it’s honest; it’s hurtful. it isn’t exactly gentle, but it is slow and a stark contrast to his usual style of fucking, with all of it’s bites and bruises and blood. his breath is shattered, exhaled across your skin in shaky shards—half-stifled gasps that he tries to swallow against, nearly choking in the process; raspy moans that snag on sobs, stuttering painfully in his chest. 

when he gets like this, he needs to fuck you in some form of missionary, needs to see your face and feel your breath, needs to crush his lips to yours as his eyes squeeze shut, tears leaking from the corners to pool along the seams of your conjoined mouths. he ruts into you in an unhurried but steady tempo, each thrust deep and drawn out, almost as if he’s taking a moment to memorize you—the trembling of your flesh when his hips collide with your ass, the fluttering of your hole around his shaft. when he cums on these nights, it isn’t brutal and frenzied the way it normally is, with jackhammering hips and snarled words; it’s with his cock buried in your body, head pressed flush to your aching cervix, hips gyrating in small, tight circles, grinding his cum into your sensitive flesh. it’s almost as if he’s attempting to burrow into you, to find a safe space, carve out a home for himself, and stay there forever. 

aventurine is also extremely loud and extremely vocal. his dirty talk is impeccable, and his tone ranges from sugary sweet condescension, gooey words oozing from his lips like slow, silky syrup, to sharp and vicious, razored insults spit from his mouth as if they had sliced his tongue, hurled at you like daggers. his moans are clear and resonant, and he can get a little whiny when he’s close. he definitely has a penchant for sucking in air through his teeth in a harsh hiss (often chased by a deranged chuckle)—when he first sinks into your hole, tight and unprepared; when you bite him back twice as hard and pierce his skin; when you rip out a chunk of his hair, golden strands wound tightly in your fisted knuckles; when you land a good kick or a decent punch; when he finally pumps your womb full of thick cum. 

⋆₊˚⊹♡ sunday

sunday has range when it comes to his style of fucking; sometimes he can be soft, sweet, slow and sensual, rolling his hips with unhurried conviction and ensuring that his cockhead is gliding over your g-spot every single time. he murmurs out praises, tells you how pretty you are, how perfect you are, how precious you are when you sob while taking his cock, pace never faltering—a smooth, strong rhythm he keeps flawlessly as his tongue unfurls from his mouth to drag up your salty cheek in wide thorough strokes, consuming up your tears, then planting chaste kisses in their place. he breathes out encouragements, says you’re doing so well for him, promises you that you can take it for just a little bit longer for him, swears you can cum all over his cock once or twice more for him—he knows you can, and he’s going to show you, just like a good master would.

other times he’s fucking merciless, downright relentless, cock pounding hard and fast as he snarls out condemnations, fingers sinking into the flesh of your arms, your waist, your neck, your wrists and snapping vessels beneath their grip, leaving a smattering of five fingerprint-shaped blotches of violet to pool under the surface, or a ring of grotesque purple seared into your skin. his teeth are latching onto the back of your neck like he’s some sort of rabid animal, strong jaw flexing, burrowing ivory into your flesh until the skin splits and floods his mouth with pungent copper. this type of fucking usually occurs when he decides one of you is in need of an emotional stress relief, or when you’ve been ‘bad’ and are in dire need of punishment. 

in either instance, sunday will often fuck you well past the point of coherency, positive that you haven’t been fucked nearly enough until you’re unable to hold your own body up, bones melted and muscles heavy; until you need his help to do literally anything; until you can only drool out his name and his title, sweet lil brain gone stupid from pleasure turned pain, or vice-versa. he’s an absolute god at aftercare, and finds a deep amount of self-satisfaction in the act, never failing to end a session with meticulous care, irregardless of how vigorous or vicious he was. it is unfathomably important to him to wipe you down and patch you up and make you all better again, tenderly humming out sweet nothings all the while. 

in terms of noises, sunday emits mostly quiet little moans and breathy little haah whimpers when he’s sensual, and muted grunts and growls when he’s really fucking you harsh and rough—strained sounds that vibrate in his chest or claw at his throat with each ruthless slam of his hips, shoved back down by his tightly pressed lips.

[urdreamydoodles]

MCU Characters x Fem!Reader (Part.1)

They react to your outfit for your date with them (Part.1)

As you step out for a much-anticipated date night, your partner reacts with their unique blend of admiration and protectiveness, captivated by your stunning appearance.

Characters: Tony Stark, Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Stephen Strange, Clint Barton, Peter Parker, Thor, Loki & T'Challa

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony's eyes widen the moment you step into the room, his witty remark momentarily caught in his throat. For once, he's speechless. It's a rare sight to see him without his usual smirk, and you can't help but grin at his reaction. "Wow... just wow," he finally manages, his gaze scanning you from head to toe. He's used to being the one to impress, but tonight, you're stealing all the attention, and he loves every second of it.

- As you twirl in front of him, the soft fabric of your dress catching the light, Tony steps closer, adjusting the cufflinks on his suit as if trying to match your perfection. "You know, I always knew you were out of my league," he quips, though there's a sincere awe behind his words. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body through the tailored suit.

- "How am I supposed to focus on dinner when I have this sitting across from me?" he teases, his voice lowering to that playful, flirty tone that makes your heart skip. His fingers trace lightly along your back, the intimate touch sending a shiver down your spine. "Maybe we should skip the reservation altogether," Tony suggests with a grin that tells you he's only half-joking.

- Despite his playful nature, there's a tenderness in the way he looks at you, his usual bravado replaced by something softer. Tony Stark, the genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist, is totally smitten. "Let’s make this night one for the books, shall we?" he says, offering his arm with a rare sincerity that makes you feel like the only person in his universe.

Bucky Barnes (The Winter Soldier)

- Bucky’s not the type to show his emotions easily, but the way his jaw tightens when he sees you walk into the room speaks volumes. His blue eyes darken, tracking every movement as if he’s committing the sight of you to memory. "You look..." His voice trails off, and for a moment, he just stares, like he’s trying to find the right words but can’t. When he finally speaks, it’s almost shy. "...Incredible."

- He shifts awkwardly in his spot, his metal arm twitching slightly, a nervous habit he’s never quite shaken. Despite his quiet demeanor, there’s something fierce in the way he looks at you, like he’s still in disbelief that someone like you could be with someone like him. "I should’ve worn something nicer," he mutters, glancing down at his black jacket. You quickly reassure him with a smile, and he exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit.

- As the two of you prepare to leave, Bucky steps closer, his hand hesitantly brushing your arm before resting on your waist. His touch is gentle, but you can feel the strength behind it, the contrast between his flesh hand and the cold metal one. He leans in, his voice soft, "You make it real hard to focus on anything but you."

- He may not be as smooth with words as some, but the way Bucky looks at you says everything he struggles to express. You catch the small, rare smile tugging at the corners of his lips—one that’s just for you. He holds the door open, his protective instinct kicking in even though this is supposed to be a simple night out. But you know, with Bucky, every moment feels like it's filled with unspoken emotions, deep and unbreakable.

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve’s eyes light up the second you enter the room, his usual composed, all-American charm faltering just a little as he takes in your appearance. "Wow," he breathes, his voice soft but filled with admiration. He steps toward you, ever the gentleman, offering a hand to help you down the last few steps, even though you don’t really need it. "You look stunning," he says, his smile warm and genuine, the kind that makes your heart flutter every time.

- There’s an innocence to the way Steve reacts—like he’s seeing something truly beautiful for the first time, even though you’ve been together for a while. He straightens his jacket, a small flush creeping up his neck as if he’s the one trying to impress you, not the other way around. "I feel like I should’ve dressed up more," he jokes lightly, though his eyes don’t leave yours for a second.

- As he wraps an arm around your waist, you can feel the strength in his hold, reassuring and gentle all at once. Steve leans down to place a soft kiss on your temple, his breath warm against your skin. "I’m the luckiest guy in the world," he murmurs, his voice sincere in a way that only Steve Rogers can manage. He never takes you for granted—not for a second.

- Throughout the night, Steve can’t seem to stop glancing at you, as though he still can’t believe he gets to call you his. Even when he pulls out your chair at the restaurant or holds your hand during the walk back, there’s a quiet reverence in everything he does. "You deserve the best," he tells you, his blue eyes shining with love and respect. And you know, with Steve, he’ll always mean it.

Sam Wilson (Falcon/Captain America)

- The second Sam sees you, a wide grin spreads across his face, his usual playful confidence shining through. "Okay, hold up," he says, his voice filled with admiration as he gives you a once-over. "I didn’t think it was possible, but you just raised the bar." His gaze is warm, appreciative, and you can’t help but laugh as he walks over, his swagger evident in every step.

- "You trying to make me look bad?" Sam teases, though you can tell by the way he’s looking at you that he’s completely smitten. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against your arm before pulling you in for a quick spin. "Damn, you look good. Like, really good." There’s no holding back with Sam—he’s always been the type to say exactly what’s on his mind, and right now, all he’s thinking about is how incredible you look.

- As you walk together to the car, Sam keeps sneaking glances at you, his smile never fading. He opens the door for you with a dramatic flourish, ever the showman. "You sure we’re going to the right place? ‘Cause I feel like I should be taking you to the red carpet or something," he quips, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

- During the date, Sam is the perfect mix of fun and affectionate, cracking jokes to make you laugh while also finding moments to be sweet. At one point, he leans in close, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "I know I joke around a lot, but... I’m really lucky to have you. You know that, right?" The sincerity in his words catches you off guard, but it’s moments like these that remind you why you fell for him in the first place. Sam Wilson may be all charm and wit, but when it comes to you, his heart is all in.

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen’s reaction is subtle but telling. His sharp eyes flick over to you the moment you enter the Sanctum, widening slightly as they trail down the length of your figure. He doesn’t speak right away, and you know you’ve caught him off guard—which, for someone like Stephen Strange, is no small feat. "You certainly know how to make an entrance," he says at last, his voice smooth, but there’s a softness in it that surprises you.

- He steps closer, his robes shifting gracefully as he reaches out, fingers lightly grazing your arm. "You look... otherworldly," he remarks, his usual confidence tempered with a kind of reverence, like he’s seeing something magical—something he didn’t conjure himself. Stephen has seen countless dimensions and mystical beings, but there’s something in the way he’s looking at you now that feels entirely human. His fingers linger, tracing the fabric of your dress, as if he's studying every detail with the same intensity he reserves for spells.

- "We might not need a portal tonight," he quips, a rare hint of humor in his voice, "because I’m not sure I want anyone else in this universe to see you like this." It’s half a joke, but there’s a protective edge beneath his words. For a moment, the Sorcerer Supreme isn’t thinking about the mystical realms or ancient threats—he’s just a man in awe of the person standing before him.

- Throughout the night, you catch him stealing glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking. There’s something grounded about Stephen tonight, a rare vulnerability. And when he slips his hand into yours as you walk through the city, it’s without pretense—just pure, quiet affection from a man who’s seen everything and still thinks you’re the most stunning thing in existence.

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint’s eyes light up the moment he sees you. "Whoa, wait a second," he says, his voice filled with playful surprise as he looks you up and down, a grin spreading across his face. "Am I supposed to be your date tonight? Or is there some movie star hiding around here?" Clint’s always been quick with a joke, but the admiration in his eyes is genuine, and the way his voice softens just a bit tells you he’s impressed.

- He walks over to you with that easy, casual stride, hands finding their way to your waist as he pulls you in for a hug, his lips brushing against your forehead. "You clean up pretty nice," he teases, though there’s a hint of awe in his tone. Clint is used to seeing you in casual clothes or even combat gear, but tonight is different, and he’s not hiding how much he loves it.

- "Now I’m really feeling underdressed," he jokes, glancing down at his outfit, which, while nice, doesn’t quite match the level of your look tonight. He’s got that laid-back charm, but you know Clint well enough to see the little flicker of self-consciousness in his eyes, even if he hides it behind a grin. You reassure him with a smile, and he relaxes, pulling you closer as if you’re the only two people in the world.

- Clint might not make a big deal of it, but throughout the night, he can’t stop complimenting you. Whether it’s a casual “You’re killing it tonight” or a more heartfelt “I’m the luckiest guy around,” his words, though simple, are full of sincerity. He loves that you don’t need all the bells and whistles to shine, but tonight, you’ve got them, and he’s soaking up every second.

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter’s jaw literally drops when he sees you, his wide eyes blinking in disbelief as he stumbles over his words. "Oh my gosh... wow... you—wow," he stammers, rubbing the back of his neck as his cheeks flush red. It’s adorable, watching him try and piece together a coherent sentence. "You look amazing," he finally blurts out, still staring at you like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

- He’s awkward at first, nervously adjusting his tie and shifting from foot to foot, clearly trying to play it cool but failing miserably. "I—I mean, I knew you’d look great, but this? You’ve seriously outdone yourself," Peter says, and you can’t help but smile at how genuine he is. His hands hover awkwardly before he finally takes yours, squeezing them gently as he continues to fumble through his awe.

- "I’m gonna be the luckiest guy at the restaurant," he says with a grin, though you can tell he’s only half-joking. Peter’s not used to this kind of attention, and seeing you all dressed up for him has completely flustered him in the sweetest way possible. "Do I look okay?" he asks, glancing down at his suit and then back at you with a sheepish smile, clearly hoping he’s at least halfway as presentable as you are.

- Throughout the night, Peter can’t stop complimenting you, whether it’s nervously gushing over how amazing you look or cracking jokes to hide his nerves. "I don’t even know what to do with my hands," he jokes, trying to play it cool. But the way he looks at you—like you’re the most incredible person in the world—tells you everything you need to know about how much this night means to him.

Thor (God of Thunder)

- Thor’s reaction is immediate and dramatic, his booming voice filling the room the second he sees you. "By Odin’s beard, you are a vision!" he exclaims, his eyes lighting up with pure admiration. There’s nothing subtle about Thor, and his excitement at seeing you dressed up is no exception. He strides toward you with that confident, larger-than-life energy, sweeping you into a hug that lifts you off your feet for a moment.

- "This is truly a grand occasion," he declares, his deep voice rumbling with pride as he looks you over with a beaming smile. Thor isn’t shy about showing his admiration, and he’s clearly thrilled to see you looking so incredible. "You shine brighter than the stars themselves tonight," he adds, his compliments as grand and poetic as ever. His eyes sparkle with warmth, and there’s something almost boyish in the way he can’t stop looking at you.

- Thor, ever the gentleman, offers his arm with a gallant flourish, bowing slightly as if you were royalty. "Shall we make our grand entrance together?" he asks with a grin, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. There’s an infectious energy about him tonight, and you can tell he’s as excited for the evening as he is to be seen with you by his side.

- Throughout the night, Thor treats you like an absolute queen, making sure you’re comfortable and constantly reminding you of how magnificent you look. "It is an honor to stand beside someone as radiant as you," he says at one point, his voice soft and sincere. His hand never leaves yours, and with Thor, every moment feels like a celebration. He makes you feel as if the entire night revolves around you—because in his eyes, it does.

Loki (God of Mischief)

- When Loki first sees you, his reaction is subtle yet intense, his green eyes darkening as he takes you in. "Well, well," he murmurs, a sly smile playing on his lips. He doesn’t rush toward you like others might—instead, he lets his gaze linger, the look in his eyes making you feel like you’re the most captivating thing he’s ever seen. "You’ve truly outdone yourself," he says, his voice smooth as silk, full of admiration and a hint of possessiveness.

- He slowly circles around you, his fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of your dress as he takes in every detail. "I always knew you were stunning," Loki purrs, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate tone, "but tonight, you've left even the gods speechless." He steps closer, his hand sliding to your waist, the coolness of his touch sending a shiver down your spine. His smirk widens as he feels your reaction, his teasing nature coming out in full force.

- "Shall we make all the realms jealous tonight?" he asks with a raised brow, his voice full of mischief. Loki’s always loved making an entrance, but tonight, it’s clear that he’s more focused on the fact that he has you by his side. "I daresay none will be able to take their eyes off you," he whispers, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks, making your heart race.

- Throughout the night, Loki is his usual charming, mischievous self, constantly finding ways to draw you closer—whether it’s with a flirty comment or a teasing touch. Yet, behind the playful banter, there’s something deeper in the way he looks at you, as if you’re the only person in the room who truly matters. And when he pulls you in for a slow, deliberate kiss at the end of the evening, it’s clear that he’s as captivated by you as you are by him.

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa’s reaction is a perfect blend of admiration and quiet awe. When you enter the room, his deep brown eyes immediately lock onto you, his usually composed expression softening. "My love," he says, his voice rich and smooth, as he approaches you with a regal grace. There’s a moment of silence as he takes you in, his gaze warm but intense, as though he’s seeing you for the first time. "You look... breathtaking," he finally says, his voice full of genuine respect and adoration.

- T’Challa steps closer, his hand gently reaching for yours, lifting it to his lips to place a soft kiss on your knuckles. "You honor me with your beauty tonight," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving yours. His words are always deliberate, full of meaning, and the way he looks at you now makes it clear that he’s beyond proud to be seen with you by his side. His admiration isn’t just for your appearance—it’s for you as a whole.

- As King of Wakanda, T’Challa has attended countless events and diplomatic gatherings, but tonight, he seems more focused on you than anything else. "It is a privilege to be with you," he says softly, his hand resting on the small of your back as he guides you through the evening with his usual poise. Even in a crowd, his attention never wavers, and you feel like the center of his world.

- Throughout the night, T’Challa is the perfect gentleman, always attentive, always respectful. His hand remains intertwined with yours, and every now and then, he’ll lean in close to whisper something in your ear—small, private compliments meant only for you. "You are more beautiful than any star in the sky," he says quietly, his voice full of quiet reverence. And when the night comes to an end, T’Challa takes a moment to stand with you under the stars, pulling you into a tender embrace as if he never wants to let you go.

[bygonearchive]

Self aware anaxa (or any of the amphoreus cast at this point), and how he'd likely have a very different experience becoming aware post 3.2 has been all I can think about recently. This is more of a warm-up/ drabble with the idea before I flesh it out more. Just trying to find a way I feel comfortable writing him at the moment.

Masterlist

He was dead, that much he could be sure of. His plan to fuse his soul with the titan Cerces to become the titan in the next cycle was successful; he had felt his body dissolve and had dropped the core flame into the vortex of Genesis. 

So, how was he here? 

No matter, as the demised scholar Anaxagoras, time is the only thing preventing him from knowing the truth. 

Ultimately, every time he made any progress in finding out what was happening some other odd trait about his current predicament made itself aware. It started small, music playing as he was going about amphoreus, the area around him pausing here and there, barely noticeable.

Then the events started to escalate, he discovered that he couldn't speak to anyone. In fact, whenever he went to try he had the intriguing yet infuriating feeling of being absent from reality for the conversation made itself apparent, the sensation of not being in full control of his body at times eventually growing to all of the time and then there was the fight against Aquila. 

That seemed to act as the catalyst for these strange phenomena, as everything intensified afterwards. Shortly after the conclusion of the fight… 

He was no longer on Amphoreus. 

He didn't have control of his body, fights were taking turns, chests were littered behind puzzles, it was like he was skipping around in time and visiting events and battles that should have long since passed. 

It was as if someone was playing a game.

It was as if someone was playing a game.

And suddenly that hypothesis made sense. Rooting itself in the professor's mind, all he needed now was proof. Proof that there was a player. Then he could work on a method to make himself real, to gain power over his new reality. This new truth. 

Naturally, he met or rather interacted with you, shortly after this revelation. It didn't immediately click that you were the player, the person for whom he was essentially a glorified puppet, but it did in time. 

He didn't intend to fall for you. 

Of course, he hadn’t yet, no matter how purely logical he tries to be. Well. Don’t romance and reason go hand in hand, he shouldn’t feel ashamed to embrace such feelings. 

Try as he might, he couldn’t catch your attention no matter what actions he took. Triggering voice lines where and when he shouldn’t be able to; wrenching control back for the briefest of moments; sneaking extra rewards into your inbox, no jades of course, he couldn’t be too obvious for his safety; and even sending more in game messages than he was scripted with, given half of them are obscured behind anonymous icons. All for nought as you simply dismissed it all as glitches or simply lag from whatever device you were using to run it. 

It drove him insane. Bit by bit, denial after denial of his existence, you weren't questioning any of it. But fine. That's fine. He'll just have to work harder. 

The actions he takes get more prominent, more daring. It's not a simple matter of clueing you into it anymore, he has to prove his existence to you now. It's not something the professor is entirely used to, usually proving his own theorems to himself, others are rarely worth his time. 

One day he decides to clear out the rest of the team you'd assigned him to, hoping that if you logged in to him and only him then something might finally register. It succeeds in a way, gaining him a panicked logout from you when you noticed how every character other than Anaxagoras was knocked out. 

Progress. 

Small, but there. Tangible, real. He'd make you fall for - see him, in time. 

It’s no longer something in short supply now that he'd already fulfilled his position in the plot.

[twinroomies]

"have him home by 9 i guess" in response to the selfship ask is peak btw. just want you to know that

Hahaha, well, that's what I had in the chamber when I got asked this question, so, I appreciate it. To get real with ya'll personally SEPERATELY from the main Twin Runes account, mainly because over here this IS my little area so I CAN say a bit more without it representing both Akane and I... WARNING: THINGS GET SERIOUS DOWN HERE

You know, it's interesting from my perspective to be in this position, right? Not to diss or put down "goatkisser" anon here as I'm gonna lovingly refer to them as, but you gotta understand, ya'll: when you're a writer you put a lot of YOURSELF, or your experiences into your characters, right? We've all had fictional crushes (if you have romantic or other types of feelings, if not: please disregard and also valid), we've ALL thought about Mega Man X from Mega Man X. This is a universal experience. Stop looking at me like that, but the point is: I MADE this Mega Man X. So it's just a little surprising. Good writing has vulnerability to it, and you expect people to laugh, to make light of, to critique parts of you that you put out there when you do that. You don't expect people to go "ah yes the homunculus of every America's Funniest Home Videos moment in your life made flesh. I would date that." That's the one that gets you, at least it got me. I don't wanna be John Funkiller, murderer of joy and whimsy, but like imagine you drew a comic yourself, and you had your character tell a story from YOUR LIFE of something funny that happened to or because of you, and then someone looked you dead in the eyes and said "I want to make out with them". That's… I mean, there are probably other parts to it beyond that story, maybe they just REALLY like his horns they ARE cool but you know that part of you is STILL THERE. There's also an element of: Okay, if I say yes, am I about to see someone go way too far with this? Chat, I'm a voice actor, I've had people upload my voice to websites so they could chat with characters I've played. Ever had a poorly written fanfiction robot attempt to flirt with you while having an existential crisis because you needed to hear enough of the voice back to confirm it was your own voice? I don't recommend it, I'd leave a bad yelp review.

Anyways, I'm GLAD people like Asriel, but to keep it a BUCK FIFTY WITH YA'LL, that's… I mean, look. How are you supposed to respond to that? 😅 Will I STOP YOU? No, but all of that is how I FEEL, the REAL PERSON, the NOT THE GOAT. Just remember though, that some of those stories you'll hear about the goat, start with me, or Akane, or people we know.

[mihii-i]

shackled.

Pairings: arlecchino x fem!reader

CW: sfw, female reader, arranged marriage, arle referred to as your husband, use of her real name, idk if this is angst so I’ll tag it as angst and fluff, wlw, I actually fucking hate arranged marriages irl but it’s interesting to write about, fun when it’s the character you like and not a 10 year old girl getting married to an ugly ass 60 year old man who gets no bitches, uhm anyway not proofread.

A/N: nobody gonna request arrange marriage? I’ll do it myself with my husband/husbwife arlecchino 🕯️

Uneven beats of your heart pulsed in your eardrums continuously as you stared out the open window, a cool breeze caressing your downcast face gently. Your pupils flickered down to your extended left hand, dilating smaller out of disdain upon catching sight of the cold silver ring encircling your ring finger.

You dreaded it. This arranged marriage parted an endless uncomfortable pit in your stomach, which you had felt would remain as long as you were trapped in a bind you didn’t want. Gazing down at ring once more, you couldn’t help but find it difficult to swallow the choked feeling in your throat whenever you laid eyes upon the ruby, nausea enveloping every possible sense you had in the moment. Rather than a promise ring that bound you to someone you loved, the one on your finger felt like a tiny silver collar clamped around your flesh. An irking feeling that forced you to love a stranger.

Yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate Arlecchino. The woman had actively attempted to respect your personal space, being able to tell how much you loathed the inescapable grasp of your arranged marriage. You could tell that she opposed even the thought of this, especially from the way her eyes would stare down at her own ring with an empty and unfeeling expression.

Sighing deeply, you reached an arm up to grasp the satin curtains, before tugging your arms inward in a single dynamic motion. As you turned your back to walk away from the now closed up windows, you felt a gust of light air brush against your nape, causing you to spin around and lower your eyes from slight annoyance. Right. You forgot to shut the windows first. You just went over to shut the windows, still harboring a hint of irritation. Ever since that marriage, you always tended to feel unwilling to do anything anymore. Frequently always irritated by the smallest of actions as you’d always think to yourself—what’s the point?

Upon closing up the windows completely, you fell back onto the intricately decorated sofa set situated in the corner of your shared bedroom, your mind still a cluttered mess from all your thoughts being scrambled rather than neatly arranged in an array. You began to ponder once more. How things could’ve been different. Ran away, or disobeyed your parents to a full extent.

There wasn’t anything you could do. You didn’t see a point in even trying to keep a happy front anymore. All of your aspirations that you had, every little dream, was now out of your reach as you were shackled into this marriage. The warm air of the heater hit your skin as you rested your cheek into your palm. A small smile made its way onto your lips as you mused at the possible scenarios that could’ve happened if you were free. Perhaps if you were wallowing in your delusion, you could smile atleast once.

“I’m home.”

You blinked from sudden surprise, jolting as the bedroom door creaked open—albeit a bit roughly. Arlecchino’s emotionless voice rang in your ears, had she called out upon entering before? She often enters the living room first, and doesn’t enter the bedroom until nightfall. Then again, you tend to reside in the living room to await your husband’s return, so maybe she simply wondered where you were.

Stray specks of blood decorated her cheek, scattering small splatters ranging in a variety of spots across her face. Right. She was the fourth harbinger after all. You folded your arms as Arlecchino towered over you, still standing upright while her x-marked eyes pierced into you. Shifting uncomfortably, you decided to clear your throat, gesturing towards your own cheek in an attempt to break the thick fog of tension between you two from the lack of words.

“You got some-“

“I’m aware.” Arlecchino replied coldly, making you bite back a scoff at the harbinger’s dismissive response. Well, excuse you for trying to make this shitty marriage more bearable.

Still, it didn’t seem intentionally rude although it did come off that way. You only looked away from her, eyes fixating on a random painting hung over the flower pot on one of the shelves. Hunching your shoulders, you bit down on your quivering lip subtly so that Arlecchino wouldn’t notice. Although you were the one that distanced yourself from her. Although you were the one who only focused on despising this marriage, rather than even trying to get closer to Arlecchino in the slightest for atleast a small hint of peace. It still hurt seeing your husband brush you off like this.

Her seemingly exhausted expression remained glued to her face as she dragged the folded white washcloth along her cheek, eyes staring at the ground aimlessly as she continued to clean her stained face. The weight of all of this had clearly taken a toll on her as well, yet she had to keep a sturdy front for the sake of her profession as a Fatui harbinger. Yet her actions regarding you had always been courteous and respectful. Consistently respecting your boundaries and trying her best to avoid making you feel uncomfortable must have taken a toll on her, especially knowing full well that your resentment for this marriage could have set you off at any given moment.

A sudden wave of sympathy flooded you upon seeing Arlecchino’s tired eyes, dark linings shaded below her eyes as well. Just maybe, you could try to repay her for having your comfort in mind throughout the course of this resented relationship. This relationship wasn’t her fault, and you knew that. She hated this just as much as you did.

Deciding to swallow your pride, you rose to your feet, standing before her as you awkwardly shifted for a couple moments while remaining standing there. Arlecchino paused her movements, raising an eyebrow at your sudden motion of getting up off the couch. She simply stared at you with a puzzled gaze, trying to figure out your sudden want to interact with her.

Hesitantly, you reached out a shaky hand, lining it up with her cheek and gesturing her to lean in. Arlecchino on the other hand, wasn’t expecting you to switch up suddenly like this, only keeping her skeptical gaze locked onto your own eyes. It felt like a trap to lean in to someone who was so hesitant to even look at her. No matter how badly she wanted to lean into the soft skin of your palm, her hesitance seemed to uphold her rationality despite her exhaustion.

“Arle…it’s okay, you can lean in…”

She needn’t be told twice as you felt her hand grab ahold of your wrist to keep it in place, her head nearly collapsing against your hand. Deep breaths echoed within the vicinity, her breaths cancelling every other noise around you two as Arlecchino slowly composed herself from your touch. She pulled back after a couple moments, her cold front faltering for a moment with a flash of tenderness, before immediately snapping back to her calm demeanor.

However, you didn’t stop there. You don’t know what flipped that switch in you, but you just felt the urge to grow closer to Arlecchino. Perhaps it was the realization that you weren’t alone in the hellhole of a marriage, and that you two may be suffering together. Knowing she hated this as much as you was comforting, it remedied your internal turmoil slightly, and made you detest the idea of anyone else going through what you were. Or maybe, it was the fact that Arlecchino didn’t push anything in this marriage, and respected you, preventing your mental state from growing worse. It could even be both.

Regardless, you wanted to atleast provide a sort of ease to her. Cupping her cheek once more, you pulled the washcloth from her hand, rubbing it against her cheek in circular motions as stains of blood began to soak up onto the cloth and coloring it red. Arlecchino didn’t seem to protest your attempt at soothing her, face pressing further into your shaky palm as it seemed to be working. The quiet buzz of the heater reverberating through the silence, and the general tidy atmosphere of the neatly arranged bed made everything feel so right. As if this marriage wasn’t so awful after all.

Arlecchino exhaled a swift sigh as you finished washing up her face, remaining silent. The two of you awkwardly awaited for the other to speak up, the crickets outside chirping louder than the two of you by this point. You finally decided to say something, face tinged a light pink from moderate embarrassment

“You didn’t want this either did you?”

Arlecchino shook her head in affirmation, her eyes still avoiding yours—as if she was afraid that your vulnerability would shift over to her, and shatter her calm self at this moment.

“I’m well aware of this situation. Your parents are already closely associated with the Fatui, and want wanted you to marry a harbinger in order to elevate their own status for the sake of the family.” She replied. A sour taste seeped onto your tongue at the mention of the reason why you were forced into this in the first place, unpleasant memories beginning to race through your mind for a few moments.

“Why did you accept the offer then? You could’ve easily declined if you didn’t want to be in this marriage either. There’s multiple other harbingers my parents would’ve auctioned me off to.” You said bitterly, strangely hating the idea of getting married to anyone who wasn’t Arlecchino at this point. Arlecchino merely shrugged in response, raising her shoulders to remove the white fur coat cloaking her and draping it neatly over the coat hanger drilled into the wall.

“I’m not sure.” She paused, taking some time to think over another answer to compensate for her vague response. “I believe I just felt it was necessary in that moment.”

You sighed back collapsing onto the mattress. Suddenly, you felt an arm circle your waist, pulling you closer as you felt Arlecchino push her torso flush against your back. Your face burned from the sudden intimate action, the warmth of her body only serving to make you lean into her further as her sharp nails raked along your stomach lightly. Arlecchino whispered out against you, visibly less uptight than when she came in. She was a bit more relaxed and clingy with you simply with a mere touch against her cheek, it was sweet honestly.

“I still care about you, (Name).” She muttered against your neck, voice muffled as she was evidently quite tired. Pale rays of the moonlight illuminated Arlecchino’s now eased expression, watching her eyes lowered shut as her exhaustion began to catch up with her. Surprisingly, you found yourself relishing in the comfort of her arms as you flipped onto your side facing her to examine her rested features.

“…I’m starting to care about you too, Peruere.”

Your hand drew down along her arm, all the way from the skin of her shoulder down to the black faded enveloping her arms from her curse. Maybe, just maybe, this could work. You found solace in the fact that you could make the best out of this marriage with a woman who kept you in mind and tried her best to care about your interests.

Maybe, you could warm up to her.

A/N: im screaming idk if this turned out good guys pls asaaawaabshshs but yayyyyy arlecchino MY CONTENT WARNINGS WERE ASS ON THIS ONE WHY ARE THEY SO BORING AND SAD ‼️

[meanbossart]

i just need to take a second to gush about how much i love durge drow and astarion, they feel so fleshed out and perfectly written together in their fucked up wretched ways. They really inspire me to write more for my own tavs, hopefully one day ill be able to say im as happy with my own work as i get when seeing yours. I have to ask though, do you have any tips on drawing head shapes and faces? or maybe about wrinkles? i find i really struggle with that stuff when drawing and i adore how expressive and grungey all your art looks!

First of all thank you so much, I love hearing what people think of the two of them together 😭

Honestly you've hit on something that's quite near and dear to my heart, I love developing and figuring how to draw and stylize different faces to get the most unique, interesting looking results - everything about the details is highly rewarding to me. What does x type of nose look like from this angle? In this style? How can this eyeshape best translate to my art? How different does a face look when its making this expression? What does that MOUTH DO? etc etc.

In fact you kind of inspired me to put a little tutorial/guide together the last hour lmao and what a blessing it is that the two current subjects of this blog serve as great models here, being that their faces are basically polar opposites!

When it comes to heads, you've probably heard it a dozen times before that you want to think of them in terms of geometry and facets; my process to drawing them is pretty conventional so I won't spend too much time on it, but it goes something like this:

Obviously I don't do every single one of these steps most of the time, which is just something that comes from practice/developing muscle memory, but it is helpful to start off this way for two main reasons:

By making these guide lines and splitting a head into pieces like this, you'll have an easier time seeing and understanding it as a multidimensional object, and in turn, facilitate It for you when you venture out into doing wacky angles and lighting.

Making different headshapes starts HERE. notice how Astarion's "face" slate is narrower and longer, how my durge's jaw pieces sit lower on the head, how all of the same pieces came together in the same way but we ended up with one real pointy elf and a real brick of a drow - making characters look different successfully begins very early in the sketching process.

The next thing you want to do branches out into every day life: start noticing yours and other people's facial features. How does an upturned nose look from a high angle? How does the size of someone's cheekbones affect what they look like when they smile? How about when the light hits them a certain way? Does someone's lip shape changes when they pout? When they laugh? How does a person's hairline change the shape of their face? You do NOT need to creepily sketch every stranger you see on the bus, but get into the habit of actually noticing what people look like when you talk to them - when you look at pictures, when you watch movies - make a mental list of interesting ways mouths, noses, and eyes can come together in a variety of different proportions to make completely distinct looking mugs, and how they change depending on how you are looking at them.

Light and shadow play a HUGE role in how faces look, too, basically as crucial as actual bone structure does. As you see up there I tried to rough out how natural, head on, and underhead light would look on these two very different looking guys, and while we can see definite patterns, there are small differences that come to be because of the sizes and shapes of their features.

Here is a very, very basic look at how some of these features come to look the way they do, how they interact with one another, and how they compare between a blocky, rather conventionally "masculine" head and one that's much softer and slimmer.

Note please that it is not one or two characteristics that give a chaarcter their "look"; you can reduce a face to eyes, mouth, and nose through stylization and still have them be recognizable, but if you want to do more than that, you have to consider the whole package! Chin, cheeks, brows, direction of the jaw, slope and size of the forehead, depth of eyes, ridge of the nose, etc - I know this is probably far more than you bargained for, but if you start making note of a FEW of these things now and slowly add on, this will eventually become second nature to you.

Similarly, understanding how these characteristics come together will help you with rendering light and shadow in a realistic way, and predicting what their facial expressions may look like - if no two people are alike, neither are their smiles. :)

Lastly, remember that I'm no expert - I have developed my own methods and semiotics and yours may look slightly (or vastly) different, and that's fine! I hope only that by sharing this it has given you a base to work off of.

Anyways, I HOPE this has been helpful and not just the unsolicited ramblings of a face pervert.

[rockpaperimpala]

So about Netflix's the Last Airbender....

I am literally so confused you guys. You made me think I would HATE this show. And I LOVED it. Me. Known perfectionist and hater.

Katara was lovely. Yes, she started as a more soft spoken character than her cartoon version, but she was still passionate and hopeful throughout, just visibly unsure of herself. I think people were thrown off by this actress' natural way of expressing herself, which is Different from animated katara for sure, but not bad. Then she spends the whole season growing in Confidence and Fire. I Adored her fight with Paku, it really did feel like a payout of the whole season's development, and the bending kicked ass!

The Bending Kicked ass!!! The martial arts was fun and fast and creative and exciting! It looked SO good. That alone would be enough reason for me to watch and enjoy any show.

Zuko's actor was fantastic. He really captured the rage and confusion of this 16 year old banished prince. And there were so many Added moments between him and Iroh wich to me enriched their relationship. Like YES! This is why I'm watching, to see more of them, to see things done a little differently.

Iroh facing the consequences of his actions at Ba Sing Se!! That's what I'm here for!

Zuko's relationship with the men on his ship! That's what I'm here for!

The Extra layers we get to Ozai manipulating his children!

Also no one is talking about Admiral Zhao, who I had SO much fun with. I feel like they slightly fleshed out his character in a really dramatic way, really developing the hubris and frankly insane grasping ambition of someone who would kill the moon. I completely enjoyed this wilder, less controlled version of him, who comes up through the season from basically nothing and no one!

I am OBSESSED with King BUMI and his anger and disillusionment with the world! Like this was SO real. Living a hundred years of futile war would do that!!!! It is one of my favorite changes to the whole series. This new layer of emotion and character depth is what I'm here for!

Sokka was SO funny. He literally had me laughing out loud so often. That actor GETs Sokka, and GETS the way his humor is delivered. And is also able to tap into the more vulnerable side of him. People said he was "obsessed" with leadership. WHAT? That is a young person trying desperately to do his best and to try and find his place in the world, to figure what he has to offer. I loved his pride at hearing the Mechanist say that he would make a good engineer, and the sweetness of the moment that Yue's father says that he can be a hero without being a warrior. Sokka does so much growth in this series, in understanding himself and life.

And his chemistry with Suki was adorable!! I even like him and Yue (who was a totally unexpected sweetheart, despite her terrible wig)!! Like he has that same ability that Sokka has in the original to Connect with people.

Aang was great! He WAS fun loving and sweet and funny. I don't know what you guys wanted. Cartoons are always bigger and more exaggerated than live action. People's eyes swell up an, birds fly around their heads, and there are funny sound effects. That larger than life quality is the strength of animation! You have to look for different strength in live action. Like the SUBTLETIES of the acting choices. This little actor brought so much kindness, innocence, and strength to Aang.

And I FELT his frustration at being asked to do this at 12, his fresh hope anytime it looked like someone more experienced would be able to help him and no one did, and that's why he didn't learn waterbending this season, because he kept waiting for an freaking ADULT to show him the way, to help him carry this immense burden, but every adult he meets asks him for help instead, asks him to carry it himself, and then the finale hits and he realizes that there won't be any adults helping, he does have figure this out himself, and he makes the hard choice, takes on responsibility more than his years and offers himself to the ocean spirit, and he might have been lost entirely if not for Katara!

And that counter running theme to the show pays off: that he doesn't have to do it alone. He may not have more experienced guidance, because the adults have let him down again and again, but his friends will be with him, and they will figure it out together!

This is there throughout the series! Katara tells him this about learning waterbending, when he says he still wants to wait. Bumi tells him this in the palace at Omashu, and Aang sees the faith he has in his friends repaid!

I like these changes! And the show still found time for silly fun adventures and character building moments.

The show was never going to be the animated original. That is already a Masterpiece, and it frankly did NOT need to be adapted at all. I did not WANT a live action adaptation. I was adamantly convinced I would hate it. But the changes that they netflix show gave are what I Iike most about it. If I want to see Zuko say "you rise with the moon, I rise with the sun," I will go watch the animated original, because that version is perfect. And now, if i want to see Zuko say "Lu ten would have been proud to have you as a father," and see iroh pull him into a tight hug, I can watch this live action version, which is very good too. I'm going to disagree with most of the people on here and say that the Netflix's Avatar: The Last Airbender, DOES capture the heart of what we liked about the original show. It's spirit, fun, excitement, and characters. And the changes made are the reason we should be watching.

[earlgraytay]

Someone on my dash just reposted something about how FE3H really takes the effort to make sure that you know everything about every character and there isn't a single character that doesn't get a lot of development in some way. ...And I thought that post was going to go a different direction from how it did (it was kinda mean), so instead of reblogging it I'm going to Make My Own Post about this.

In FE3H, because of the school and teaching mechanics, every major character gets a fuckton of development. You know every character's favourite foods, which activities they like to do, which classes they're good at, which classes they just Cannot with, who they get along with, who they loathe and why... By the end of the game, every single major character is a fleshed out person, even characters who'd be a one-note "oh, he's eepy" gag in the earlier FE games. Pretty much every member of the cast, from the three House leaders on down, is a developed, compelling person!

And I really like how this gives the conflict stakes, and how (especially on subsequent playthroughs) it really heightens the tragedy of the whole affair.

Regardless of who you side with- in every playthrough but your very first, and even then you're likely to see this- you are going up against characters you know intimately and have spent time building a relationship with. Even if you can manage to recruit the kids you love most from the other houses- which admittedly isn't that hard in NG+ - you're still going to have to go up against the House leaders, or Flayn and Seteth, and you're going to lose people you care about in a violent and messy way.

And the connection would not feel nearly as real without all the nonsense in Gerreg Mach! You've spent months having dinner with these kids, cooking with them, growing vegetables for them, giving them gifts, finding them their lost homework and coats, gently guiding them through their lessons, building them up.

Turning them into weapons.

Weapons that are now pointed at your throat.

[ghostlynightpanda]

HELLO can i request something with niragi? 

my idea: niragi x dominant reader. like dominant in relationships or in bed (or both) it doesn’t matter. i just find a thought of niragi being with someone who is not gonna to submit to him interesting. not only they not submit him, but they also want HIM to submit which i think is very unusual to him. i mean in the past he was humiliated and now thinks that any submission is a sign of weakness and blah blah blah and he will never do such thing in any way. like he will NOT listen to anyone in a relationship because now he's big and strong and no one has the power to tell him what to do. in bed he also won't do what you tell him because who do you think you are?? in general, after everything that happened to him during his school years, he is fixated on control and tries with all his might to show everyone his strength, to break people in order to show his superiority - in order, again, to feel control because he didn’t have it before. ok I'm getting carried away but what I'm getting at is that it would be very interesting to see how he would open up with a dominant and emotionally strong partner who doesn't like and won't do whatever niragi wants to satisfy him

plus he used to be so sweet and all before the borderlands so maybe with the right person he could give in for a while and stop trying to prove himself??

#subniragisupremacy ok✌️

if you would do it you can do it with pre borderland niragi instead of the borderland one if you want. it doesn’t really matter what version of niragi it would be lol. it could be niragi on the beach, it could be burnt niragi, still a walking menace but now he's starting to change a little or whatever (8 seconds of character development hello), it could be a pre borderland niragi also. like high scooler niragi or niragi after school when he’s no longer nerd but not still not as unhinged as he was in the borderland. pre borderland probably would be easier because he is not as crazy in i believe he was pretty normal in ordinary life but still it would be interesting to see what would he do with a dominant person since he considers submission weakness

love your work btw!!!

Built to Burn, Taught to Kneel

English is not my first language, so if you find mistakes, feel free to contact me!

Synopsis: After surviving a brutal game in the Borderlands, Niragi is stunned to reunite with the only person who ever saw the real him. Now, feared and cruel in public, he clings to control with bloody hands, but behind closed doors, he surrenders to your dominance, desperate for the safety he only finds in your power.

warnings/content: Niragi x reader, fluff and smut, mdni, - 3.372 words

The concrete groaned under every step, a brutal echo swallowed by the night air. Rain beat down like glass on flesh, sharp and cold. The game had gone on far too long — two hours of sprinting, dodging, climbing, slipping through shadows.

Dead Run. The instructions were simple: stay moving, stay hidden, stay alive. One misstep, one breath too loud, and the hunters and lasers fired without mercy.

You ducked behind a rusted van, panting, blood dripping from a torn gash in your thigh. You’d seen five players go down already — one shredded on the stairwell, another caught in a spotlight and got shot by a laser. Your breath hitched. Every muscle screamed, but you weren't going to die here.

Then you heard it — chaos breaking out three levels above. Gunfire. Screams.

Another player, maybe. Another poor bastard about to get fired up.

You pushed forward, crawling under collapsed rebar, eyes locked on the distant checkpoint glowing red in the distance — freedom was close. Ten meters, maybe. Then eight. Then—

“Don’t move.”

The voice froze your blood.

Sharp. Familiar.

Dangerous.

You slowly raised your head, thinking you’d been caught by a hunter. But what you saw instead made your breath stop entirely.

Leaning against the broken skeleton of a car, blood on his cheek, gun at his side, was him.

Niragi.

Older. Darker. Covered in blood like it was his second skin.

And looking at you like he'd just seen a ghost.

For a moment, the world seemed to still. Even the rain sounded quieter. His gaze flicked down your body — not with hunger, not yet — but with calculation. Recognition. Something in his chest visibly coiled, like a trap being triggered.

He spoke again, but it wasn’t to threaten you. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

A spotlight swept dangerously close. You tensed to move, but Niragi was faster.

He stepped forward, not looking back, boots crunching over broken glass as he reached for your hand and hauled you up by the arm. Not rough. Not gentle. Just urgent.

“Move.” His voice was low. Controlled. But there was something burning under it. “I’m not letting you die in some bullshit Spades game.”

You didn’t argue.

You couldn’t.

Not with the way he was looking at you — like something unholy had cracked open in his chest and was crawling out, raw and hungry.

You ran.

Together.

And he didn’t let go of your hand once.

Finally, you made it.

The moment the final checkpoint flared green and the doors sealed shut behind them, Niragi let go of your hand like it burned him. You stumbled forward a few steps, chest heaving, blood sticking your shirt to your side. Your legs trembled — not from fear, not really. Just adrenaline finally wearing off.

Niragi stood a few paces away, silent, back to you, shoulders tense beneath the soaked, torn shirt he wore. The gun hung at his side, useless now. Still, he gripped it like the game wasn’t over.

You wiped at the blood on your cheek, already turning to face him when he finally spoke.

“...I thought you were dead.”

His voice was low, different than during the game. Strained. Like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You didn’t respond. Just watched the way his jaw clenched as he turned to you fully. Up close, you saw it — the same sharp eyes, the same twitch of his fingers when he was overthinking. His face was older, marked by cruelty and chaos, but underneath it…

That boy still existed.

“You’re not,” he muttered, almost to himself. Then louder, more forcefully, like he was trying to shake off the weight of recognition. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Before you could answer, his gaze dropped to your leg — the blood. His whole posture shifted. Not soft, not exactly, but protective. Possessive.

“You’re injured.” He moved toward you again, more careful this time. “Sit down.”

It wasn’t a question.

And even though the old Niragi might’ve flinched away from giving orders, this version? He wore it like armor.

But even now, with the Borderlands between them and everything they'd survived, you still saw it in his eyes — hesitation. Memory. A crack in the facade.

And for a split second, you remembered…

He sat against the rooftop fence, knees pulled up, blood drying under his nose and on the collar of his uniform. His bottom lip was split. His bag was in the stairwell — probably torn up again, thrown over the railings like trash.

Niragi didn’t cry. Not where anyone could see.

But he shook.

You found him like that, back then — small and still trying to hide it. You didn’t ask if they hit him again. You already knew.

“Your eye’s swelling,” you said instead, pulling your bag off and kneeling in front of him. “Let me see.”

He flinched at first, then relaxed — barely — when you touched his chin, tilting it toward the light.

“You gotta stop freezing up when they get in your face,” you muttered, pulling a tissue from your sleeve and dabbing at his lip. “Stand straight. Shoulders back. Don't make it easy for them.”

He didn’t answer. Just watched you with this wide, hollow look in his eyes, like he couldn’t understand why you were even there. Why you cared.

“I’m not saying fake confidence. I’m saying act like they can’t touch you. You let them smell fear, they’ll eat you alive.”

You stopped, meeting his eyes fully.

“You hear me, Suguru?”

He nodded.

“Say it.”

“I hear you.”

“No,” you said sharply. “Say it like you mean it.”

He blinked. Then swallowed hard.

“I hear you.”

Better.

You blinked away the memory just as Niragi dropped beside you with a torn strip of cloth. He reached for your leg but paused, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“Can I?” he asked, quiet.

The question startled you.

He seemed like could burn down a building and laugh about it, but right now he was — asking you permission like it mattered.

You gave a slight nod.

And as he started wrapping your leg with careful fingers and trembling tension in his shoulders, one thought kept circling in your mind:

He remembers too.

The safehouse was cold and dim, but Niragi was... still. His touch had been careful. His voice quieter than you’d ever heard it, even back in school. A part of him unraveled each time you looked at him like you still saw that boy underneath all the filth and fire he’d become.

He didn't talk much after binding your leg. Just sat next to you, close but not touching, glancing at you sometimes like he wanted to say something — but couldn’t afford to break whatever thin layer of control kept him from crumbling.

But that version of him stayed behind the moment you reached the gates of the Beach.

The transformation was instant.

One step through the entrance and Niragi became something else. The calm was gone, replaced by sharp edges and blood-slick arrogance. His posture straightened and his grin came back — but it was all teeth.

“You're with me,” he told you, voice louder now. Enough for the guards at the front to hear. “No questions.”

You caught the glint in his eye before it happened — the way he looked around, daring anyone to challenge him. Daring someone to ask who you were.

Someone did.

A man in a sleeveless shirt with too much confidence and not enough sense stepped a little too close, eyes raking over you.

“Who’s this?” he asked, not even to Niragi — to you.

Big mistake.

Niragi’s gun was out before you could blink. The barrel pressed to the guy’s temple, a wicked smile crawling across Niragi’s face like it thrilled him to do this in front of everyone.

“You ask them another question,” Niragi said softly, “and I’ll take your tongue and feed it to you.”

Silence dropped like a curtain. The man didn’t even breathe.

Niragi held the tension, let it rot, and then stepped back with a chuckle, holstering the gun like it was part of some twisted joke.

“Relax,” he added, sneering. “We’re friendly here.”

But the message was clear. Crystal.

You weren’t just some new player.

You were his.

He led you to the upper floors — the rooms where the higher-ups stayed, where the elite lounged in stolen luxury. Once you were inside a private room, the mask didn’t fall right away. He leaned against the door after closing it, head tilted, watching you.

Predatory.

But beneath that, the tension was real. Like he didn’t know what to do with you here, in his world.

“You changed,” you said, arms crossed.

“Did I?” He clicked his tongue. “Maybe I just stopped pretending I wasn’t a monster.”

You didn’t answer. Just stepped toward him, slow.

His eyes flickered, pupils shrinking like he was preparing for a hit. Or a command.

“You weren’t pretending before,” you murmured. “You were trying. Now you’re just playing another role.”

You reached up, fingertips brushing under his jaw — soft, but grounding. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lean into it either.

“You think being cruel makes you untouchable?”

“I am untouchable,” he growled.

“Not to me.”

The words hit hard enough to crack something in his expression. His breath caught.

For a moment, it was just silence between them. His hands twitched at his sides like he didn’t know whether to grab you or kneel.

Then he whispered — not proud, not even defiant: “...I don’t want them near you.”

“I know.”

“They’re animals. I don’t trust anyone here.”

“You don’t have to.” Your tone dipped, firm. “I’m not theirs.”

His gaze sharpened. Like the way you said it did something to him — a kind of power he didn’t have, but that you offered, like a hand on a leash.

And for a moment, Niragi — the chaos, the cruelty, the gun-toting psychopath who burned people alive for breathing wrong — exhaled.

And leaned his forehead against yours.

The room was quiet now, the door closed. The Beach was buzzing below them — laughter, sex, music, the sick high of survival — but none of it touched this space.

It was just the two of you.

Niragi stood near the bed, still breathing a little too fast, like being alone with you was harder than the game you’d survived. His hands were twitchy, jaw tight, shoulders squared like he was bracing for something — but didn't know what.

You stepped back. Slow. Controlled.

“You were ready to kill a man just for looking at me,” you said softly.

His lip curled. “He shouldn't have.”

“You’re jealous?”

“I’m possessive.” His voice dipped into something low, dangerous. “You’re mine.”

“Say that again,” you told him, chin tilted up — not asking. Commanding.

His jaw clenched. There was a pause. Then, quieter: “You’re mine.”

You reached up and touched his chest — right over his heart, feeling the frantic thud of it.

“No,” you said calmly. “You’ve got it backwards.”

He flinched at that. A twitch in his eyes, like the truth of it scared him more than the gunfights and lasers ever had. You could see it — that part of him still stuck in a broken teenage body, screaming not to bend, not to submit, not to lose control again.

You leaned in.

“You remember how this works, don’t you?”

His breath hitched.

“You don’t give me orders.” Your hand slid up, fingers curling into his hair. “You obey me.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But his knees nearly buckled.

You pushed him back, guiding him toward the bed — not shoving, not forcing, just directing. He followed without question, like muscle memory. Like that old rhythm between you hadn’t faded at all, just buried under years of rage and blood.

He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes on you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

“I’m not impressed by the gun,” you whispered, straddling his lap. “Or the act. You think you scare me?”

“I want to,” he breathed, raw. “I need to.”

You shook your head. “No, Suguru. You need someone to stop you.”

He didn’t say a word.

Not when you pushed him down onto his back.

Not when you pinned his wrists above his head with one firm hand.

Not when you leaned down and kissed him hard, slow, with possession in every breath — not violence, not demand, but ownership.

And not when you pulled back, just barely, and said: “Don’t you dare come until I say.”

His whole body shivered.

The boy who once flinched under fists now writhed beneath you — not in fear.

In surrender.

You leaned in again, mouth brushing his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his lips. Not a kiss. Just a reminder. Of who you were. Of who he used to be under your gaze.

“I said don’t come until I tell you,” you whispered.

And he nodded. He nodded.

Niragi Suguru — the sadist with a flamethrower, the self-appointed executioner of the Beach — lay beneath you, chest rising and falling too fast, hands flexing under your grip, eyes wide with anticipation and fear and need.

You slid your free hand down his chest, slow, teasing over old scars and new ones, nails dragging just hard enough to make him twitch. His teeth clenched. He wanted to buck, to flip you over, to claw his way back to control — you could feel it under you.

But he didn’t.

He wouldn’t.

Because this — you — was the only thing in this world stronger than his fear of weakness.

“You act like submission’s a cage,” you murmured, your lips at his throat now, biting down hard enough to make him groan. “But look at you.”

Your hand dipped lower. Over his waistband. Inside.

He choked on a moan, body tensing — then melting under your touch like it betrayed him before he could catch it.

“Look at you.”

He shuddered. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“I will if you don’t behave.”

“I am,” he gasped. “I am, I swear—fuck—”

You slowed your pace immediately, just to prove the point. Watching the panic spark in his eyes when the pleasure started to pull away.

His fingers curled into fists.

“No one else gets to see you like this,” you said, eyes locked on his. “No one else even gets to touch you.”

His voice was wrecked when he answered. “They won’t.”

“They try?”

“I’ll kill them.”

You squeezed him just a little harder, just a little meaner. “And what if I want to share you?”

He froze.

Then whispered, eyes wild: “No.”

You smiled.

“There he is.”

And then you gave him exactly what he wanted — not just pleasure, but ownership. Control twisted into surrender, right there in your hands. You worked him slow, deliberate, keeping his wrists pinned, making him beg with his eyes and his breath and his trembling thighs.

He was so close. You could feel it — every time his hips jerked, every sound he barely swallowed, every broken little curse he murmured like a prayer.

“Don’t,” you said again. “Not yet.”

“I c-can’t—” He tried to bite it back, tried to hold it, the pain of obedience turning him inside out. “Please.”

Your voice dropped like a dagger to his throat. “Ask.”

He whimpered. Niragi whimpered.

“Please let me come,” he whispered.

You paused. Looked him over like you were weighing it. Then leaned in again, lips brushing his ear.

“Good boy.”

That did it.

He shattered beneath you, hips snapping up, breath catching in his throat as he came with a groan so raw it bordered on a sob — not from pain, but from release. From permission.

From being yours.

The Beach was everything and nothing at the same time. It was chaos dressed up in order. People followed Niragi’s commands, out of fear or respect—or both. On the surface, he was the one who decided who lived and who died. Who mattered and who didn’t. The only order he ever followed came from Aguni, but he usually let him do as he liked.

In front of everyone else, Niragi was cold, calculating. A leader of men who liked to remind everyone how strong he was, how untouchable. He played the part effortlessly, speaking with biting authority, his gun a constant presence. His reputation alone kept the others in line. And he reveled in it.

But behind closed doors? When the lights were off, when the door clicked shut and the quiet settled in between you?

He was nothing but yours.

Niragi stood in the center of a gathered group of Beach members. The area was buzzing with the usual tension—some nervous, others eager for approval. They all watched him like he was a demon, the devil. And he knew it. He loved it.

A man, younger than the others, nervously stepped forward with a report.

“Sir, there’s a group outside the gates. They’re asking to join.”

Niragi didn’t even look at the man as he answered. His eyes were cold, calculating, scanning the rest of the room. The air itself seemed to freeze around him.

“Are they useful?” Niragi’s voice was sharp, like a blade.

The man hesitated, a sign of weakness. That was all it took.

“They’re... they’re armed. But—”

“Then what the fuck are you waiting for?” Niragi’s words cut through the air, eyes narrowing. “Kill them. We don’t need dead weight around here.”

The young man flinched, nodding quickly before retreating, his footsteps quick and hurried.

Niragi’s gaze shifted over the others, daring anyone to challenge him. No one did. No one would. His reputation as a merciless leader was built on fear—and he wielded it like a weapon.

“Anyone else have a problem with my decision?” His voice lowered, turning almost sickly sweet, dangerous.

No one moved, not even a twitch. They all knew better.

“Good,” Niragi said, smirking, his eyes cutting across the room. “Now get back to work.”

With that, he turned and walked away, his stride long and confident, the respect and fear of the Beach following him.

That night, after the power play, after the bloodshed, Niragi returned to your room.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the walls of control he built up around him seemed to crumble. His shoulders relaxed, the hard lines of his jaw softened, and he closed his eyes for just a moment, taking in the stillness of the room. The silence was his release.

He wasn’t Niragi the devil here. He wasn’t the monster people feared. He was just a man—just yours.

You didn’t need to say anything. You didn’t have to. It was understood. The moment he entered the room, he belonged to you. There was no negotiation, no resistance. He had already submitted the second that door closed.

You didn’t speak at first, just looked at him, letting the tension stretch out between you. He was standing near the bed, just watching you, breathing heavy, like the act of being so vulnerable in this place where he should be strong was somehow too much for him.

But you knew him better than anyone. You knew what this moment meant. And you knew that no matter how much he tried to hold on to the illusion of control, he would always give in.

You walked toward him, your eyes never leaving his. Without saying a word, you placed your hand on his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart under your fingers. His breath hitched at the touch, like you’d ripped away the last of his defenses.

“You did well today,” you said, your voice low, intimate. “You looked so good. So strong, so powerful.”

He swallowed, his eyes flicking to yours, a flash of something dark and yearning in them. Please, it said, please see me.

But you weren’t done yet.

“And when we’re alone,” you whispered, “you’re mine. Understand?”

His throat tightened, the words like ash on his tongue. He nodded, but it was a struggle. The struggle to let go. To trust you with this part of him he fought so hard to keep buried.

“I know,” he rasped, the confession raw.

Your lips curled into a slow smile. “Good boy.”

And just like that, he was yours again.

Masterlist

[chimcess]

⮞ Chapter Nine: Like Iron Man Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Convict!Jungkook, Escaped Prisoner!Jungkook, Piolet!Reader, Captain!Reader, Holyman!Namjoon, Boss!Yoongi, Commander!Jimin, Astronaut!Jimin, Doctor!Hoseok, Astronaut!Hoseok Genre: Sci-Fi, Action, Adventure, Thriller, Suspense, Strangers to Enemies to ???, Slow Burn, LOTS of Angst, Light Fluff, Eventual Smut, Third Person POV, 18+ Only Word Count: 9.5k+ 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, Trauma, Smart Character Choices, This is all angst and action and that's pretty much it, Reader is a bad ass, Survivor Woman is back baby, some mental health issues, survivor's guilt, lots of talking to herself, and recording it, because she'll lose her mind otherwise, fixing things, intergalatical politics, strong female characters are everywhere, launching into space in a toaster oven with a tarp on it, lots of stakes in this one, horrible safety culture, NOSA should honestly be sued for how botched all of this was, "family" reunion, bomb making, EVERYONE is getting fired, cynical humor, bad science language, honestly all of this has probably had the worst science and basis ever, I researched a lot I promise, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: Goodbye M6-117.

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The NOSA campus had never seen anything like it.

Even from a kilometer out, the perimeter was packed. People leaned against barricades and each other, huddled in clusters under floodlights bright enough to wash the stars from the sky. The night, if it could still be called that, was drowned in artificial daylight—spotlights from media towers, camera flashes from a thousand news crews, lens-flares from civilian drones hovering in place like mechanical fireflies.

The crowd stretched for blocks. Families with children on their shoulders. Retired engineers in old NOSA polos. College students wrapped in space agency flags. All of them waiting—silent now, or murmuring in low, expectant voices. Most watched the massive Jumbotrons mounted along the walls, where every second of telemetry, every heartbeat from the Starfire, was being broadcast in real time. Or close enough.

Inside the gates, the chaos was no less intense, just better organized. The lawns around the main complex were a grid of satellite trucks, news tents, interview stations, and temporary barricades. It looked like a music festival for a world that had stopped needing music. The buzz of conversation, of nerves and theory and speculation, filled the air like static. You could feel the tension in the soles of your feet.

“Y/L/N RESCUE MISSION”—the headline repeated on every screen. Beneath it, a stream of live feeds: camera angles inside Starfire’s command deck, raw footage of the launch vehicle back on M6-117, and endless shots of mission engineers working inside NOSA’s own nerve center.

It had the atmosphere of a global broadcast event, but the stakes felt heavier than spectacle. There was no backup plan. No one else coming. It was this or nothing.

In the observation gallery above Mission Control, the tone was different—quieter, but no less charged. The room sat high above the main floor, separated by thick soundproof glass and a subtle line of recessed lighting. A few dozen seats were arranged in staggered rows. Most were filled.

Some guests were dignitaries, political envoys, government liaisons. Others were agency veterans or invited family. No one talked much. Every pair of eyes was focused on the wall of screens below.

At the front of the gallery, Yoongi stood at the glass, his hands tucked into his pockets. He hadn’t spoken in nearly fifteen minutes. Not since the MAV ignition timer passed the T-60 mark. His reflection in the glass looked calm. It wasn’t.

Beside him, Mateo stood like a coiled spring—arms crossed tightly, one boot tapping silently against the floor. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the main feed: a wide-angle shot of the MAV, barely visible in the amber haze of M6-117’s dusk light. The tarp-covered nose fluttered faintly in the breeze. The image looked unreal.

A few steps away, Alice shifted her weight for the tenth time in as many minutes. She couldn’t keep still. Her jacket sleeves were bunched at her wrists, one hand fidgeting with the hem of her cuff.

She stared out over the glass, her voice low. “If something goes wrong... what can Mission Control do?”

Mateo didn’t turn. His eyes stayed locked on the MAV telemetry feed, where the fuel lines were just beginning to pressurize.

“Nothing,” he said. Blunt. Final. “We can’t do anything.”

Alice turned to look at him. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” he repeated. “Twelve light-minutes out. Every command we send, every word we speak, takes twelve minutes to get there. Another twelve to hear the response. The launch sequence is automated. Remote override is already locked. Once she pushes ignition, we’re out of the loop.”

He exhaled, slow and controlled. “The launch takes twelve minutes. We won’t even get confirmation until it’s already over.”

The silence that followed was cold. Not angry. Just still.

Alice looked back at the feed. Her hands had gone still.

“She’s really alone,” she said quietly.

Mateo nodded once. “The loneliest human being in the system.”

She wanted to ask him if this was a good idea. If it should’ve gone differently. But there was no point. The plan wasn’t theoretical anymore. The preparations were over. They had crossed the point of no return days ago.

And it wasn’t just them watching.

Outside, the crowd was still growing. Across the world—cities, schools, military bases, public squares—people gathered around screens. Governments had lifted firewalls. Feeds were open in every major language. There were kids on rooftops in Seoul and nurses watching from break rooms in São Paulo. An entire generation had come of age watching people like Y/N step into the unknown, and now the world held its breath to see if she would make it back.

Alice hesitated. Then asked, quietly, “Are we sure we want to be broadcasting this? If something goes wrong—”

Mateo finally turned. His eyes met hers—sharp, dark, and unwavering.

“Yes,” he said.

It wasn’t said for debate. It was said because it was true.

“She signed up for this. We all did. We don’t get to hide it now.”

He looked back down at the floor below, at the engineers, the specialists, the people sweating through every line of code, every telemetry update, every heartbeat.

“She deserves for the world to see what it looks like when someone says yes to an impossible thing. Whether it works or not.”

Alice looked down again, her throat tight.

Then the comms feed crackled to life.

“Fuel pressure green,” Valencia’s voice said, smooth and precise over the open line. “Oxidizer stable. Thermal spread within margins.”

Every head in the room turned toward the console.

Onscreen, the MAV’s internal systems lit up in sequence, lines of green text confirming status. The ship looked small, too small for what it had to do.

Yoongi spoke for the first time.

“Here we go.”

And below them, on the fractured surface of a red world, the countdown continued.

On Taurus 1, the city didn’t sleep.

Not tonight.

From the upper skyrails to the narrow alleys around Old Harbor, people had gathered in thick knots along sidewalks, rooftops, train platforms—anywhere with a clear view of the public display boards. Giant screens mounted at intersections flickered and glowed, their live feeds broadcasting the MAV telemetry like gospel. The air hummed with a low static of voices and distant music, the scent of food stalls clinging to warm air vented from cafes and transport hubs.

No one moved much. Conversations were hushed. The entire city had turned its face toward the sky, or the screens, or both—gathered under the soft yellow light of a hundred thousand advertisements that, for once, had all been silenced.

The mission feed had taken over everything.

Val’s voice cut through the background noise—steady, calm, practiced. A voice people had come to trust not because it was flashy, but because it didn’t flinch.

“Engine alignment confirmed. No deviation. Guidance lock acquired.”

The words echoed out from rooftop speakers, tunnel intercoms, even the handhelds of passersby. In a place usually driven by speed and noise and business, it was the quiet that stood out now. Even the traffic had slowed.

On the north side of the city, at the junction plaza near Station Six, a child perched on their father’s shoulders asked a question no one could quite answer: Is she scared?

The father didn’t respond right away. Just kept his eyes on the screen, jaw clenched, fingers curled tight around the kid’s legs.

Across the sea, thousands of kilometers away, the cold had arrived early in Capital City.

It was well below freezing in Palace Square, and still the crowds came. Blankets wrapped tight around shoulders, gloves shoved into pockets already warmed by heat packs. The vapor of breath rose in small white clouds, shared between strangers standing shoulder to shoulder beneath the towering faces of state buildings and lighted monuments.

No one was talking.

The massive curved screen suspended above the plaza showed a grainy image of the MAV on M6-117—dust curling around its base, canvas shivering at the nose. To anyone unfamiliar, it looked unfinished, even broken. But the people here knew what they were looking at. They knew that stripped-down shell was all that stood between a stranded woman and the vacuum of space.

A flicker of telemetry updated in the corner of the screen.

“Communications five by five,” Val confirmed, her voice broadcast through hidden speakers tucked into the stone architecture. “Telemetry stable. NAV sync clean.”

A ripple went through the crowd. Not a cheer, not yet—but a collective exhale. A small signal that things were still holding together. That the silence from the planet below was expected, not ominous.

Down in the center of the square, an elderly woman gripped her cane tighter. She remembered a time when humanity barely had satellites, let alone interplanetary relays. When communication was limited to voices over radios, not faces on screens. She watched the numbers tick by with quiet reverence, lips moving soundlessly with each update.

In the background, cameras captured everything. News crews stood behind makeshift barricades. Their anchors didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The images told the story better than words could—millions gathered across continents, all facing the same direction, watching the same thing.

This wasn’t politics. This wasn’t entertainment.

This was a moment.

From the outposts on Europa’s ice fields to the orbital towers over Aguerra Prime, from Earth’s equatorial cities to the research hubs in high desert plateaus, the signal threaded its way through cables, satellites, relay drones and fiber. The delay was small, but the wait still felt immense.

And the voice—Val’s voice—was the only thing filling that space.

“Power distribution is stable across all systems… Primary tanks at ninety-eight percent… Environmental seals remain intact.”

The woman had been on countless missions, but her tone never changed. She didn’t hype. She didn’t understate. She just gave the truth, and that was all anyone wanted.

In a small apartment above a grocery stand in southern Calisto City, a woman sat on the floor with her back against a radiator, hands folded under her chin. She wasn’t watching the screen so much as listening—eyes closed, letting the familiar cadence of Val’s voice wrap around her like a blanket.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought: She’s going to make it. She has to.

Because failure didn’t feel like an option anymore. Not here. Not now. Not with the whole world bearing witness.

And even if it was—

Even if it could all go sideways—

People had still come.

They came to see courage. They came to see proof that someone, somewhere, was still willing to take the kind of risk that didn’t come with guarantees. Not for money. Not for glory.

Just because it was right.

Because someone had to try.

The universe held its breath.

Inside the Starfire’s flight deck, Jimin sat motionless in the command chair. His posture was straight, composed, but his fingers betrayed him—curled tight around the edge of the console, knuckles just beginning to pale. The overhead lighting was low, throwing soft shadows across the brushed metal panels and illuminating the subdued glow of the displays. Every screen around him pulsed with movement: vector plots, fuel flow readouts, ascent modeling, thermal stress predictions. The MAV's telemetry scrolled in tight bands of green text.

The air in the flight deck had taken on a different quality—thinner, almost reverent. The kind of silence found in hospitals before surgery or courtrooms just before a verdict. There wasn’t much to say anymore. Nothing to debate. Every variable had been checked. Every contingency rehearsed. Everything now came down to what they could no longer touch.

Jimin exhaled slowly and leaned forward just enough to bring his hands back over the controls. His eyes scanned the readouts again, even though he already knew what they said.

MAV systems nominal. Engine tanks stable. Remote link active. T-minus 2:05 and counting.

Jimin closed his eyes for a single heartbeat.

Just long enough to draw a line between simulation and reality.

This wasn’t training. This wasn’t rehearsal. This was it—the launch. The intercept. The final phase of a mission that had mutated over time into something personal, something unspeakably heavy. It had started with a disaster. A disappearance. The loss of the H-G. And then—somehow, impossibly—not a death.

Jimin opened his eyes. The screens were still there. The MAV’s signal solid. The countdown ticking in blue at the top-right corner of the main panel. He reached out and keyed the comms open, his fingers steady, his voice measured.

“Two minutes, Y/L/N,” he said. “How’re you holding up down there?”

The line crackled softly, the signal traveling across satellites and space, rebounding off relays stationed in orbit over a planet with no name beyond its catalog number.

In the MAV, Y/N sat strapped into a frame of aluminum and bolted steel, wires running overhead in exposed bundles. The EVA suit compressed slightly around her shoulders and chest as she shifted, pressure equalizing. She wasn’t in a cockpit so much as a box—jury-rigged, stripped down, sealed with reinforced tarp and trust. Her gloved hands rested on the straps that held her to the hull. There were no controls in front of her. No windows.

Koah was flying it from orbit.

Her job was to stay alive.

The voice in her ear was clear. Familiar. Unmistakable.

Y/N blinked once, swallowed hard, and let her head tilt slightly back against the padding behind her helmet. Her reply came after a pause. Not because she didn’t have an answer, but because she needed the moment to believe that this wasn’t just a voice in her head.

“It’s good to hear you, Commander,” she said quietly.

Jimin blinked against the burn in his eyes. He didn’t let it take him.

“Likewise, Doc,” he replied. His voice was steady, but not rigid. A softness sat underneath it. Something real. “You ready?”

Y/N’s eyes flicked upward, as if she could see through the canvas dome overhead. She stared at the riveted seams—the makeshift patchwork of layered thermal tarp, epoxy sealant, and internal scaffolding that shouldn’t have worked.

But it had held.

She exhaled slowly. Not out of fear. Just... the weight of it all.

“I’m ready,” she said. “I’m really ready to come home.”

Her voice cracked just a little on home, and she bit it back, jaw clenched. She hadn’t cried since Sol 64. Not really. But hearing his voice—knowing they were up there, waiting—cut through whatever armor she’d built to survive this place.

“Thanks,” she added, quieter now. “For coming to get me.”

Jimin didn’t answer right away. Just watched the readouts, his throat tight.

“You’ve got a hell of a ride ahead of you,” he said finally. “Eleven, maybe twelve G’s. You black out, don’t panic. Nguyen’s got the stick.”

There was a long enough pause on the other end that for a second he thought the signal dropped—until she spoke again, drier now.

“Tell that asshole no barrel rolls.”

He huffed out something like a laugh, short and tight. Even now, she still had that edge to her.

“All right,” he said, fingers moving across the panel in front of him. “Stand by for final call.”

He toggled to internal comms. “CAPCOM.”

“Go,” Val replied. Sharp. Focused. No hesitation.

“Remote command.”

Koah didn’t even look up, just flexed his fingers once and leaned toward the control interface. “Remote is go.”

“Recovery?”

Down in Airlock 2, Hoseok checked his MMU pack again. The power display glowed a steady green. His tether was locked, rigged to a reinforced anchor point. He stared through the small viewport at the empty space beyond.

“Recovery go.”

“Secondary recovery.”

“Go,” Armin said, clipped and sure, one hand already braced against the airlock frame.

Jimin’s eyes returned to the main screen. The MAV sat alone on the dusty plain of M6-117, surrounded by wind-blown tracks and the long shadow of the rising sun. From orbit it looked like a relic—something half-buried, forgotten.

But it was enough.

He keyed the last channel.

“Pilot.”

Static. Then her voice, sharp again. Controlled.

“Go.”

Jimin leaned in and pressed the command sequence.

The ignition protocol loaded in less than a second.

“Main engines primed,” Val confirmed. “Propellant mix green. Fuel tanks pressurized.”

“Remote throttle engaged,” Koah said. His voice was tight now. All business. No jokes.

Jimin sat back, hands laced together in his lap.

“Copy all,” he said, voice low but firm. “Initiate burn in ten.”

There was no final speech. No dramatics. Just numbers and signal strength and the trust they’d placed in each other long before this moment.

The MAV’s engine bell flared on the screen—dull red at first, then blinding white.

Jimin’s voice came again, barely above a whisper.

“Let’s bring French Fry home.”

Across Earth, and far beyond, the world watched.

On Aguerra Prime, crowds packed the city cores and lunar domes, eyes turned to public screens suspended above skyline intersections and carved into rock facades. In New York, traffic came to a crawl as pedestrians spilled into the street, unmoving, faces lit by the blue glow of the feed flickering across Times Square’s massive displays. The buildings around them blinked in time with telemetry overlays.

No one spoke. Even the news anchors had gone quiet.

From orbit to surface, from time zones to colonies, from palaces to tenement rooftops—the entire human footprint held its breath.

And then, her voice.

“See you in a few, Commander.”

It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t triumphant. But it was enough.

Cheers erupted in the streets. Not wild celebration, but something sharper, more reverent. A wave of relief laced with awe. Like witnessing history claw its way forward by sheer will.

Inside Mission Control, Yoongi stood above the floor, hands folded behind his back, shoulders rigid. Through the glass below, the control room thrummed with quiet motion. Dozens of personnel hunched over their stations, focused, motionless, disciplined. No one flinched. This wasn’t the part where anyone could afford to.

Jimin’s voice came over the comms. Measured. Familiar.

“Mission Control, this is Starfire Actual. We are go for launch. Proceeding on schedule. Ten seconds to burn… mark.”

On Starfire’s flight deck, Koah’s hands moved like water over the guidance array. Calm. Precise.

“Main engines start.”

The countdown was a drumbeat. Eight. Seven. Six.

“Mooring clamps released,” Val called, her voice tight but focused. There was no wasted tone. No room for nerves.

“Five seconds, French,” Jimin warned, his voice now only for her. “Hang on.”

Inside the MAV, Y/N’s fingers tightened around the sides of her seat frame—there were no proper handholds. The EVA suit pressed in at every angle. The inner hull rattled under tension. She looked up once, just once, at the canvas patch stretched across what used to be a pressurized nose cone.

It fluttered slightly in the wind.

No going back.

“Four... three... two... one...”

The launch struck like a fist.

The MAV surged upward, a violent lurch that slammed Y/N against the harness with brutal force. Her teeth clenched hard enough to ache. Her vision blurred almost immediately, and the noise—the sound—was nothing like she’d trained for. Not clean. Not linear. It was raw, like metal trying to tear itself apart.

The G-forces built fast, more than her body could manage. Her chest compressed. Her vision narrowed. Her thoughts splintered.

The canvas above her groaned, then tore.

A flap of synthetic material snapped free, yanked away by the pressure difference, and vanished into the sky. Her view opened—to a sliver of black and rising red horizon—before she had time to register it.

And then her world went gray.

“Velocity seven-forty-one meters per second. Altitude thirteen-fifty meters,” Val called out. Her tone was tight now, not from fear, but from sheer control.

“That’s too low,” Jimin snapped. “We’re not gaining fast enough.”

“I know!” Koah shot back, knuckles white on the controls. “It’s underpowered, I’m fighting drag!”

In the MAV, Y/N didn’t hear them. Her consciousness danced at the edge, fraying like thread. Her fingers twitched once. Her heartbeat pounded in her skull, then slowed. Her last clear thought was the sky.

The stars weren’t just stars anymore.

They were clean. Sharp. Unreachable.

She blinked once.

Then everything went dark.

On Starfire’s flight deck, the numbers kept climbing.

“Main shutdown in three... two... one. Shutdown confirmed.”

The cabin trembled faintly as the relay synced. Jimin didn’t speak yet. He waited. He always waited, just in case—just long enough for something to go wrong.

“Back to auto-guidance,” Koah said, almost to himself. “Confirm shutdown complete. Signal holding.”

Jimin leaned over the nav display, eyes locked on the MAV’s marker. “Y/N?” he said, voice low but direct. “Do you read?”

Silence.

Val was already glancing back over her shoulder. She didn’t need to say it.

“She’s probably out,” Hoseok said from Airlock 2. His tone wasn’t casual—it was informed. Clinical. But not detached. “Twelve Gs minimum. That’s enough to knock her unconscious for at least a minute.”

Jimin nodded. It wasn’t good news, but it wasn’t failure. Not yet.

“Copy that,” he said, steadying his voice. “Keep watching her vitals.”

Val’s eyes flicked across the telemetry. “Pings are coming in. Altitude’s stabilizing.”

Jimin leaned in closer.

“What’s the intercept velocity?”

Val hesitated. Then: “Eleven meters per second.”

Jimin didn’t have to ask.

Hoseok’s voice crackled over comms. “I can make that work.”

But before anyone could breathe again, Val went still. Her fingers froze mid-keystroke.

She stared at the newest numbers coming in.

Her voice was thin now. Controlled, but shaken.

“…distance at intercept will be sixty-eight kilometers.”

The words didn’t land immediately.

Then Hoseok’s voice, low and incredulous: “Did you say sixty-eight kilometers?”

Koah turned from his station, the color draining from his face.

“Oh my god.”

Everything went quiet.

Then Jimin snapped into motion.

“Keep it together,” he barked. “Work the problem. Nguyen—do we have any fuel in the MAV?”

“Negative,” Koah replied without delay, already double-checking. “OMS was pulled to cut weight. There’s nothing left.”

Jimin didn’t blink.

He pivoted sharply toward Val, who was already deep in the numbers.

“Then we go to her,” he said. His voice left no room for interpretation. “Talk to me.”

Val’s eyes stayed locked on the data, her fingers flying over the console. She didn’t hesitate.

“Time to intercept: thirty-nine minutes, twelve seconds,” she said.

Jimin nodded once. That was the window. That was the clock now.

He began to pace, just two short steps in either direction, mind moving faster than his body ever could. His gaze jumped to the thrust control parameters. An idea started forming.

“What if we realign the attitude thrusters? Push toward her. Cut the distance manually.”

Koah hesitated. Not because he doubted the idea, but because it came with a cost.

“Depends how much attitude fuel we want left for return navigation,” he said. “Use too much now and we compromise our ability to reorient later.”

Jimin's eyes locked on him. “How much do you need for reentry?”

Koah was already running the mental math, his fingers tapping quick calculations against his thigh.

“Minimum? Twenty percent.”

Jimin turned to Cruz. “Do it. Use seventy-five point five of what’s left.”

Cruz was already on it. Her hands flew over her controls like they were extensions of her own thoughts.

“Burning now.”

Val’s eyes darted across the new values. “Intercept range now zero,” she confirmed. Then a pause, her brow creasing. “But relative velocity is climbing. Forty-two meters per second.”

Jimin didn’t flinch. “Then we have thirty-nine minutes to figure out how to slow down.” He turned to Koah. “Light it up.”

Outside, the attitude thrusters hissed to life. The Starfire tipped, adjusted, and settled into a new trajectory. The maneuver was subtle from within, but its implications were massive.

Inside the MAV, Y/N stirred.

Her eyelids fluttered. Then pain. Her chest throbbed, ribs stabbing with each breath. She shifted and regretted it immediately. The harness had cut into her side during ascent, and now every part of her body screamed.

She opened her eyes. The curved blue-white limb of M6-117 arced beneath her. The stars beyond it were clean, sharp, endless. Her head swam.

The planet looked peaceful. Beautiful, even. But it didn’t matter.

With a wheezing breath, she lifted one gloved hand and extended her middle finger toward the viewport. “Fuck you, M6,” she rasped.

It helped.

Her hand found the comms panel. She keyed the line with fingers that didn’t feel entirely her own.

“MAV to Starfire,” she croaked.

On the flight deck, Jimin straightened. The voice was garbled, barely legible, but it was hers.

“Affirmative, Commander,” came the reply. Dry. Thin. Alive.

Jimin exhaled for the first time in a minute. “What’s your status?”

“Chest hurts. Pretty sure I cracked something.” A pause. “You?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Jimin’s mouth. “We’re making our way to you. Launch didn’t go entirely to plan.”

“No shit,” she muttered. “Canvas blew off halfway through.”

Val confirmed with a nod. “That tracks.”

A beat. Then her voice again, quieter now. “How bad is it, Commander?”

Jimin hesitated. Then: “Intercept range is zero. But relative velocity—forty-two meters per second.”

Silence.

Then, over the comms, Y/N's voice returned. Flat. Dry. Blunt as ever.

"Well. Shit."

On the Starfire's flight deck, the quiet that followed wasn't the stunned kind. It was the focused kind—a collective exhale that reminded them all the window hadn't closed. Not yet.

The faint tapping of keys filled the room, background to the controlled chaos of data flowing faster than thought.

Then: "Commander?"

Jimin turned toward the console. "Go ahead."

Y/N's voice came back steadier now, but laced with something unspoken. A tension undercut by humor, desperation, maybe both.

"If I poke a hole in my EVA glove," she said, tone far too casual, "the escaping air should act like thrust, right?"

Val looked up, startled. "She's joking."

Jimin didn’t respond right away. He waited.

"I mean, I could aim with my arm," Y/N continued, deadpan. "Micro-course correction. Little puffs of Iron Man.”

Jimin let his eyes close for a breath, then reopened them.

"You wouldn't have control. No vector stability. You're gambling with a half-second burn and zero forgiveness."

"All true," Y/N said.

A pause.

Then, delighted: "But I’d get to fly like Iron Man."

Cruz let out a groan. Val visibly resisted the urge to smack something. Koah muttered, "We should've left her on that rock."

Jimin sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "You're not flying like Iron Man, Y/N."

She didn’t answer right away, but he could hear her smiling.

Despite everything, Jimin laughed—just once, just enough to let the tension crack. Around him, the room eased half a degree. Even Koah glanced up, eyes lighter than a second before.

Then something shifted in Jimin's posture.

His head tilted. His brows drew together, just slightly.

And then he straightened.

"Maybe... it’s not the worst idea."

Koah’s head snapped up. "No. It is. It’s the worst idea ever pitched in this room. And I’ve heard you pitch bad ones."

Jimin ignored him. "Not her part," he clarified quickly, gesturing in the air. "But the concept. Using controlled decompression for thrust."

Val blinked, processing. The room quieted again, this time differently—expectant.

Jimin’s voice sharpened. "Nguyen, get Zimmermann's station up."

Koah didn’t argue this time. He keyed into the data interface. "It's up. What are we running?"

"I need to know what happens if we blow the VAL."

Val froze.

Koah stared.

The air seemed to still.

"You want to open the vehicular airlock?" Koah asked, incredulous.

"It'll kick us forward," Jimin said evenly.

"And maybe shear the nose off the ship in the process," Koah replied. "Not to mention evacuating every molecule of atmosphere we have."

"We seal the bridge and reactor," Jimin said. "The rest goes vacuo. We survive it."

Koah opened his mouth again but stopped, running mental checks. His fingers tapped at speed.

"We still can’t steer it," he said finally. "Same problem. No directional control."

Jimin countered, “We don’t need to steer. The VAL is in the nose. We point the nose at her, then blow it. That’s our push."

Koah stared at the data now pouring in.

"A full breach at the VAL gives us... twenty-nine meters per second in retro."

Val leaned in. Her voice was almost a whisper. "That brings intercept down to thirteen meters per second."

Jimin nodded. "Jung, you hearing this?"

From Airlock 2, Hoseok replied. Calm. Steady. "Loud and clear, Commander."

On the flight deck, tension knotted tight.

Koah shook his head slowly. "How do we open the airlock doors remotely? There's no mechanism. Someone has to be inside."

Jimin didn’t pause. He scanned the room and zeroed in.

"Zimmermann."

Armin's voice came in, clear. "Go ahead."

Jimin keyed his mic. "Take your suit off."

There was a pause. Then, more slowly:

"Say again, Commander?"

"You’re coming back in to make a bomb."

There was static.

Then, from the MAV:

"Did you just say bomb?"

Y/N’s voice, sharper now, carried clear indignation. "You guys are making a bomb without me?"

Back in Airlock 2, Armin's voice came through the comms with the kind of tight restraint that only barely held back the obvious. "Commander... I feel like I should mention that setting off an explosive device on a spacecraft is, objectively, a terrible idea."

No one disagreed. But no one argued, either.

Jimin didn’t flinch. He nodded once, his voice firm. "Copy that. Can you do it?"

There was a pause, a slow exhale, the kind you give before stepping off a ledge. Then:

"Ja. I can."

It wasn’t bravado. It was acceptance. And it was final.

At NOSA Mission Control, chaos erupted.

Consoles lit up. Voices rose over each other. The phrase "breach the VAL" passed from headset to headset like a shockwave.

Jimin's voice cut through the noise like a scalpel. "Houston, be advised: we are initiating a deliberate VAL breach to produce thrust."

Mateo, sitting at his console, stared like he’d misheard. His coffee mug tipped over, unnoticed, a dark smear crawling across the surface.

"Did he just say breach the VAL?"

Nobody answered. They were too busy shouting.

Back on the Starfire, Jimin gave no time for panic to root.

"Jung," he barked, already moving. "Suit stays on. Meet Cruz at Airlock 1. We’ll open the outer hatch. I need you to place the charge on the inner VAL door."

Hoseok responded instantly. "Copy. Moving."

"Once it's placed, crawl back to Airlock 2 via the hull."

"Understood."

Inside the MAV, Y/N gripped a twisted piece of console framing, her knuckles bone-white.

Her voice cracked across the line. "Commander, I can’t let you do this. I’m ready to punch the suit. Let’s go with the Iron Man plan."

"Absolutely not," Jimin said without missing a beat.

She hesitated.

When she spoke again, it was softer. There was a raw edge in her voice that hadn’t been there before.

"Thing is... I want to be the only one in the memorials. Just me. I earned that. You stay alive."

There was a pause. A long one.

Then Jimin came back, cool as ever. "Oh. Well. If you put it like that..."

You could almost hear him looking at the nonexistent camera.

"Hang on, just checking my shoulder patch—yep, still says Commander. So shut up."

Y/N muttered something through the comms.

Jimin raised an eyebrow. "What was that?"

"Smart ass."

"Heard that."

In the forward prep bay, Armin worked fast. His hands were steady, methodical. A beaker clinked as he set it down. He tapped sugar into it like it was a recipe—not an improvised explosive.

He drilled the stopper. Ran wire through. Sealed the threads. His foot tapped a steady rhythm against the deck—nerves or calculation, no one could say.

Val arrived just as he was finishing the setup. She took one look and exhaled sharply.

"Bomb?"

He didn’t even glance up. "Bomb. One kilo of sugar in pure O2 releases over 16 million joules. We don’t need much. This will do."

He poured a controlled stream of liquid oxygen into the beaker. It hissed softly. Precise. Calm.

Val blinked. "That’s... eight times a stick of dynamite."

"Yes," Armin said, still focused. "That’s why I’m using less than half a kilo."

He twisted the wire leads clean, stripped them down, and twisted them to bare copper. Held them up. "Can you run this to a lighting panel?"

Val reached for the leads with a small grin. "You are terrifyingly good at this."

Armin offered the faintest shrug. "We all have hobbies."

Out in the Vehicular Airlock, Hoseok stood in full EVA gear, breathing slow and steady, watching the countdown tick by on his suit HUD. The silence of the chamber was suffocating, broken only by the faint hiss of his oxygen flow. Val crouched beside him at the access panel, hands moving with mechanical precision as she stripped wires and connected the last leads to Armin’s improvised explosive.

There wasn’t room for doubt now. No room for nerves.

"Make sure you're not still here when it goes off," Val said, voice level but tense. Her tone had an edge of affection wrapped in warning. She didn’t look up from the panel as she spoke, but her eyes flicked briefly toward the timer. "If you’re still inside when this blows, I swear I’ll haunt your ass."

Hoseok nodded once, accepting the charge she handed him with both hands. He double-checked the wiring, verifying it by feel and muscle memory more than sight. Then he turned to go.

Val reached out, gripping his arm through the suit. Their eyes met through the visor. For a beat, everything else faded.

Then she leaned in and tapped her lips gently against his helmet.

"Be careful," she said. Her voice was low, almost tender. "And don’t tell anyone I did that."

A small smile ghosted across Hoseok's face. "Not a word."

The inner hatch sealed behind him with a hiss. Val exhaled slowly and turned back to her console, her expression shifting into one of sheer focus.

Hoseok made his way along the hull, hands gripping the external rails with measured certainty. Every move was deliberate. The ship groaned beneath him, metal protesting the torque of its slight realignment, but his breathing stayed even. The VAL door came into view. A dark line of reinforced seams. Waiting.

He anchored himself with one tether and affixed the device to the frame, checking each contact. No errors. No drift.

"Bomb is set," he said calmly into the comm. "Returning to Airlock 2."

Inside the flight deck, the tension wound tighter. Koah's voice came through with urgency. "Running updated intercept numbers. Even with ideal thrust vector, we’re still wide."

Jimin stood behind him, brow furrowed. "How wide?"

Val answered. "Two hundred sixty meters. She’ll miss the docking field completely."

Jimin didn’t curse. He just turned and walked. No explanation, no hesitation.

"Commander?" Koah called after him.

But Jimin was already out the hatch.

By the time he reached Airlock 2, Hoseok was halfway out of his MMU. Jimin was already sealing his own helmet.

"Intercept's out of reach," Jimin said, voice clipped. "I’m going untethered."

Hoseok froze. "Sir, let me go. I’m already out. I can do it."

"I know you can," Jimin replied, voice sharp. "But I’m not risking you. That’s an order."

Hoseok met his eyes, jaw set. There was no convincing him. Just acceptance.

"Understood."

Jimin tapped his comm. "Cruz, countdown to detonation?"

Val’s voice was taut. "Fifteen seconds."

Jimin stepped into position at the outer hatch.

"We do love a dramatic exit," he murmured.

Inside the cockpit, Armin pulled his harness tight. Koah was already strapped in, eyes darting between velocity plots and range estimates. His knuckles were white against the control board.

Val monitored the panel. Her voice rang out like a steady drumbeat.

"Ten seconds."

Koah muttered to himself. "Everyone hates rockets until they’re out of options."

"Five. Four. Three."

Jimin, floating at the threshold, gave the hull one last look.

"Brace."

"Two. One. Activating Panel 41."

A deep, muffled thud rolled through the Starfire like distant thunder. Not sound exactly—there was no air in space to carry it—but the force made itself known. The hull shuddered, groaned. Lights flickered. Loose gear trembled in its racks.

Then came the real shock.

The VAL blew.

A controlled detonation, precise and brutal, sheared the airlock open and instantly vented thousands of cubic meters of atmosphere into vacuum. The entire ship jerked backward with the force of it, like a train car hit from behind. A deep vibration passed through the frame, through the floor, through every rib and brace and bolt. It knocked Koah’s stylus clean out of his hand. Armin’s chair jolted sideways before his harness caught him. Val clenched her jaw and rode it out, eyes glued to the numbers spilling down her screen.

“Bridge seal’s holding,” she confirmed tightly, voice clipped. “Pressure integrity green. No hull breaches on aft or secondary decks.”

“Damage?” Jimin’s voice came through the comms, taut but level.

Val didn’t glance up. “Don’t care. Not yet. Relative velocity?”

A beat passed as telemetry recalculated.

“...Twelve meters per second.”

Jimin didn’t answer right away. Somewhere down in Airlock 2, recovering from the blast wave, he steadied himself, got his bearings. Then his voice came again.

“Copy.”

He knew what that meant. Twelve meters per second wasn’t survivable. Not for a drifting MAV capsule with no maneuvering thrusters, no OMS, no way to brake. Not for a rescue mission balanced this delicately on the knife’s edge.

There was no choice.

He locked his boots to the airlock grid, checked his line, and shoved off.

And just like that, Commander Jimin of the NOSA Starfire was flying.

He drifted into space with the practiced control of a man who had trained for this, but never expected to actually do it. The blackness opened in front of him—huge, endless, and filled with nothing but stars and one tumbling, half-functional MAV pod moving just a little too fast to catch.

His target.

“Three-twelve meters?!” Y/N’s voice came sharp and raw through the comms, her voice rising in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? You guys have got to stop measuring these distances in football fields. I’m not an orbital wide receiver!”

Jimin grimaced behind his visor. “Visual on MAV. Frenchie, you’re still out of reach. I’m closing, but... I’m not going to make it in time.”

A pause.

Inside the MAV, Y/N’s eyes locked on the Commander’s approaching form—still too distant. Still too slow. She could feel the blood pounding in her ears, feel the raw ache in her chest from the G-force. Her ribs throbbed. Her vision swam. But somewhere under the pain, she knew what she had to do.

Her voice came low but clear. “Commander.”

“I see you,” Jimin answered, urgency seeping into his tone now. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Too late.

Y/N unstrapped the harness.

Her fingers found the jagged shard of paneling she’d kept since the cabin decompression—sharp enough to pierce composite. Her breath caught. This was the part no one had trained her for.

She took one last breath.

And stabbed her suit.

The hiss was immediate. A sharp, explosive burst of air ripped out of the tiny hole near her forearm. It didn’t tear her apart, didn’t rip the arm off like a cartoon. But it shoved her—hard. She rocketed forward, air gushing past her helmet in a screaming roar. The force pressed her back in the suit like a punch to the chest. Her limbs trembled.

But she was moving.

“Jesus Christ, Frenchie!” Val’s voice snapped through the channel.

“I said I got this!” Y/N barked back. She twisted her wrist, angling the suit, nudging her path toward Jimin.

The gap narrowed.

Inside the flight deck, Val’s hands moved in a blur, feeding telemetry to both of them. “Relative closing velocity… 5.4 meters per second. Declining. Twenty-eight meters to contact.”

Jimin adjusted his MMU, one burst at a time, smooth and controlled. His pulse hammered in his throat. His breathing slowed to stay focused.

“Five meters per second,” Val updated. “Twenty meters.”

“Adjusting…” Jimin’s voice barely registered above a whisper.

Koah leaned over the console, white-knuckled, tracking their positions in real time. “C’mon…”

“Four-point-three,” Val called. “Four-point-oh. Distance: fifteen.”

Below them, the planet turned slowly. Its burnished red hue cast long reflections on their EVA suits, the light catching on every scuff, every scar.

“Eight meters,” Jimin’s voice crackled through the comms, low and calm, but clipped at the edges with strain.

He reached out, fingers extended through the thick press of his glove, closing the gap between them one meter at a time.

“Six,” he said.

Y/N blinked hard behind her visor. Her eyes stung—part windburn, part tears, part adrenaline tearing through her like a lightning strike that wouldn’t end. She was trembling, though whether it was from cold or exhaustion or raw emotion, she couldn’t tell.

“Four meters.”

The world seemed to hold its breath.

“Contact,” she murmured, the word barely audible.

Their hands met in the vacuum.

His glove locked around hers, firm and unyielding. The jolt spun them slightly off-axis. They drifted together, a slow tumble in the dark. Jimin adjusted with practiced precision, a single controlled burst from his MMU. The movement steadied them—brought them face to face, visor to visor, until their helmets bumped softly.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

She didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. The relief hit her like decompression—sudden, overwhelming, silent. Her heart pounded so loud she was sure it was leaking into the comms. And when she looked at him—really looked—her breath caught.

Jimin. Real. Alive. Close enough to touch. The first human face she’d seen in what felt like a lifetime. His presence shattered the isolation that had wrapped itself around her bones. For a long moment, she just stared at him, eyes wide, heart aching.

Then, laughter bubbled out of her—ragged, broken, but real. A laugh of disbelief. Of survival. Of something like joy.

“You were right,” she said, her voice cracking. “About not working for Marshall.”

Jimin’s brow lifted in surprise. “Oh yeah?”

“Guy had terrible taste in music.”

His laugh—quiet and genuine—filtered through the comms. That soft, human sound broke something in her and mended it at the same time.

“I told you,” he said, grinning. “No one should be allowed to play yacht rock during critical ops.”

Their boots connected, magnetically latching to stabilize. He was still holding her hand, and she didn’t let go.

At Mission Control, the moment contact was confirmed, silence exploded into chaos. A wave of sound crashed through the control room—a crescendo of cheers, gasps, sobs. Years of calculations, failures, and sleepless nights had built to this single, miraculous connection. And now, it had happened.

People leapt from their chairs. Engineers shouted and hugged, some spinning in circles, others frozen in disbelief. The weight of relief—of impossible odds defied—hit them like gravity finally turned back on.

In one corner, a systems analyst wept openly, his face in his hands. Beside him, a propulsion tech laughed so hard she doubled over. All around them, joy unfolded like a chain reaction, uncontained and raw.

From the overhead speakers, Jimin’s voice rang clear, calm despite everything: “I got her.”

And that was it. The phrase that set the world ablaze.

Across the globe, the news spread like solar flare.

In cafés and living rooms and subway stations, screens lit up with the headline: Y/N Rescued. Starfire Mission: Success.

On Earth, people poured into the streets. Flags waved. Strangers embraced. Horns blared in traffic and fireworks erupted in cities that hadn’t planned any celebration, but lit the skies anyway.

In the heart of Capital City on Aguerran Prime, the response was seismic. Giant screens lit up skyscrapers, projecting the image of two astronauts suspended against the cosmos. The crowd erupted. Music blared from rooftops. It was New Year’s, the Olympics, and a national holiday rolled into one—but better. This wasn’t just a celebration of survival. It was proof that the universe, in all its vast indifference, had blinked—just long enough for them to pull off a miracle.

On Taurus 1, cheers echoed through stone corridors older than Earth itself. In a quiet square in an old district, an elderly man who had once worked on early EVA suits cried openly as the footage played. A group of children surrounded him, pointing at the stars on screen and clapping with wild abandon.

In that moment, the universe felt smaller. Gentler. More connected than it had ever been.

Aboard the Starfire, the airlock sequence initiated with a soft, mechanical hiss.

Inside, the silence returned—but it was not empty. It pulsed with tension.

Jimin guided Y/N through the process step by step, his movements sharp, deliberate. His breathing was shallow now, not from exertion, but from the staggering realization of what they’d just done.

Y/N’s body sagged in his grip. Her limbs moved sluggishly, her face pale behind the helmet. The EVA suit had kept her alive, but it hadn’t protected her from fatigue. Her pulse fluttered at her throat like a trapped bird.

“Jung, prep the med bay,” Jimin called into the comms, his voice clipped but steady. “We’re bringing her in. Everyone else—Airlock Two.”

On the flight deck, Koah, Val, and Armin didn’t wait for the full order to come through. As soon as Jimin’s voice cut across the comm—“She’s in. Inner seal holding.”—they were already moving.

No discussion. No gear. Just instinct.

They took off down the corridor at a dead sprint, boots thudding hard against the metal flooring, echoing through the narrow ship like heartbeats too big for their chests. The corridors blurred past in streaks of cold steel and overhead lighting. Turn, straightaway, turn again. They knew the route by muscle memory, but this time it felt longer—like space itself had stretched the halls.

At the last junction, Val nearly slid into the bulkhead, catching herself with a palm against the wall before pushing off again. Koah was just ahead, eyes locked forward. Armin, quieter than the others but just as fast, matched them stride for stride. No one said anything.

There was nothing left to say until they saw her.

They reached the observation deck seconds later and slammed to a halt in unison, chests heaving, adrenaline crashing hard through their veins. The reinforced glass fogged instantly from their breath, still cooling from the run.

Beyond it, the airlock lit pale blue. The outer door had sealed. And suspended inside, between the void and safety, was Y/N.

Jimin held her upright, one arm braced tight around her torso. Her limbs dangled like a marionette cut from its strings—slack, heavy, unmoving. But her helmet display still flickered. Her vitals were registering. She was breathing.

Val’s hand smacked the glass without thinking—an involuntary, almost desperate gesture—fingers splayed wide as if she could reach through. Her knuckles turned white.

Armin didn’t move. His face had gone hollow, lips parted, a flicker of disbelief tugging at the corner of his mouth. Not joy. Not yet. Just the raw, suspended terror that this might still go sideways.

Koah leaned forward slowly, lowering his head until his forehead touched the glass. He closed his eyes, let out a single, unsteady breath.

No one spoke.

They didn’t have to.

She was here.

The inner airlock door opened with a soft thunk as pressure equalized, followed by the gentle hiss of recirculating air. The lights adjusted.

Y/N’s knees buckled the second the seal completed. Her body gave out with no ceremony, no warning—just a complete surrender to gravity and fatigue. Jimin caught her under the arms and eased her down, kneeling with her as she folded into him.

Her head lolled forward. Face pale, lips dry. Her skin had that faint, paper-thin translucency that came from months of low oxygen and high stress. She looked... hollow. But she was there.

Alive.

The door to the chamber slid open, and the trio spilled in fast, voices colliding with the walls in breathless urgency.

“Y/N—hey—hey, we’ve got you—”

“Jesus, hold her head—”

“Is she conscious?”

They knelt around her, crowding close without hesitation. Their hands moved with focus but reverence—steady but careful. They took the weight of her body like it was something sacred, every movement precise. Koah slipped an arm under her shoulders. Armin supported her back. Val reached for the clasps of her helmet, fingers fumbling before settling into rhythm.

“She’s heavier than she looks,” Armin muttered, not complaining, just surprised. His voice was thick, caught somewhere between awe and grief.

“She’s got months of trauma packed in there,” Val said, her voice tight. “That stuff weighs a ton.”

Y/N stirred.

It was barely more than a twitch—a flutter of her eyelids and the softest, cracked breath—but they all froze.

Then she spoke.

“Hi, guys.”

The words rasped out like sandpaper, rough-edged and barely above a whisper. Her lips curved into the ghost of a smile—lopsided, exhausted, but unmistakably hers.

Koah choked on a laugh that turned almost immediately into a sound dangerously close to a sob. Val looked away quickly, blinking hard. Armin just shook his head like he couldn’t believe it.

“Oh, hey, French Fry,” Val said after a pause, her voice quivering. “Been a while.”

Koah sniffed and offered a crooked grin. “Yeah. What, you get lost?”

Y/N tilted her head slowly, her eyes barely able to stay open. “Just took the scenic route.”

Val managed a weak laugh. “Scenic route through hell.”

“Pretty much.”

Armin, still kneeling, reached to loosen the helmet collar. It gave way with a hiss, and as he eased it off, an invisible wall broke.

The smell hit instantly.

“Oh, damn—” Armin recoiled, covering his face with the crook of his arm. “God, Y/N…”

“Yeah,” Koah coughed, grimacing. “That’s... that’s not human. That’s a whole new element.”

Y/N winced, but even that looked like too much effort. “Didn’t exactly pack perfume,” she said, her voice hoarse but holding steady.

Val waved a hand in front of her nose, her expression torn between disgust and laughter. “Y/N, we love you, but... you smell like a dead body.”

“That’s fair.” Y/N let her head fall back into Koah’s shoulder. “Been marinating in my own failure for eighteen months.”

For a beat, the chamber filled with the sound of tired, grateful laughter. Not joyous. Not yet. But real.

Then something in her expression changed—just slightly. The edges softened, the humor falling away like ash from a burned-out log.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

They went still again.

Y/N’s eyes glistened. “I shouldn’t have left. Not like that. Not for a contract. Not for... them.”

No jokes this time. No sarcasm. Just silence.

Val leaned in first, slipping her arm around Y/N’s shoulders, pressing her forehead to the side of her helmet.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said quietly. “You’re here now.”

Koah followed, wrapping an arm around both of them.

Armin didn’t hesitate. He leaned in too, awkward but firm, his hand resting over hers where it trembled in her lap.

They held her like that—clumsy, off-balance, elbows in the wrong places and armor pressing too hard against ribs—but none of it mattered.

She was back.

He crouched low behind the twisted trunk of a wind-battered pine, its bark scarred by years of storms. The sharp scent of crushed needles filled his lungs, grounding him. Around his shoulders hung a makeshift cloak, frayed at the hem and stiff with dirt and sweat. It barely kept the cold out, but it was enough. His beard scratched against the collar as he shifted, eyes locked on the clearing ahead.

Jungkook didn’t move. Not even to breathe. The air was still, and in that stillness, time stretched. He didn’t know how long he’d been tracking the deer—an hour? Maybe more. Up here in the mountains, the days bled into each other, a fog of wind, hunger, and silence. He hadn’t spoken to another person in weeks. Not since crossing the ridgeline from the valley, leaving the last trace of civilization behind.

His hair had grown long, knotted in places from nights spent sleeping with his head against tree trunks or curled in shallow caves. If anyone saw him now—mud-caked, eyes sharp from vigilance and wear—he doubted they’d recognize him as the man he used to be. That boy was long gone, buried beneath layers of calloused muscle and survival instinct.

The deer stepped cautiously into view, its ears twitching, nostrils flaring at the wind. It was young. Slender. Beautiful, even. Part of him hesitated, a quiet flicker of guilt threading through his chest. But hunger spoke louder.

He raised the bow slowly, breath held. His fingers, stiff from the cold, found the worn fletching of the arrow and drew it back until the tension hummed along the string. His eyes narrowed.

Then—release.

The arrow struck with a dull, final thud. The deer jolted, stumbled a few feet, then dropped. The forest held its breath.

Jungkook stood, lowered the bow, and approached carefully. The deer’s chest rose once, then stopped. He knelt beside it, placed a hand on its flank.

“Thank you,” he murmured, almost unconsciously.

He reached for the knife at his side, quick and practiced, and ended what was left of its pain.

Then—he heard it.

Not in the trees. Not behind him. In him.

At first, it was barely more than a breath of wind in his ear. So faint he thought it was the trees whispering, the way they sometimes did when the weather turned.

But then it came again. Clearer.

“Where did you get your eyes?”

He went still, the knife frozen in his grip.

His body tensed. He scanned the woods—but there was no movement, no footprints, no shadows slipping through the branches. Just the quiet hush of pines and the fresh silence of the kill.

Then again—closer this time.

“Where did you get your eyes?”

It wasn’t a voice made of sound. Not really. It didn’t vibrate the air; it vibrated him. Deep in his bones. Deep in the part of his mind that still remembered how to fear things he couldn’t see.

Jungkook staggered back a step, hand instinctively reaching for the blade at his belt.

“Who’s there?” he asked, voice low and raw.

Silence.

“Where did you get your eyes?”

A memory dressed as a voice. He could almost hear the lit of her voice, her scowl, smell her sweat while he was restrained.

His throat tightened. He felt the world stutter.

And then the forest melted.

Suddenly, he wasn’t in the trees. He was back in the flickering fluorescent corridor of Butcher Bay.

The air reeked of sweat and disinfectant, the distant clang of a cell door echoing off concrete walls. He could feel the texture of it under his boots—the grimed, cracked floor, the grit that never left no matter how many times it was mopped. Chains rattled somewhere behind him.

The lights overhead flickered once.

He blinked.

He was standing outside Block 9, back pressed to the cool stone wall, just as he had so many times before. He remembered the voices in the dark, the muttered threats, the laughter with no warmth. He remembered him—the preacher.

Tall. Steady. A flicker of something in his eyes that nobody could quite name. He spoke rarely, but when he did, people listened. He wasn’t like the others.

The preacher had told him once, in a whisper beneath the noise: “Eyes are a gift. Use them like you earned them.”

Jungkook had never asked what he meant. He hadn’t dared.

But now, standing in the memory, he understood.

The forest returned in a blink.

Jungkook swayed slightly, the weight of it still pressing against his chest. The deer lay still, the blood soaking into the damp earth beneath it. The wind had shifted—cooler now. Carried the smell of rain and something older. He closed his eyes, drawing in a lungful of pine, trying to clear the scent of stone and steel from his mind.

His hand trembled slightly as he cleaned the blade.

Whatever that voice had been—memory, madness, something else—it had stirred something he’d tried hard to bury. Butcher Bay wasn’t gone. It hadn’t faded. It just waited in the cracks, ready to bleed through.

He slung the deer over his shoulders with a grunt. The weight wasn’t unbearable, but it was more than just meat. It was a reminder. Of hunger. Of survival. Of debts not quite paid.

He turned back toward camp.

Each step forward was a small act of defiance. Against the memories. Against the fear. Against the question that still echoed in the dark corners of his thoughts.

Where did you get your eyes?

He didn’t answer this time.

He just kept walking, boots crunching softly over the forest floor, until the trees swallowed him again—one man beneath the vast canopy, hunted by memories but still, somehow, moving forward.

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