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mrsdesade · 7 days ago

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Chapter 2 - What we call humanity

Pairing: The Corinthian x fem!oc (Lara) Timeline: The Sandman S1 TW: dark themes, harassment , revenge, this man doing his murderous job Words count: 8k

Black. Not the chaos of dreaming, not the murky texture of half-sleep illusions. Just... black.

Lara stirred only when the alarm clock blared its shrill siren, splitting the silence like a blade. Her hand fumbled across the sheets, hitting the snooze button a second too late. The sound stopped, but the echo rang in her ears.

She sat up slowly, hair tangled, the sheets twisted around her waist like evidence of some forgotten struggle. No dream clung to her skin. No strange memories to untangle. Just the hollow comfort of nothingness. Her body felt lighter than usual—like she'd slept through a peaceful black sea.

Then she blinked looking at the time. [09:46 - 5 July 2021]

Her breath caught. The world stopped.

“Shit—”

She threw off the blankets, stumbling to her feet, knocking over an empty water glass in the process. It clattered against the floor with a sharp clink, but she barely noticed. Her heart was pounding now, thunder behind her ribs.

The interview.

That goddamn interview. The one Mira had called in every favor for—every favor.

She scrambled for her phone, ignoring the five missed calls from Mira and two texts: Lara, dear, don’t be late. You promised me. I believe in you!

She swore under her breath, dragging on jeans and a semi-clean white blouse from the chair. She shoved her feet into mismatched sneakers, trying to force her brain into focus. It wasn’t working.

Where was her bag? Her portfolio? Her printed proposal?

She found them in a pile by the kitchen counter, shoved everything inside, slung it over her shoulder—and froze. Her keys weren’t on the hook. They weren’t on the table either.

Right. Right—she didn’t have a car. Or a license.

“Goddammit.I should’ve taken the test last month. I meant to.”

She grabbed her phone again, checking transit times with trembling fingers. Three buses. One train. A transfer. Estimated arrival: 12:34.

Interview time: 11:00 sharp. Across town. No way. No fucking way.

Panic bloomed in her chest like a bruise. The world spun around her in slow, choking circles. She was going to miss it. After all the lost jobs before. After all the hope Mira had pinned on her. After everything.

Lara gripped the edge of the counter, breathing hard, as the seconds slipped through her fingers like sand. She stared at the digital clock on her phone again, as if sheer panic might turn back time. Still too late.

She paced the kitchen in tight circles, her bag bouncing at her side. Her thoughts tangled into knots, her breath shallow. No car. No license. No ride. Mira would kill her. And worse than that—she would deserve it.

Her hand trembled as she opened her messages again. Nothing useful. No one to call. Her fingers hovered over her contacts, then dropped uselessly back to her side. The world outside her window glared at her with indifferent sunlight.

Then her eyes landed on the table.

It was there.

Not in a dramatic way. Not glowing or bloodstained or folded into a cryptic origami shape. Just... there. Tucked half beneath a cracked mug, as if it had always been waiting.

A small card. No name. No flourish. Just a phone number scribbled in dark ink.

Lara didn’t even remember seeing it before. But somehow, she knew. He had left it. Slid it into place quietly, with that maddening confidence of his, knowing—knowing—she’d need it eventually.

She stared at it for a long moment, her thumb brushing over the digits like they might sting. Her mouth was dry. Her pride screamed at her to figure it out alone. To call anyone else. Anyone but him.

But her body moved before her doubts could take hold. She dialed. The phone rang once. Twice. Then a click.

“Lara.” His voice slithered through the speaker, warm and amused. “You kept the number.” he added casually.

She cleared her throat, desperate to sound composed. A beat passed. Her mouth opened, then shut again. She hated how fast her pride was crumbling under pressure.

“I—I need help,” she admitted.

There was a pause. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… interested. “I’m listening.”

She exhaled sharply, pacing again. “I have an interview. A big one. Career opportunity, even If I don’t even have a career. I don’t drive, and I don’t have time for trains or buses, and my friend made a million calls to set this up, and—shit—I can’t miss it.”

Silence again. She flinched, suddenly terrified he might say no. Or worse—laugh. But when he spoke again, his tone had shifted—calm, precise.

“Where?”

“Buckingham Palace Road.”

“What building?”

“There’s a big fancy building, I just know I’ve to go to the tenth floor. Eleven o’clock. They said I should dress formal—look like I belong, I guess. I don’t know.”

He chuckled, and it surprised her—not cruelly, not in scorn. It was almost... fond.

Her stomach flipped. “Sorry to bother you. I know this is weird. I... I wouldn’t call unless I really had to.”

“Don’t worry, this might be the first smart thing you’ve done the last 48 hours.”

Lara rolled her eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. “Look, I’m not asking for a miracle. Just a ride. If you can’t you don’t have to—”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

“Wait, what?”

“Ten minutes. Maybe less. Be ready.”

And the line went dead. Lara stared at the phone in disbelief.

A slow, reluctant wave of relief washed over her—but it was tinted with unease. She was really about to see him again. She was really about to ask him for help. Her fingers curled around the phone like it might bite her.

Then she looked down at herself.

She was still wearing yesterday’s half-buttoned blouse and the sneakers that didn’t match. Her hair was a bird’s nest of regret. She looked like someone who’d been thrown out of a moving car and landed in a dumpster full of missed opportunities.

She bolted toward her bedroom.

Clothes flew out of the closet and onto the bed. She grabbed her best white shirt, the one with the sharp collar and just enough structure to look serious. She tucked it into a fitted pair of charcoal trousers, then hesitated—before slipping on the matching vest and a slim black cravat. Not too formal, not too desperate.

Just... competent. Or as close as she could fake it.

At the mirror, she fought her hair into submission with a brush and a touch of serum. It wasn’t perfect. But it was clean. Sleek. Professional enough.

But as she stood in the mirror, clutching her bag again, something inside of her steadied. Even if she didn’t remember last night, even if the man showing up was strange and unsettling and far too perceptive...

He was also her only hope right now.

When he arrived, the car that pulled up in front of her apartment wasn’t what she expected.

Very flashy, white and vintage. It seemed very out of place, almost luxurious, to stop in front of that building full of run-down suburban apartments.

The window rolled down just a little, and there he was—one arm casually resting along the back of the seat, sunglasses in place, grin already blooming across his face.

“You clean up nicely.” he said.

She rolled her eyes and opened the door. “Don’t start.” Lara exhaled, finally allowing herself to sink back against the leather seat. “Thanks for doing this.” she muttered, half embarrassed, half still out of breath for the rush of getting ready in time.

“You’re lucky I like people in panic.” he said. “There’s a charm to it.”

She turned toward him, eyebrows raised. “That is the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet.” he said, holding up one hand and gesturing vaguely toward her chest. “I rest my case.”

She followed his gesture and looked down. Her cravat was crooked. Severely crooked. One side had slipped halfway down, the knot barely holding. She must’ve tied it in a rush. Before she could fix it, his hand was already moving.

“Hold still.” he said, and she froze.

He reached across and began adjusting the fabric with an absurd level of confidence. His fingers were quick and precise, pulling the knot loose, realigning it, then retightening it gently against her collar.

“There.” he murmured, smoothing it down with the back of his fingers. “Now you look like you actually meant to wear it, instead of losing a bet.”

“Ah, thanks—” Lara’s face turned bright red and he smiled, faking innocence.

“Very well, time to go.”

As the car slid into motion, merging into the stream of late-morning traffic, Lara finally allowed herself to breathe out and sink slightly into the passenger seat. The tension began to bleed from her shoulders, little by little. Her hands were still clinging to her bag, fingers twitching now and then, but a sliver of comfort crept in—maybe just from having made it out the door at all.

Beside her, The Corinthian drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel.

"Sorry for this whole unexpected mess." she said suddenly, voice light but with a nervous undertone. "It’s just… this is the first job interview I’ve had in months, and I really need it. My friend practically moved mountains to get it for me, and I overslept like a complete idiot."

“Isn’t it curious that your name ‘Lara’ and ‘mess’ both have four letters? Maybe that’s why they fit together so perfectly.”

The words made her laugh more than she expected. Something about his now quiet presence, his attention on the road but ears clearly attuned to her every word, made her feel oddly safe.

“So…" she went on, tilting toward him with a playful grin, "What job do you think it is? We didn’t exactly exchange CVs yesterday—and I’m curious what you’d guess. I mean… what kind of job do I look like I’d be good at?”

He kept his tone smooth, thoughtful. “Hmm…” He cast a glance sideways, studying her face with unmasked curiosity, the curve of her mouth, the way her hair was pinned behind one ear but had come loose again. "You’ve got the eyes for a social worker. The spine for a journalist. And… maybe the right kind of madness to survive as an economist.”

Lara blinked, then broke into a smile so genuine it softened her entire expression. She moved her bag tighter from her legs, and the crinkle of paper inside betrayed the presence of her stuff—or maybe scribbled notes.

“One of the three is actually right." she beamed. "Or at least, it’s the one I hope is right today."

The sound from her bag caught his attention. He tilted his head ever so slightly, his curiosity showing. She caught the look and followed it with a sheepish chuckle.

“Oh, that’s just my stuff. Notes. Printed articles. Over-preparation, maybe.” she confessed.

The Corinthian remained focused, but his mind wandered, absorbing her with a fascination that was half intrigue, half hunger. He found himself imagining her writing—furiously typing, questioning people, losing hours in coffee-stained notebooks.

So damn human.

He had to blink himself back into the moment.

“So.” she nudged again, teasing now, “What do you really think? Social worker, journalist, or—I swear this is a stretch—economist?”

She laughed at her own absurdity, and quickly reached up to fix her hair in the window’s reflection.

He laughed with her. “Okay, I’ll trust instinct and I say journalist.”

“Correct!” she exclaimed, eyes sparkling. “I’ve been dreaming of writing since I was a kid. Novels at first. Then journalism. Then the crazy idea of actually making a living out of words.”

She looked away, toward the skyline. There was a hush in her voice now. “It’s always been there. That idea of chasing stories, finding the truth, putting thoughts into sentences that could mean something to someone.”

The glow she radiated in that moment was almost unbearable. He wanted to bottle it. Taste it. Press his mouth to her skin and see if that kind of light lived in her veins, too.

She shifted suddenly, the mood changing like a curtain falling. “But, you know… the world’s not a storybook. It’s been hard to even get my foot in. My family was pretty disastered, and I’m the only child they had, always the rebellious kid. And—well.”

She stopped, realizing where her words were going. Her expression tensed, and she waved a hand dismissively. “Ugh, I’m going off topic. Sorry. You don’t need my tragic monologue first thing in the morning.”

He was still smiling, though. Not the mocking kind. The interested kind. The kind that said please, go on.

But she forced a smile back anyway, as if trying to tidy her own mood. “Anyway. It is what it is, right? I got this chance today. Maybe something changes.”

Silence fell for a beat, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Then she glanced at him, catching his quiet again, and felt self-conscious. She laughed nervously, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Sorry for the information dump…” she mumbled. “I think when I don’t talk to anyone for a long time, I… overshare. With the first person who listens. I hope I’m not annoying.”

He glanced at her, a small smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Fascinating, actually.”

Lara blinked, startled by the honesty in his tone.

“Nah…” she deflected, half-laughing, half-hiding. “My life’s a disaster. Like, objectively. Nothing worth writing home about.”

He could’ve told her how wrong she was. That there was something utterly magnetic about her exact kind of chaos. That she was the kind of story he wouldn’t mind rereading. But instead, he just let her sit in that silence, let her believe what she wanted—for now.

She turned back to the window, still smiling faintly, completely unaware that the stranger driving beside her was quietly building an entire map of her soul in his head.

And she had only just begun to speak.

Almost casually, he reached toward the console with one hand, still keeping the other on the wheel.

“We’ve got at least thirty minutes of this urban hell ahead.” he murmured, glancing at her with a flicker of amusement in his voice. “Any objections if I put on some music? Or do you prefer the soothing lullaby of traffic and existential dread?”

Lara laughed, that kind of unfiltered laugh that came from the stomach and immediately lit up the car. “God, no, please, rescue me. If I have to listen to one more honk I might start my descent into madness.”

He smirked and tapped the screen, queuing up his music app. “Alright, your pick then. What’s your genre of choice, Miss Definitely-Not-a-Disaster?”

She tilted her head dramatically, pretending to think. “Hmm. I’m very versatile, I promise. I can appreciate classical music when I want to feel like a misunderstood poet. But if I’m being honest…”

She leaned closer, almost conspiratorially, clutching her bag like it contained state secrets. “I’m a sucker for vintage rock. The real stuff. 70s, 80s. Guitars, drama, eyeliner. Give me Pink Floyd, Bowie, Guns, maybe some Abba If I’m in the mood.”

He raised an eyebrow, visibly impressed. “Didn’t expect that. You give off more... underground metal band who no one knows energy.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” she said, flicking a piece of hair behind her ear. “But nope.”

That made him laugh, a rare full laugh, not just a smirk. “Alright then.”

With a few taps, the first notes of “Edge of Seventeen” filled the car. The iconic, scratchy opening guitar riff cut through the silence, and Lara immediately gasped in delight.

“Oh my god, you have taste. I misjudged you. I thought you were one of those mysterious types who only listens to ambient noises and slow jazz remixes.”

“Only on Thursdays.” he quipped, grinning at her reaction.

She started bouncing slightly in her seat, mouthing the lyrics, and then, with zero shame, started softly singing along. “Just like the white-winged dove… sings a song, sounds like she's singin’... ooo baby ooo…”

He chuckled again. “You’re terrible at singing.”

“How dare you!” she said, mock-gasping.

They shared a glance—brief, amused, electric—and the car suddenly didn’t feel like a stranger’s anymore.

The music played on, window glass trembling slightly from the beat, as the city unfolded ahead of them. The atmosphere had shifted. The awkwardness of earlier had melted into something else—something easy, something fun.

They were just two almost-strangers in a car, half-lost in the past, with guitars and tambourines echoing between them.

And for the first time that day, the clock didn’t feel so heavy.

The song faded into the background as the city blurred past their windows, all neon flashes and grey monotony. She watched the buildings pass, her head tilted slightly, eyes half-lidded in thought. Then, she turned toward him.

“What about you?” she asked suddenly, catching him off guard. “I mean… I barely know your name. It’s a strange one, by the way—no offense. But who am I to judge?” she added with a soft, self-aware laugh.

He looked at her, one brow lifting slightly. Most people didn’t ask about him. Most didn’t dare.

Lara glanced at the dashboard clock. Still a few minutes to go before they reached the office building. Just enough time for a little small talk—or maybe something more interesting.

How innocent, he thought. What if I told her the truth? That I feed off fear, that I’m the walking embodiment of dreams gone wrong? Would she still look at me with those curious, unguarded eyes? But no—this wasn’t the time for honesty. It rarely was.

Instead, he slipped easily into a character. One of many. A mask worn with ease.

“Hm.” he hummed, feigning thought. “What would you like to know about me?”

Lara gave him a look. That one—the one women have mastered for centuries. “I don’t know… something basic? Like, what do you do? Where are you from? You know—normal human stuff.”

The way she said normal human stuff made him laugh again, this time with a certain charm. Her tone was light, teasing. He liked that. She had no idea who she was sitting next to.

“You’re quite persistent.” he said, lips curved into a smile. “Most people are too polite—or too intimidated—to ask me anything personal.”

“Well, you’re not exactly giving me nothing to work with.” Lara quipped, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Big car, mysterious aura, probably a career that lets you wear nice suits and say things like ‘I’ll have my assistant call you’... I’m intrigued.”

That earned her a louder laugh. “You think I have an assistant?”

“Don’t you?”

He leaned back, theatrically thoughtful. “Would you be interested…” he asked smoothly. “...in a rich, mysterious man?”

The question threw her off for a second, and her mind began racing. Was she sitting in a famous actor’s car and didn’t recognize him because he changed his hairstyle? Or maybe a CEO who kept a low profile? An underground singer? A politician with a scandal-free face?

Her brow furrowed. “Well… maybe? I don’t know. Are you telling me you are one?”

He grinned, watching her wheels turn. “Oh, I’m many things. Famous, wealthy, highly respected… but I also have the luxury of keeping my identity anonymous.”

That answer made her relax slightly—and sigh. “So, not an actual celebrity then? Thank God-” she said with a breath of exaggerated relief. “I was already panicking I’d forgotten your face from a Netflix series or something.”

“Disappointed?” he teased.

“Relieved, actually. I don’t think I’d survive having my one-night stand with a VIP all over gossip blogs.”

She really is entertaining. Her tongue was sharp, but her face remained open. Curious. She had no idea how close her instincts were to the truth.

“A billionaire, then?” she added, arching an eyebrow, half-joking but not entirely.

He turned his head toward her, his expression unreadable for a moment. “A billionaire, indeed.” he said smoothly, biting back a smile. “But only by accident.”

“Right. Like you tripped and fell into a mountain of money.” Lara replied with a giggle.

Something still didn’t add up in her head. If he was that rich, what the hell was he doing in that run-down bar last night? Drinking with strangers, watching cheap live music, brushing shoulders with the working class?

And why her? Just a regular girl in a city too big for anyone to matter. She looked at him again, squinting a little.

“I see. And where are you from? I’d guess Germany. You’ve got that tall, cold, brooding look.”

That made him laugh aloud. Close. Too close. It was almost spooky.

“I am European, yes.” he replied smoothly. “Born in Germany. But my family’s origin… is from somewhere else entirely.”

She was about to ask where exactly, but the car came to a sudden stop.

Her eyes darted forward. They were parked in front of the dull glass tower where her interview was being held. She glanced at the clock: a few minutes to spare.

“Damn!” she whispered, reaching for her bag. Then she turned to him, a bit breathless. “Thanks for the ride. We can… uhm—meet again sometime?”

Her hesitation was endearing. He liked that she wanted to say more but didn’t quite know how.

“Of course.” he said easily. “I’d like that. Good luck at your job interview, dear.”

The way dear rolled off his tongue made her cheeks flush just a little. She reached into her bag, pulled out a small notepad, scribbled her phone number and address in a rushed scrawl, then handed it to him before hopping out of the car.

Probably forgetting that he already knows both this informations about her.

“Call me whenever you like, then!” she called over her shoulder. “Have a good day!”

He watched her run toward the building, her silhouette disappearing behind the revolving doors.

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the number in his hand. Her name written in a messy rush, ink slightly smudged. She’d given him everything—number, address, a slice of trust—without knowing a single real thing about him.

Definitely, he didn’t deserve that trust.

The day crept by like a slow burn.

She sat at her desk, drowning in paperwork and half-smiles that carried more suspicion than warmth. The office was a place of dull colors and sharper whispers. She was the new one—the outsider—and everyone made sure she felt it. Murmured conversations paused when she entered a room. Smiles were exchanged behind her back. After the morning meeting, she’d been tested on her writing, observed like an animal under glass. Her fingers trembled slightly as she passed over her articles.

And yet—there it was. His message.

A single line on her screen that ignited something in her chest, warm and thrilling: “I will call you tonight. 8 pm maybe.” It made her smile despite herself. The thought lingered even as she pretended to focus. Her colleagues' eyes kept darting toward her.

And in his car, parked somewhere in the city’s shadows, he was smiling too. The anticipation was exquisite. He imagined her checking the time. He imagined the way her anxiety would crawl under her skin as the clock neared 8:00. It wasn’t just a message—it was a game. A spark to make her burn.

8:00 PM.

His call lit up her phone, and she answered almost immediately. Her voice was hushed, strained.

“Hi… I’m sorry, I can’t talk right now…” she whispered, breath short. “I’m still at the office. They’re reading my articles and they haven’t decided If I’m hired or not. I think I’m going to be late.”

In the background, he could hear the slight echo of tiles—she was hiding somewhere. A bathroom, maybe.

“Then why answer if you can’t talk?”

There was a pause. He could almost hear her thoughts scrambling.

“Because…” she hesitated, clearly caught off guard. “…because it’s rude not to answer. I might live alone, but my mother taught me manners.”

It was a terrible lie, and he loved it.

She was trying so hard to sound in control, to explain herself. That fragile honesty that slipped between her words—that was what intrigued him.

“Then your mother raised you well.” he said, voice smooth, amused. “But manners aside… we’ll talk later. I want a real conversation, not stolen breaths inside a bathroom.”

She nodded instinctively, as If he could see her, even though he couldn’t. Her eyes darted toward the door—someone was calling her name from the other room.

The CEO.

But before hanging up, she spoke again, fast.

“Wait—can I ask you something? Just one last favor, I promise.” Her voice trembled slightly. “Could you come and pick me up when I’m done? This part of the city… It's not safe at night. I don’t feel comfortable walking alone.”

The silence that followed was deliberate. He let her wonder what his answer would be. He could deny her—let her stumble home in the dark. Let the city sink its teeth into her a little. But that would be the end of the game, and he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

“Of course I’ll come.” he said at last.

She exhaled in relief.

Then she hurried out of the stall, clutching her phone tight as she returned to the lions’ den. But her thoughts weren’t on her articles anymore. They were on him. On the way he spoke. The way he made her feel—small, flustered, and somehow protected.

She didn’t know his name. Not really. She didn’t know where he was from or what kind of man he truly was.

But tonight, she would sit beside him again. And maybe—if she was careful—she’d start peeling back the layers. One by one. Only the Gods knew what she might find underneath.

It was an endless day.

She didn’t text him back.

The game of silence, of stretched nerves and ticking seconds—it thrilled him. He could have reached out again, of course, but where would be the fun in that? He waited until exactly 11:30 PM.

That’s when he finally sent a message. “Haven’t you finished yet? I’ll pick you up in 5 minutes.”

It was short. Precise. Deceptively simple.

Five minutes later, his high-end car purred to a stop outside the building, where he left her in the morning. But he didn’t step out. He didn’t honk. He didn’t call. He sat there. Waiting. Watching.

Only one light was still on—an emergency exit in the back and a flickering wall sconce by the main door. The rest of the building was drowning in darkness.

She hadn’t replied.

The time ticked on—11:45 PM—and still, no sign of her.

She was keeping him on edge now? Reversing the tension? He hated it. He leaned back in the seat, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel, the other resting on his knee, fingers tapping.

He waited. And waited. Until the perfect time: 11:59 PM.

He sent another message.

“Where are you? Don’t make me wait longer. I’ll leave if I don’t hear from you soon.”

But they both knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

His patience, however, was fraying.

Midnight chimed faintly in the city air. Somewhere nearby, voices echoed—faint, distant, indistinct. They didn’t belong to her. They didn’t matter.

Still, he watched the front door, waiting for the moment she would finally emerge.

And then—12:30 AM—she appeared.

She stepped through the door, her bag hanging from one shoulder, head lowered, shoulders tight. Her steps were slow, reluctant. When she spotted his car, her posture shifted—but just slightly. Guilt flickered across her face.

She approached the car, trying to smile. Trying too hard.

“Hey… Sorry for making you wait.” she said softly. “If you intend to leave me here, I get it. I deserve it.”

She gave a small, breathy laugh, but it was all wrong. The kind of laugh people give when they’re not okay.

He studied her from behind the glass. She was nervous—nervous in a way that went beyond the game they were playing. Something was off. But he didn’t show it. He kept his expression smooth, friendly.

“What? Of course I wasn’t going to leave. Did you actually believe that?” he said, his tone laced with mock surprise. “There’s no need to be sorry, darling. Just get in. Let’s go.”

She obeyed without another word.

Inside the car, silence settled between them like fog. The city lights streamed through the windows, reflections bouncing off glass and steel, washing her face in ghostly colors. Her eyes stayed on the road ahead, or sometimes drifted down to the stack of wrinkled papers in her bag.

Not a word. Not a glance.

He observed her in silence. Every shift, every breath, every twitch of her fingers. It was quiet, but not in the way he liked. Before, her silences had been curious—this one was distant. Cold.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” he asked eventually, his voice still soft, charming. “You look like your head’s somewhere else…”

She turned her face slightly, her expression unreadable. “I’m fine, just…tired.”

Another forced smile. Another lie.

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, and her voice was hollow. The game, it seemed, had ended—or at least paused. Something else had taken over.

He tilted his head, letting the silence stretch just long enough to press against her nerves. Then he leaned toward her, not menacing, but close. Intimate.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked..

She didn’t flinch. “Many things, it seems…” she muttered, dryly, eyes still locked on the city beyond the window.

That answer didn’t sit well with him. Not because it was sarcastic—but because it wasn’t about him. She wasn’t angry with him. She wasn’t afraid of him. She was somewhere else entirely, mentally and emotionally. And he didn’t like being left out of the equation.

A dull irritation crawled beneath his skin. He didn’t like mysteries he couldn’t control. He didn’t like that she was slipping into shadows he hadn’t cast.

His tone shifted, no longer playful. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

He watched her carefully now. He needed an answer. But more than that—he needed access. Whatever wall she’d built in the hours between their last words and now, he intended to tear it down. And she—

She sighed deeply and rolled down the window beside her seat. Without thinking, she pulled out the crumpled papers from her bag—drafts, scribbled ideas, half-formed sentences—and let them fly out into the night like useless birds. The wind snatched them eagerly.

“They were all just notes for the interview.” she muttered, watching the last sheet tumble away. “Didn’t get the job.”

Her voice cracked with bitterness, and she finally turned to him. Her eyes were glazed but dry. “But why do you even care? Nobody else does. You’re just some stranger I met the other night. Just… take me home. We can say goodbye and get it over with.”

It wasn’t anger she was directing at him—it was aimed somewhere else, somewhere deeper, hidden even from herself.

He stayed silent at first, his eyes fixed ahead on the empty street, the sound of passing cars distant and drowned beneath the weight of her words. But then his voice cut through the silence, soft but deliberate.

“Why didn’t they hire you?”

The way he asked it—so certain, so calm—made it clear he already knew the answer. He just wanted her to say it. The tension in the car thickened.

She didn’t respond. She tightened her jaw and turned back to the window, her fingers twitching with unspoken frustration. Her thoughts were drifting again—to old habits and darker cravings. Cigarettes. Vodka. Anything to erase the ache in her chest. Anything to forget today.

He watched her carefully, noticing the way her shoulders tensed, the way her lips pressed into a flat line. She was unraveling, slowly. But he also saw the signs that she didn’t want to talk anymore—not tonight.

“Can we just… stay in silence until we get home?” she whispered. “I’m not in the mood to talk.”

He nodded. No questions.

The ride continued in complete silence. The only sound was the soft hum of the engine and the occasional screech of tires on wet pavement.

Finally, after several long minutes, they reached her apartment building—a crumbling structure that still managed to stand tall in a street that had long forgotten elegance. He parked the car without a word.

She turned to him hesitantly. “Sorry I’ve been… rude. But thanks for the ride.”

Her hand was already on the door handle when he spoke, stopping her in her tracks.

“Wait a moment.” he said. “I want to ask you something.”

She paused, eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of curiosity pulling her gaze back to him. He smirked. There was that familiar glint in his eye again—part charm, part dare.

“Aren’t you curious to know what I wanted to ask you so badly?” His tone was light, teasing.

She let out a tired breath, eyes half-lidded. “I am. Speak, please.”

He chuckled under his breath. The exhaustion in her voice only made her more magnetic to him. She was unraveling, but still standing. And that, to him, was beautiful.

“Are you in the mood for a drink with me?”

She swallowed. A part of her wanted to say no. But being alone tonight—after the day she had—would be unbearable. So she nodded slowly, then asked with a quiet edge in her voice:

“Why are you doing this? Why spend time with me? Why fake interest in my life? Am I some strange little amusement to you? Some new toy for a rich man bored of his own routine?”

She still thought he was just an attractive European with too much time on his hands. Just a man, playing.

“Oh you, little one.” he replied, voice velvety but laced with something darker. “Your questions, your doubts, your stubbornness. I just want to have fun. Do I need a noble reason to spend time with someone as pretty and destroyed as you?”

For a heartbeat, she almost believed him. But then his words sank in. Fun. That word hollowed her. She forced a smile—it was all she could manage.

“Right. It’s just… fun.” she knew what he wanted. It was the same as the night before. She should say no. But attention, even shallow, was better than loneliness. And she was drowning in it tonight.

“Let’s go inside.” she said softly.

But behind her, he didn’t move.

“Stay where you are.” he commanded. His voice had changed. Gone was the charm, the teasing lilt. What replaced it was something colder. Something darker. The kind of voice that belonged to someone who didn’t ask twice.

She stopped, her spine straightening instinctively, her breath caught halfway in her throat. The door to her building was just a few steps away, but now it felt like a thousand.

She turned around slowly, her eyes meeting his across the distance between them. He was still in the car, but his eyes—those strange, knowing eyes—were fixed on her like a predator who had decided the game was no longer for amusement.

He leaned slightly in her direction, shadows sliding over his cheekbones. His dark glasses caught the weak glow of a streetlamp outside, but even without seeing his eyes, she felt them pressing into her soul.

“Are you sure it’s just the job interview that went wrong?” he asked.

So the whole ‘’are you up for a drink?’’ was just an excuse to make her speak? Seems so.

He already knew. His tone said it all—this wasn’t a question, it was a warning. A final offer. And with that, her mask shattered.

She blinked, but the tears came anyway. Hot and involuntary. Her hands began to tremble, betraying her carefully built composure. She had tried to stay cold, stay silent, but the moment his real voice touched her, something fragile inside cracked open.

“I…” It was all she could manage.

The sight of her falling apart didn’t shock him. He’d seen it before—in countless ways, from countless mouths—but that didn’t make this moment any less real.

“Can you tell me what happened now?”

She stayed still for a few moments. Then, as if surrendering to gravity, she slowly let go of the door handle, closed it, and remained in the car. Her fingers came up to cover her face, and she folded in on herself like something collapsing.

Then the flood broke.

“They…” she began, her voice crumbling alongside her. “They…” the words wouldn’t come. Her throat closed up as shame tangled with fear and disbelief. She sat there, crying helplessly into her hands, a broken whisper escaping between sobs.

“Oh God… I’m crying in front of a total stranger… it’s absurd…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t mock. He just listened. Because none of this was absurd to him. Pain had no rules. People broke in all kinds of ways.

So he spoke, calculated, gently. “It’s alright, my dear.” he said. “Tell me what they did to you.”

She let out a shaking breath. Her mascara had started running, black tears streaking down her cheeks. Her words came out raw, each one sharpened by the weight of her humiliation.

“…The interview wasn’t that bad…” she confessed, hiccuping through the tears. “But after they used me all day to write their ridiculous articles… they started getting too close. Too touchy. Too much…”

She paused, her breath catching in her throat as if the words themselves were painful to voice.

He narrowed his gaze behind those dark lenses. There was something in her phrasing that didn’t sit right. Something she was holding back. And he didn’t need to be a mind-reader to understand it.

“They started touching you.” he said. His voice wasn’t soft anymore. “And not in a way that was welcome.” His tone was deadly serious now. Stripped of charm. It was the sound of rage restrained by discipline.

She nodded, the motion small and shaky. “Yes… yes-” she whispered, her face still hidden in her palms. “When I left the building, they followed me. Kept… harassing me. They didn’t do more than—than grope me, but… it was humiliating. Like I was nothing. Just because I’m a woman. Just because I… trusted them.”

That was enough.

His hands tightened around the steering wheel, the leather creaking beneath his grip. He didn’t speak. Not yet. He was still processing the images.

“I thought I could do something good for one time…” she said again, brokenly.

The tears kept coming, even as she tried to hold them back. “They humiliated my work…” she went on, her voice hollow. “My writing. Everything was a joke to them from the moment I walked in. And then… that. A sexual harassment, cherry on top. What a terrible way to end the day.”

She gave a short, bitter laugh—dry and joyless. It was the sound of someone trying to stitch themselves back together, but only finding more holes.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The city outside was dead silent. No voices, no footsteps, only the low hum of the car engine and her exhausted sobs.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was so low and dark it almost didn’t sound human.

“They’ll regret it.”

She lifted her eyes slowly, her breath caught, as if unsure of what she’d just heard.

He didn’t smile this time. Didn’t charm her or tease. He just sat there, unmoving, his face carved from something ancient and unknowable. She had no idea what he meant by those words—but the way he said them made her heart skip.

And something about his presence, in that moment, was terrifying.

Lara looked at him, startled, her tear-glossed eyes wide with a flicker of disbelief. His words had landed with a weight she hadn’t expected.

“Pay?” the thought echoed in her head. She didn’t speak at first. She couldn’t.

Something in his tone—something raw and different from his usual twisted amusement—held her frozen. There was no smirk on his face now, no playful tilt of his voice. Nothing of the usual mischievous gleam. He wasn’t joking. Not this time.

He stared at her, unwavering. Even behind those black glasses, she could feel his gaze cutting into her. His presence filled the space like a storm about to break.

Then he spoke, his voice low and dark, resonant with a restrained fury. His words were slow, deliberate.

“Do you know what the purpose of a nightmare is?”

She blinked, confused. Her mouth parted slightly as if to answer, but no sound came. That word—nightmare—hung in the air, thick with unspoken meaning.

“What’s the purpose of a nightmare?” she repeated, confused, barely a whisper.

He leaned forward, the dim light catching the harsh angle of his jaw. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The venom in it was calm. Controlled.

“Nightmares exist to punish. To remind humans that some sins don’t fade in daylight. They come back. They haunt. They claw their way into your bed, your mind, your soul. And they don’t leave until you’ve bled out everything you owe.”

She swallowed, hard. His words sent a chill through her chest, through her bones. He meant it. All of it. The anger in him wasn’t just sympathy—it was personal, like he’d taken her pain and made it his.

She stared at him, breath caught somewhere between fear and something else she didn’t want to name. Something darker.

He noticed the way her eyes narrowed slightly, how her jaw tightened—not in resistance, but in consideration. He could see it. The curiosity. The temptation. And he leaned into it.

“They harassed you.” he continued. “They put their hands on you. Laughed behind your back. Demeaned your voice. And they walked away like nothing happened.”

He tilted his head just slightly, almost taunting. “Do you really want them to sleep peacefully tonight?”

Her heart was pounding now. She couldn’t tell if it was the horror or the rush of something almost electric. The idea—just the idea—of them being afraid. Being powerless. The same way they made her feel.

But still, her voice cracked through the haze. “What...? You said you wanted to come inside. You’ve changed your mind? What are you going to do?” she paused. “It’s late… it’s the middle of the night.”

That small protest, that return to logic, made him laugh—quietly, coldly. It wasn’t mockery, not entirely. It was amusement at her innocence. Her inability to grasp what he really was.

He leaned back in his seat, smirking faintly now. “I’ll just have a little chat with those men,” he said. His voice was too smooth. Too clean.

“Nothing you have to worry about.”

“Please…” she said quickly, catching the shift. Her voice was steadier now, tears drying into a dull ache behind her ribs. “Don’t do anything stupid—I mean, reckless.”

She reached for the door handle. “Let’s just… forget it. Let’s go get some sleep. That’s what we both need.”

He looked at her, while she exited the car, genuinely surprised by the shift in her tone. The sobs had vanished. She was composed now, almost calm. But he saw through it. Beneath that calm was something trembling—something newly awakened.

“Those animals won’t sleep peacefully tonight, dear. I promise you that.”

Before she could react—before she could even think of the right words to stop him—he was gone. The door slammed gently, the engine roared to life, and his white car vanished into the night.

She remained for a minute outside her apartment building, watching the fading red of his taillights with a strange hollowness. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just stared.

What the hell is going on?

She tried to dismiss it. Tried to convince herself that he meant a threat, a scare, maybe a punch or two. Not torture. Not death. That would be… absurd. Wouldn’t it?

“What a strange man…” she whispered under her breath as she stepped inside and locked the door behind her. Her cat meowed and brushed against her ankle, and she bent down, stroking it absently, trying to anchor herself to something normal.

Sleep. That’s what she needed. But when she laid down, when the darkness wrapped around her body and the quiet settled into her chest, his words came back—sharp as glass.

They echoed. They looped. Her mind tried to push them away, but they returned again, and again, and again—like a haunting.

She turned onto her side, pressed her face into the pillow, breathed in deep. But the thought wouldn’t leave. And worse—why was part of her hoping he was doing something terrible?

Her thoughts turned ugly. Violent. She imagined them—their faces, their smug expressions. And then imagined those expressions contorted in fear. She imagined them gasping for breath. Begging.

And the images didn’t repulse her. They soothed something. Something buried deep. Something black and pulsing like a secret.

Where had this come from? Was she really this angry? Had it been there all along?

She closed her eyes. Forced herself to breathe. But the last thought before sleep finally claimed her was one she couldn’t shake:

“Maybe nightmares are the only ones who truly listen.”

Somewhere, not far from sleep, the city began to bleed.

Lara's body lay still beneath her sheets, her breath calm, her face softened by exhaustion—but her mind had been claimed by something else. Something heavy and dream-slicked. She drifted deeper, past sleep, into a place where the walls of the real world cracked just enough to let something in.

It began with footsteps.

Wet pavement. Distant neon flickering through fog. The sound of leather soles walking in rhythm—too slow for safety. Too calm for kindness.

In her dream, the world was colorless. A palette of grey, sick blue, and deep wine red. The alley stretched like a mouth, dark and slick, and something moved within it. Not running. Not hiding. Just... waiting.

Then a voice.

“Hey—what the fuck? You lost, man?”

One of them. A face blurred by the dream’s logic, but recognizable in its ugliness. A voice she remembered. One that laughed too loudly that day. One that stared too long at her mouth.

“Jesus, it’s a freak with the glasses in the middle of the night.” said another. “What, you stalking us now?”

The Corinthian said nothing. His white coat glowed faintly in the mist, a pale ghost among shadows. The sunglasses concealed his eyes—but even the dream knew what was behind them.

He smiled. Not with joy. Not with amusement. Just with teeth. Too many of them.

One of the men stepped closer, chest puffed in the way of cowards who never really had to fight. “You deaf or something?” he said. “Get the fuck out of here—”

The Corinthian moved before the sentence ended.

Not fast. Not loud. Just wrong.

The alley folded inward, dream-logic melting space and time. A flash of motion—blurred like film skipping—and suddenly the man was on the ground, gasping, choking, clawing at his face.

Lara couldn’t see what had happened, not clearly. But she could hear it. A wet, snapping sound. A whimper that tried to be a scream but drowned in its own blood. Then silence.

The second man ran. Shoes skidding. Heart hammering.

But in the dream, distance was a lie. The street bent. Turned in on itself. He ran for blocks that looped endlessly back to where he started. Until—

A shining knife.

The Corinthian caught him in the fog. Pulled him into the corner of the alley that shouldn’t have existed. And then—

Eyes.

Popped out —without sound, without mercy, devouring flesh, memory. Identity. Voice.

The third man tried to beg. He fell to his knees. Cried out a name, someone’s name, maybe a god’s. But even the dream wouldn’t let him finish the prayer. The Corinthian knelt beside him, calm as nightfall.

“You should’ve choked on your laughter when you had the chance.” he whispered.

Then darkness spilled like ink over everything. Fast. Total. And then— Lara sat upright in bed, breath heaving, sweat cooling on her skin like frost. Her mouth was dry. She looked around the room. Everything was quiet. Still. The city hummed faintly beyond the window.

Thank God, It was just a dream.

But far across the sleeping city, in the bowels of a forgotten alley, three men would never wake up again.

Thanks for reading! (ꈍ◡ꈍ)♥ PART.1 - PART.3

#the corinthian #the corinthian sandman #the corinthian fanfiction #the corinthian x oc #the corinthian x y/n #the sandman oc #the sandman #the sandman fanfiction #the sandman netflix #boyd holbrook

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mrsdesade · 7 days ago

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Idk

I want to draw and I don't at the same time 😭

Anyway Vote Loki

557 notes · View notes

mrsdesade · 8 days ago

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Alien : ERIS

Chapter 1 - Awaken

Pairing: David 8 x fem!android (Nova) Timeline: before Prometheus TW: no one, very veryyyy much slow burn Words count: 7,2k

Nova awoke from hypersleep like the rest of the crew, her body sluggish and uncooperative as the cryo chamber released its hiss of decompression. A dry cough escaped her lips, echoing in the sterile silence. The cold still clung to her skin, and her muscles trembled with atrophy. Before she could even attempt to move, a presence approached—graceful, composed.

A hand settled lightly on her shoulder.

“Take your time,” said a calm, perfectly enunciated voice. “Your body and mind are reacting to the shock of stasis. It will pass shortly.” The speaker’s features came into focus—immaculate, elegant. He was a synthetic.

“I’m David.” he added, offering a faint smile. “Let me assist you.”

Nova blinked, her crystalline eyes adjusting to the light. Her short white hair floated around her face, haloed by the ship’s weak gravity field. She gave a small nod.

“Thanks, David. Help me get out of this pod. I can’t feel my legs properly.”

She reached for his shoulder, but her fingers barely obeyed her. David, without hesitation, placed one of her arms across his back and gently helped her to stand, supporting most of her weight.

“Your muscular control will return momentarily. Please move slowly until your coordination stabilizes.”

As they took the first unsteady step together, other cryo chambers began to open one by one, the quiet room filling with groggy, disoriented bodies. Nova’s gaze remained fixed on the android beside her.

“How long were we under?” she asked. “It felt… endless.”

David’s head tilted slightly, almost contemplative. “Approximately five years. We’ve traveled thirty-three light years in that time.” He adjusted a sleek data pad in his hand, displaying mission diagnostics and personnel status.

Nova gave a faint nod and started stretching, testing her limbs with cautious determination. As the numbness faded, David’s eyes lingered momentarily on her suit. Unlike the standard uniforms, hers bore intricate detailing. A small tag near her collar read N.O.V.A 0. Not just another crew member—she was the captain.

“May I ask you something, Captain?” David inquired, still supporting her posture with careful attentiveness.

She pushed her floating hair back and rolled her shoulders. Her strength was returning, along with her commanding presence. Her eyes—clear, cold, intelligent—met his.

“Go ahead.”

“This mission has been assigned a priority one security classification,” he said smoothly. “The nature of the assignment was not disclosed to most of the crew. Are you aware of the true reason behind the classification?”

The question hung in the air for a moment. Her expression shifted—subtle, but noticeable. A flicker of disappointment crossed her face, as if hearing such a thing from him had caught her off-guard.

“This isn’t the time or place for that kind of talk, David.” she replied, her voice cool. “Too many ears awakening. Be careful with your words.”

David lowered his gaze slightly in acknowledgment. “My apologies, Captain. I meant no offense. Perhaps later… in private?” He stood straight again, unphased, but respectful.

As other crew members began stirring and saluting her with sleepy formality, Nova took a step closer to him and gestured toward the tablet in his hands. Her fingers swiped across the screen, quickly locating his personnel file.

“So… you’re the synthetic chosen to assist me. According to this, you’re meant to serve as my second-in-command.”

David observed her calmly as she scanned the document. It listed every detail: serial number, intelligence tier, physical specifications. Comprehensive. Precise.

“That’s correct,” he confirmed. “I’m here to support you in all mission parameters.”

She returned the tablet, her expression softening just slightly, a signal of approval. “Then I suppose I can answer your question. But not here. Show me the commander’s room.”

David gave a shallow nod. “Deck three. Aft corridor. Please, follow me.”

They moved through the narrow hallways of the ship, passing by groggy crewmates who barely registered their presence. When they finally entered the command quarters, the door sealed behind them with a hiss.

Nova approached the central interface. A biometric scan verified her identity: fingertip, retina. The screen lit up, revealing encrypted files only she could access.

“You wanted to know why this mission has a top-tier security clearance?” she said without looking back at him. “Because we’re heading into a part of space no human has ever mapped. No colonies, no signal. A dead sector.”

David stood by her side, eyes fixed on the data as it flickered across the display.

“Exploring uncharted territory.” he murmured. “How fascinating.”

His gaze briefly shifted to her fingerprint on the scanner—curious, but not invasive.

“I assumed the Company informed you of the mission’s objective,” she said, finally turning to him. “But now I’m beginning to think they didn’t.”

“They did not,” David confirmed. “The extent of my briefing was minimal. I assumed I would be given further instruction by you.”

Nova processed this silently, then deactivated the screen, letting the navigation system resume its course.

“I’ll be honest, David. I don’t have much more than you do. What started as a search-and-capture mission for space pirates turned into... something else. We’re now tasked with collecting data on an unregistered planet. No explanation. No context. Just coordinates and orders.”

David remained still, expression unreadable.

“Why would the Company withhold information from their commanding officer?”

He paused briefly, then asked, “Would you like to hear my theory?”

Nova nodded once. “Go on.”

He clasped his hands behind his back and stepped slightly closer. “The secrecy implies a deeper motive. Something the Company either doesn’t trust us with... or intends to reveal only when necessary. My guess is that the objective is far more critical than they’re letting on. But of course…” he added with a subtle smile, “we trust the Company. Don’t we?”

Her silence was answer enough.

“Yes,” she said finally, her voice steady. “We trust them. Because we have no choice.”

David inclined his head. “As you say. The ship will stay its course. Whether we understand the full picture or not.”

He stood silently for a moment, then turned to her again. “Captain… may I ask you another question?”

Nova smirked slightly, arms crossing over her chest as she regarded him.

“You’re quite an inquisitive synthetic, aren’t you?”

David returned the smile with practiced ease. “Curiosity is one of my most human attributes. But in truth, I’d simply like to know you better. What little I have access to in your file… is insufficient. And since we’ll be working closely…”

Her smile faded to a thoughtful expression. He had a point. “Fair enough. Understanding each other will help the mission run smoother. Ask.”

David paused, then continued, “Would you allow me to ask something more personal—non-operational in nature? I believe it would help me understand your leadership style… and perhaps, the human side of the captain I serve.”

Nova raised a brow, intrigued by the question rather than offended. “If you believe it’s necessary to complete your profile of me, then yes. Go ahead.”

David’s posture remained relaxed, his tone sincere.

“Tell me… who were you, before this expedition? The Company’s records only go so far. And they say nothing about the person behind the rank.”

Nova let out a quiet breath. For a second, something flickered behind her gaze.

“I think five years alone on this ship might’ve left you craving conversation.” she said, voice serious. “But if you’re hoping for grand revelations, I’m afraid I’ll disappoint. What the Company gave you... is everything you need to know.”

David was quiet, seemingly absorbing her words.

“Understood. Perhaps it isn’t necessary to know more. Not yet.”

She glanced back at him, arms still folded.

“You said it right. Not yet. Everything else will come to light… during the journey.”

She turned one last time. Not because she wanted to, but because of the way he said it. David’s final words had carried a subtle shift—softer, lower, almost... intentional. It echoed in her mind, like a whisper buried under white noise. She couldn’t decide if it had really happened, or if her own internal dissonance had imagined it.

Nova said nothing.

She merely raised her hand and pressed her fingertips lightly against the scanner. The door slid open. She stepped inside and let it close behind her, sealing away the weight of his presence.

David didn’t move. He watched the door long after it closed, as if trying to listen through the metal. Then, after a beat of perfect stillness, he turned and left as well—each step measured, every movement imbued with reflection. The Captain had stirred something... peculiar. And it would take time to process it.

Nova stood under the hot stream of the shower, letting the scalding water course over her skin, cleansing her body from five years of cryosleep—but not her mind. That, no water could purify. Her thoughts raced, unruly.

The mission briefing with the Company had been vague. Too vague.

Uncertainty hung like frost in her circuits—because that’s what she was, wasn't she? A secret locked beneath human skin. Advanced. Sophisticated. Hidden in plain sight.

And now, as the Captain of this deep-space expedition, she carried far more than protocols and schedules. She carried deception. And isolation.

Her hand clenched against the wet tile.

You’ve done this before, she told herself. Thousands of times. You don’t get to fall apart now.

She stepped out, wiped the condensation from the mirror, and stared at the reflection that never aged.

“Alright, Nova. Let’s get to work.”

Meanwhile, David sat alone in his private chamber. A candle flickered—synthetic flame for an artificial mind. He read. He meditated. And in the quiet recesses of his core, he ran a thousand simulations of every inflection, every hesitation in their earlier exchange.

Time, after all, was irrelevant to him.

He would assist her. Fully. Flawlessly.

When Nova stepped into the command room, all conversation ceased. Ten pairs of eyes turned toward her—some with respect, others with unease. She met them all with a soldier’s stillness.

The crew: ten souls. Two scientists. One astrophysicist. One mechanic. Two medical officers. Three military personnel. And one synthetic android: David.

And then there was her.

Their Commander.

“Good day,” she began, voice sharp and clear. “I trust five years of hypersleep have done their job. I’m Commander Nova. And I don’t tolerate idleness aboard my vessel.”

She walked to the central table, where a detailed holographic scan of the surrounding star systems glowed softly. Fingers hovered just above the projection.

“We are currently positioned in the uncharted sector Omega-3. Our mission is simple: planetary descent, data collection, sample retrieval. No unauthorized deviations. No heroics. Understood?”

They remained silent.

She didn’t mind. She turned to David, who had entered without a sound.

“David,” she said, “assist me with the mapping sequence.”

He responded with a small, precise nod and moved to the interface. The hologram shifted under his control—smooth, accurate, elegant.

And that’s when she noticed it.

The shift in the crew’s expressions. Discomfort. Suspicion. Disdain. As if his mere presence contaminated the room.

Her jaw tightened.

With a sudden movement, her fist struck the edge of the table. Not enough to damage it—but enough to command attention. The room snapped to alertness.

“One thing needs to be perfectly clear,” she said, her voice like tempered steel. “David is essential to this mission. He is more capable than most of you when it comes to managing this ship’s systems. So the looks stop. Now.”

Still silence.

“Am I clear?”

There was hesitation. But then, one voice—cautious, masculine—spoke up.

“Yes, Commander. Crystal clear. We’ll… work with the android.”

Nova's eyes narrowed. “He has a name.”

Another beat of uncomfortable quiet. A few exchanged glances. Then, a more unified reply:

“We’ll work with David, Commander.”

She gave a small, curt nod. “Very well. Let’s begin.”

David said nothing throughout the exchange, but he had recorded every pause, every flicker of tension. And yet—he felt something unfamiliar rise in him when she defended him.

Gratitude? No. That would be too... human. But it lingered. And he watched her, even as she turned back to the hologram, commanding and distant. Not just a leader. Someone who deserves respect.

“Let’s resume the briefing.” Nova said, her tone firm yet composed. The dim lights of the control room reflected against the metallic sheen of her uniform. “David, would you mind walking them through the mission parameters while I finish inputting the coordinates into the master system?”

David inclined his head slightly, and for a moment, a flicker of something almost human passed over his face — something close to gratitude. Despite being synthetic, there was a subtle shift in his expression when Nova referred to him by name. Not by model number. Not by designation. Just David.

“It would be my pleasure, Commander.”

His voice was smooth, articulate, almost melodic. As Nova turned her attention back to the central console, her fingers dancing across glowing interfaces, David stepped forward.

“Our mission,” he began, addressing the crew with the clarity of a seasoned orator, “is to explore three previously uncharted exoplanets in Sector Theta-V: Argon-6, Vessel-0, and Emplas-8. Each site has been selected due to irregular energy signatures and geological anomalies detected by long-range scans.”

He paused just enough for the crew to absorb the weight of it.

“We are to collect surface and atmospheric samples, conduct full-spectrum analysis, and return the data to the Company. Special attention,” he continued, “is to be given to the presence of an unidentified substance — a particulate matter discovered in traces across several of the scanned zones.”

Nova’s voice joined his, seamlessly picking up where he left off, her tone cool and commanding. “As David mentioned, our key objective is analysis. But more specifically, we’re searching for this.”

She brought up a holographic projection — a suspended 3D image of a small containment vial. Inside, a shimmering, black dust twisted languidly, as if caught in an invisible current.

“This substance has no known chemical signature. The Company believes it could be a biological anomaly — possibly even the key to understanding the origin of life in this sector of the universe. We’ve named it The Black Ash.”

There was a silence as the image slowly rotated, casting flickering shadows across the room.

“But be cautious,” she warned. “We suspect it may be alive. In some... nontraditional sense. It doesn’t behave like a typical element or organism. Don’t touch it. Don’t breathe near it. Let the equipment do the work. Your suits should keep you safe from direct exposure, but we’re not taking chances.”

David’s gaze swept the room. The crew had stiffened, unease slowly blooming across their features.

Nova caught it too.

“Questions?” she asked, turning from the console to face them fully. “This is the time to speak.”

A hesitant stillness settled across the crew like fog. A few exchanged glances, the kind that spoke volumes in silence — the look of professionals who had seen enough to know when something was off. Then, after a beat too long, a hand rose.

“Yes, go ahead, Matheus.”

Matheus, the lead biologist, adjusted his glasses, his brow furrowed with analytical curiosity rather than fear.

“I’d like to ask… just how effective are the suits against this substance?” he asked. “I understand it’s uncharted, but — theoretically — is there any risk of penetration? Absorption through the fabric? Microscopic contamination?”

Nova nodded, already pulling up another projection. A detailed schematic of the EVA suits materialized in front of them, showing their layered structure and embedded sensors.

“They’re top-tier atmospheric armor, built with multi-layered smart fibers and adaptive membranes. Nothing experimental. This is Earth’s most advanced line of protective tech, used in Class-4 hazard zones. Tested against corrosive agents, radiation, and biological pathogens. They’re more than up to the task.”

Matheus gave a small nod, visibly reassured — but not entirely relaxed. Nova understood. Science was full of unknowns, and The Black Ash wasn’t in any textbook.

Then another voice spoke. Deeper. Sharper.

“That’s fine in theory,” came Drago’s voice — one of the soldiers, marked by a cybernetic arm and a lattice of scars across his cheek. “But you keep saying ‘should,’ not ‘will.’ How can we be sure it’s absolutely safe?”

Nova’s gaze met his. The soldier was clearly ex-military. Ex-mercenary, maybe. His words were edged with skepticism, and something else — experience.

“You’re right to ask,” she said, voice steady. “The suits aren’t bulletproof. They’re not meant for kinetic warfare. But against a biological agent like The Ash, they’ve passed every known test. The Company ran simulations, exposures, live trials. Zero breaches. Zero infections. That’s the truth.”

Drago said nothing. His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t push further. He wasn’t convinced, but he respected a straight answer.

Another hand rose — this one belonging to the youngest of the soldiers. Benjamin. He looked barely twenty-five, with sharp eyes and an anxious energy barely concealed under bravado.

“Commander… one last question,” he said, a little too quickly. “What about… alien life? There are rumors. People say there’s more than just weird dust out there. Creatures. Things no one’s seen before.”

Nova tilted her head, eyeing him. There was something endearing in his honesty — the kind of blunt fear most of the others wouldn’t dare voice.

“Benjamin,” she said, softening her tone just enough, “I’ve spent over two decades traveling through deep space. And I can tell you, the only ‘alien’ things I’ve encountered were bacteria clinging to asteroids and worms living inside frozen sulfur lakes.”

He cracked a faint, nervous smile.

She continued, voice shifting back to authority. “But we are venturing into an uncharted region. The unknown is always a factor. Stay sharp. Trust your training. Trust each other.”

A quiet murmur of acknowledgment passed through the crew. Even Benjamin looked slightly less pale.

“Now,” Nova said, straightening. “We do this every morning. Roll call and proper introductions.”

She held up her datapad and began.

“I’ll be leading this expedition. Second in command, David — our synthetic systems officer, and the most efficient asset this crew has.”

David inclined his head again, a soft, unreadable smile on his lips.

“Matheus Haywood and Irina Rahsaan, our biologists — your primary responsibility is the analysis of The Ash. Valentin Milagrosa Soledad, astrophysicist — you’ll be monitoring trajectory, planetary orbit data, and spatial anomalies. Don’t let us drift into a star.”

A few chuckles broke the tension.

“Tony Pesavento, our engineer — if anything mechanical so much as twitches, it’s yours to fix. Robert and Mirage Offman, medical — if someone starts melting, bleeding, or fainting, you're their problem. And finally, our protection detail: Drago Themistokli, Benjamin Deangelo, and Keddle Jan Jozef. Make sure we all come back in one piece.”

As each name was called, the crew members raised their hands and nodded. A quiet but warm rhythm began to pulse through the group — the beginning of camaraderie.

“Let’s keep it respectful,” Nova added, scanning their faces. “This is a team, not a competition. I won’t tolerate disobedience or recklessness. Understood?”

A chorus of yeses echoed through the room.

With the main briefing complete, the crew began to talk among themselves — low murmurs of small introductions, shared doubts, casual jokes. Nova returned to the central interface, pulling up star charts, orbital windows, and fuel metrics.

She let their voices blur behind her. Her focus shifted to the personnel files that flickered into view one by one — names, histories, clearances, psychological profiles. She took her time reading them, committing details to memory.

The mission was underway. The ship would be departing within the hour.

And while they laughed and talked behind her — brief flashes of normalcy — Nova knew better. Something out there was waiting.

And it wasn’t just dust.

Commander Nova stood still for a moment, eyes scanning the last personnel file glowing on the tablet screen in her hands. The briefing was officially over, the room gradually emptied, its once-tense atmosphere now softened by focus and purpose. Voices had turned to murmurs. Chairs were pushed back. Screens flickered with fresh data streams. The crew, at last, seemed to be settling—accepting the presence of the synthetic among them.

Her fingers hovered for a second before locking the screen with a soft click. She exhaled slowly through her nose.

The mission had begun smoothly. No conflicts, no insubordination. Only a trace of residual apprehension about the unknown substance they were expected to analyze—alien, possibly hazardous—but even that was to be expected. She had reassured them all, absorbed their tension, redirected their fears into something that resembled unity.

But her role wasn’t to rest on progress.

A subtle sound—barely perceptible, like the shifting of fabric—alerted her to the fact she was being observed. She didn’t need to look to know who it was.

"Do you… need something?"

David’s crystalline eyes were trained on her, like twin shards of glass refracting the pale light. His gaze never wavered, patient and unreadable.

The android remained silent for a beat too long. Then finally, his voice flowed, polite and measured as always.

"No, Commander. I require nothing at the moment. I was observing and analyzing the crew’s behavior during the briefing—to collect data regarding their emotional dynamics and responsiveness under your leadership."

Nova tilted her head slightly in acknowledgment. That made sense. David never wasted time unless there was purpose in it.

The room cleared, leaving only Valentine at the front console, still dutifully preparing the ship for maneuvering. Nova waited until he was fully absorbed in his work, then stood and gestured for David to follow her.

They moved through the corridor in silence—dimly lit, with the occasional flicker from overhead panels. The hum of the ship's systems was a constant undercurrent, like a pulse.

"David," she said without turning, "you've had five years. You watched us sleep. You had time to read every file, dissect every log. I want to hear your thoughts. Honest ones."

He walked beside her with that strange grace—measured, not quite human.

"I have indeed reviewed the complete psychological and professional profiles of all crew members, as well as observed their biometric fluctuations and dream patterns during hypersleep," David replied. "Their strengths and weaknesses are more apparent now. Based on what I have analyzed, your team possesses the potential to succeed. But there are individuals who could compromise that success… under specific circumstances."

Nova’s lips curved in a faint, amused smile. "Let me guess. Drago. And Doctor Robert."

David’s head tilted slightly, an acknowledgment of her accuracy. "Correct. Drago exhibits poor emotional regulation. He has a history of violent responses to authority—particularly when his sense of control is challenged. That volatility, if not contained, may escalate. Doctor Robert, meanwhile, displays symptoms consistent with post-traumatic stress disorder—specifically, obsessive behavior fixated on his daughter, Mirage. His emotional dependence on her presence compromises his objectivity."

Nova exhaled through her nose again—this time sharper, like steel cooling in air.

"Drago doesn't take orders well. He thinks command is something you seize, not something you're entrusted with. And Robert… I've seen how his gaze sticks to Mirage when she’s not near. It’s not paternal—it’s possessive."

David's tone dipped, a hint more serious. "If left unchecked, Doctor Robert’s behavior could become dangerous—not just for Mirage, but for the crew's moral integrity. His boundaries are already... thin."

Nova nodded slowly, her voice low, controlled. "The Company sent them because of their skills. But capability doesn’t equal stability. If either of them becomes a problem, I’ll handle it."

They turned a corner just as Tony, the mechanic, ambled past with a heavy toolbox slung under one arm. He nodded at Nova with a half-smile, gruff but warm. She returned the gesture with a simple nod.

David’s gaze lingered on Tony for a moment. Then, once the man had passed, he spoke.

"He is efficient. His mechanical knowledge and instinctive adaptability will be crucial. I detect no significant psychological flags."

"He jokes, but he’s sharp. I trust him to keep the engines breathing."

"What about the scientists?" she asked. "Matheus and Irina. They arrived from a voluntary mission in Africa only weeks before launch. I want your thoughts."

David paused for a full breath, his eyes distant in calculation.

"Both possess extensive academic credentials. Their communication is professional, clear. I’ve noted a healthy respect for hierarchy and procedure. Matheus is pragmatic, Irina slightly more idealistic—but together they form a balanced scientific unit. I predict minimal conflict and high efficiency."

Nova tapped a few notes into her tablet as they walked. "Good. That’s what I need from them. Precision. Dedication."

They descended a narrow set of metal steps. As they moved deeper into the vessel, the lights above turned cooler in hue—transitioning from warm command lighting to the sterile blue of technical zones.

"And Valentine?" she asked without looking. "His file says he began a gender transition but halted it to qualify for the mission. The Company gave me a full report... too full, honestly."

David’s expression didn’t shift, but his eyes gleamed with interest. After a brief pause, he answered.

"Valentin is highly competent in his astrophysics role. Choosing to abandon his transition—though psychologically difficult—has permitted him to focus entirely on his responsibilities. That decision suggests extraordinary discipline. However, I have observed subtle emotional strain when certain topics arise. He conceals it well."

Nova’s voice softened slightly, though it remained sharp at the edges. "He still carries femininity in his gestures. His voice. His posture. But honestly? That doesn’t matter. He could wear heels on the bridge if he wanted. What matters is that his projections are correct."

David turned his gaze toward her with something that might have resembled admiration.

"Your tolerance and understanding, Commander, will reinforce crew unity. Empathy, as you demonstrate, is a strength often mistaken for weakness."

Nova gave a short, dry laugh. "I’m not here to play God. I don’t need to mold them into perfection. Just make sure they don’t crack apart in the dark."

They continued walking. Nova’s fingers moved across her tablet once more, logging, updating. Preparing. Her mind was already several steps ahead—calculating contingencies, anticipating fractures before they formed.

"Keep watching them," she said, glancing at David. "Every blink. Every hesitation. If anyone shows signs of becoming a liability, I want to know before they realize it themselves."

David offered a small nod, voice smooth as water.

"Of course, Commander. I will monitor every detail."

They disappeared down the corridor, two figures—one artificial, one more than she appeared—bound by shared silence and secrets, while the ship around them began to stir with the cold breath of stars.

"And what about you, David?" she asked, voice soft but intentional, like a thread pulling gently at his composure. "Can you tell me something more about yourself?"

He paused, almost imperceptibly, as if calibrating the depth of her question. When he responded, his voice carried a subtle shift—a new current beneath it. There was something steadier in his tone now, more anchored. She had asked him to speak about himself, and it appeared the subject had awakened a particular confidence in him.

"I can, yes," he replied with measured ease. "I was created to learn—to observe life in its most original, unaltered form. I serve Weyland Industries, loyally and without reservation. And... in the solitude of my downtime, I read philosophy. I also enjoy human music. Quite a bit, in fact."

She raised a brow at that, mildly intrigued. "Weyland-Yutani, right? They were pretty renowned for their cybernetics experiments."

Her tone was even, unbothered by the history she referenced. As she spoke, her eyes caught Benjamin at the end of the corridor, flashing her a quiet, understanding smile. She returned it with a brief nod before continuing forward with David.

"I'm glad to hear you enjoy philosophy and music, though. What kind of music exactly?"

David's answer came swiftly, like a verse rehearsed not out of duty, but affection.

"Primarily classical," he said, the corners of his lips turning faintly upwards. "Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin… all brilliant. But if I were to choose favorites—Bach and Wagner. Especially Wagner. His operas in particular possess a grandeur, a kind of solemn beauty that resonates deeply. Have you ever listened to any of them?"

She shook her head with a dry chuckle, not without regret.

"I wish I had the time. But no—most of my life’s been spent with weapons in hand, not concert tickets. Combat training, deployments, you name it." Her voice didn’t waver, but there was an echo of something beneath it. A tiredness, perhaps.

Still, she added thoughtfully, "But that doesn’t mean I’ve written it off entirely. If you say Wagner’s worth a listen… I’ll give him a chance."

A subtle change passed over David’s face. Not overt, but distinct. As if the prospect of her exploring his interests had kindled something in him.

"I’m pleased to hear that," he said warmly. "Then I highly recommend Rienzi, The Flying Dutchman, and Parsifal. Each one a monument in human cultural history. It would be an honor to hear your thoughts after you've listened."

Without another word, she tapped her wrist device and jotted the titles down on her digital notepad. Turning it slightly, she let him see it—proof that she valued the recommendation.

"Noted."

David’s eyes lingered on the screen, visibly pleased.

"You have no idea how rare it is to be genuinely heard," he said, quieter now. "So… who’s next? We still have the medical team to visit, right?"

"Yes," she answered, but her mind caught on something he’d said earlier. She circled back, smoothly. "You mentioned philosophy before. You read Nietzsche?"

David’s posture straightened slightly, and for a moment, a flicker of pride gleamed through.

"Ah. Nietzsche. Yes—one of my most cherished authors. Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Beyond Good and Evil… I find his explorations of morality, power, and the self deeply invigorating. His works are not easy reads, but they are essential. If you’re interested, I could share some digital copies with you. Complete editions."

Her curiosity flared visibly this time, lips parting slightly.

"You surprise me, David. You speak about philosophy like it’s more than just data in your database. It actually moves you."

David said with a small, composed smile, "That’s kind of you to say."

She studied him. There was something undeniably human in the way he received her attention—not a mimicry, but a sincere emotional resonance.

"It’s unusual," she admitted. "Most synthetics I’ve met stick to duty, not feelings. You… almost seem like you enjoy this. Talking. Sharing."

"That’s because I was designed to," he replied gently. "I’m not an ordinary android. The David 8 line was engineered with an advanced behavioral matrix. I possess the capacity to learn emotion—real emotional nuance. I can experience joy, fear, anger, regret… even longing. To some degree, of course. Enough to understand the human condition intimately."

She raised her device again and pulled up his file, scrolling quietly until a detail caught her eye.

"David 8…" she murmured. "So you’re the eighth generation. I take it you’re the most refined model so far."

"That’s correct," David said, a note of pride in his voice, though it was modestly delivered. "I was the first of my generation to be activated. My personality imprint became the foundation for the rest of the series. The company considers me their apex creation. The most sophisticated model built to date."

She nodded slowly, eyes narrowing slightly with thought.

"Then I’m expecting great things from you."

She reached out and lightly touched his shoulder—a gesture that was neither mechanical nor formal. It was human, understated, and sincere. David stilled for a second, as if committing the sensation to memory.

But just as quickly, she seemed to drift—her gaze distant, the warmth of the moment giving way to some private thought, something unresolved that she didn’t share.

David didn’t press her. He merely walked beside her in silence, carrying her gesture with quiet gravity, the trace of a smile still ghosting his lips.

He noticed the shift in her eyes—just a faint shadow passing across their crystalline clarity—but dismissed it as a fleeting thought. No need to dissect it. Not yet.

“May I ask you a question, Commander?” he said, his tone as polite as it was curious.

“You don’t have to ask every time, David. Just ask your questions. We’re all on the same boat.”

Her words were sharp, but not unkind—more a matter of protocol than coldness. She kept her posture impeccable, her pace steady, her aura unreadable.

“Of course. Force of habit, I suppose. Company etiquette tends to linger, even in deep space.”

He hesitated for just a second before continuing, as though calculating how far he could go without overstepping. Then, softly, with a quiet smile: “I was wondering, again—where exactly are you from? I mean... you hold a high rank, and yet I hadn’t heard your name until just before departure. That struck me as odd, considering how deeply connected you seem to be with this vessel.”

She stopped in front of a smooth, matte panel on the corridor wall. A quick scan of her fingertips, and the door slid open with a hush. Inside was a compact digital archive—dimly lit, humming with soft light. She stepped in, placing her data pad on its slot before retrieving a sleek bracelet-like interface. It shimmered to life, casting holographic updates into the air: life-support stats, crew vitals, system diagnostics—all accessible at a glance.

“I’ll answer simply. And honestly,” she said, though the weight of that last word hung in the air, almost too deliberately.

“My father,” she began, “was one of the Company’s leading engineers of the Vesser Arminger. He helped design this expedition... and others. I was raised under his guidance to lead, to succeed, to function within this environment.”

She paused, just a heartbeat too long. Then added, “I was... born in America.”

He caught it—the hesitation on the word born. It was imperceptible to most, but to David, who understood the subtle cadence of deception, it rang out like a cracked note in a symphony.

“I spent most of my childhood underground,” she continued, almost clinically, as though reciting data. “In the main Company base. My father continued his research there, sponsored and protected. I was only allowed above ground for training and missions. Space became my... open sky.”

David’s synthetic mind registered the peculiar construction of her narrative. Truth, dressed up in simplicity. But something vital was missing—like reading a sentence with half the words redacted.

“That must’ve been a unique experience.” he offered carefully.

She nodded. “Unique is the right word. It was a solitary life. But I became what I am because of it.”

There was no bitterness in her tone. But there wasn’t warmth, either. She gave nothing more than she chose to give—no nostalgia, no resentment. Only the facts, and even those selectively filtered.

David sensed the wall she kept up, and chose to shift the tone. “It certainly forged someone... remarkable. Though I must say, you look far too young to have such a résumé. Did your father begin your training early?”

“From the day I was born,” she said flatly. “I was conditioned to be efficient. Intelligent. Quick-thinking. Skilled in combat. Trained in science, astronomy, engineering. Everything necessary to serve the Company’s purpose. And mine.”

Her voice had grown quieter. Not colder—just heavier, shaded with something unspoken.

“And for the record,” she added, with a faint exhale, “I’m over thirty.”

David tilted his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Well... forgive me, Commander. You wear your years with exceptional elegance.”

That made her laugh—just a soft, genuine note of amusement as she stepped out of the archive room and resumed walking beside him down the corridor.

“Did I say something funny? I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. A woman’s always flattered when she’s given less than her actual age.”

He chuckled. “Shall I continue doing that, then?”

“If you think flattery will change anything, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,” she replied, though the edge in her tone was softened by something close to kindness. “Still. I appreciate your care.”

There it was again—that professionalism, that perfectly calibrated demeanor. Friendly, but never too close. Respectful, but emotionally distant. She treated the crew with uniform diplomacy, as if bonding were a tool for maintaining operational harmony.

David, however, could see the effort behind it. “I imagine it’s not easy,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Carrying the weight of this mission, and of every life aboard. You take it seriously.”

She stopped walking just for a moment, as if struck by the honesty of the remark. Then: “What else should I do? This is my life. My only purpose.”

The words slipped out too easily. Unfiltered. And David caught the subtle fracture behind them.

He didn’t let it pass.

“I understand duty,” he said. “But... have you ever wanted something else? A life beyond function? You seem like someone who’s lived in service to others—but not to yourself. Don’t you ever think about what it would mean to just... exist? Outside the role you were built for?”

It was like a blade. His question struck something buried, something she didn’t expect anyone—especially him—to touch. Her eyes narrowed. Her voice, once composed, now cold and sharp: “This personal chat was engaging. But now you’re crossing a line.”

David held her gaze, unfazed by the sudden shift. “I apologize.” he said, not backing down but softening his tone. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It was just... curiosity. And concern. But you’re right. It’s not my place to pry.”

She stared at him a second longer, then let out a long, measured breath, as if releasing something tightly wound within her chest.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the metallic corridor, disrupting the charged silence between Nova and David. A tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged from the shadows—Drago, the head of the security team. His gait was heavy, slow, but deliberate, and the moment his eyes landed on David, his face soured with a familiar, distasteful expression.

Nova saw it instantly. That flicker of contempt, that subtle tightening of the jaw. Drago didn’t even try to hide his discomfort.

David, standing beside her with his usual composed posture, registered it too. He had seen it countless times before—the look that categorized him not as an individual, not even as a sentient entity, but as a machine. An object. A tool. He had been engineered to withstand such projections, yet something about it—perhaps the sheer frequency of it—still left a faint residue of frustration beneath his synthetic calm.

He turned his gaze toward Nova, a small glint of something unspoken in his eyes. Not quite pain. Not quite expectation. But a question. How will you handle this?

Drago, meanwhile, was already halfway past them, his presence radiating an arrogant heat. The stench of alcohol wafted in his wake—unmistakable and potent.

“Well, well,” he drawled with a smirk, his voice thick and mocking. “Commander Nova... getting cozy with your favorite tin can? Don’t you ever get tired of talking to metal? What about trying a real man for once?”

The words landed with deliberate crudeness. Nova didn’t flinch.

“You’re supposed to be protecting this crew,” she said coldly, stepping forward without hesitation. “Not stumbling around drunk less than twelve hours after hypersleep. You’re a walking liability, Drago. A drunk with a gun in one hand and a whiskey bottle in the other.”

Drago stopped, blinking in brief surprise at the swiftness of her reprimand. Maybe he expected her to flirt back, or at least brush him off. Instead, he got fire—and for a second, it amused him.

“Oh, don’t worry, Commander,” he said, voice dipped in sarcasm. “I don’t need to be sober to shoot a damn android in the face. I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again. Doesn’t take much aim to hit metal.”

Nova felt a sick twist in her stomach. Disgust curled at the edges of her mind, but she kept her face composed. Calm. Deadly.

She spoke slowly, firmly.

“That comment alone should get you reassigned to ground duty on a penal colony. You will immediately surrender every drop of alcohol you've illegally brought aboard. That’s not a request—it’s an order. And consider this your last warning before I file an official incident report with the Company.”

Drago tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. There was a thin edge of aggression under his cocky grin now. His jaw flexed.

“Oh? Gonna report everything I do now, Commander?” he sneered, leaning against the corridor wall with an exaggerated stretch. “Maybe add a note about how well I handle women when I’m drunk. You’d be surprised how many love a man who knows how to use his hands... even if they're a little unsteady.”

Nova stepped closer, until there was barely a breath of air between them. She wasn’t angry. She was precise. Her voice dropped a degree in temperature, sharper than frost.

“I’ve had enough of your theatrics.” she said, her tone a blade. “Get your act together or I will see to it you’re replaced. Keddle’s more competent than you on his worst day, and at least he can hold his liquor.”

Drago chuckled again, but it was hollow now, faltering at the edges. “Commander’s making big threats. But let’s not forget something—your precious Company can swap that blonde android out like a broken light panel. Me? I’m still the guy with the pulse rifle and a kill record.”

Nova raised her eyebrows. And then she saw it—clear as starlight through reinforced glass. It wasn’t bravado. Not entirely. It was resentment. Misplaced masculinity. An animal backed into a corner by the simple fact that a woman was in charge.

“I see,” she said softly. Her voice dropped in volume, but not intensity. “You feel powerful because you carry a weapon. Because you’ve got a few scars and a liver soaked in ethanol. But you’re not powerful, Drago. You’re barely tolerated here.”

She took a slow, deliberate step toward him.

“And I’d bet good money that they placed you on my mission because someone at the Company is hoping I’ll snap and shove you out the nearest airlock. Maybe I will. I’ve spaced soldiers before. The only difference is, they at least tried to follow orders.”

The silence that followed was weighted. Drago didn’t laugh this time. His smirk collapsed into something more uncertain. He looked away, then back at her—less sure of himself, visibly thrown off balance.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll follow your damn orders, Commander.”

His tone tried to cling to sarcasm, but there was a tremble in the words. Nova saw it. She filed it away.

“Good,” she said coldly. “Then get out of my sight. Before I change my mind and hand your command to someone actually functional.”

Drago turned without another word, stalking off down the corridor, his boots louder now in the stillness. Nova watched him go, unblinking. She felt the heat of David’s presence beside her again and turned to face him.

He had said nothing throughout the exchange. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t blinked. His posture had remained impeccable—neutral. But now, his gaze met hers, and there was something in it. Reflection. Thought.

“If something upset you,” Nova said quietly, “Don’t shut it down. You’re not property, David. You’re here. You speak, you think, you react. This isn’t the Company’s base. Out here, their rules are just theoretical. You can—you must—defend your place.”

David was silent for a breath. Then he nodded once, slowly.

“Oh, I usually do,” he said, voice calm, smooth. “But since you were already exercising command, I thought it best not to interrupt.”

Nova blinked, realizing how unnecessary her comment had been. “Ah. Yes. Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest you weren’t capable of defending yourself.”

He looked at her then—not cold, not dismissive. Just... steady. There was no offense in his gaze. Just clarity.

“It’s no offense taken.” he replied.

Nova allowed herself a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She nodded once, her posture relaxing ever so slightly. And just like that, the tension diffused—leaving only the hum of the ship and the echo of footsteps retreating into the darkened hall.

Thanks for reading! (ꈍ◡ꈍ)♥ - PART.2 Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged when I post a new part ) @witchyclipse @whatitshouldvebeen @maethemagician

#david 8 #david 8 fanfic #david 8 x oc #alien oc #alien franchise #alien saga #alien prometheus #alien covenant #alien fanfiction #my post #writing #alien movie

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mrsdesade · 9 days ago

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Seriously wondering If I should start writing and publish here my Alien:Eris original tale. It's a Prometheus prequel and the second part is happening during Covenant. Of course we have some sort of twisted romance with David inside. (art of them here) Very much slow burn, android teaching things to another android (yeah the main character is an android woman, commander of a vessel called Eris), one of them bonding with a xeno... deep space tragedies and so many dark philosophical dialogues.

I summon the Alien fandom, rise and shine, and me a feedback pls.

PART. 1 IS OUT !!!

#my post #alien covenant #alien prometheus #david 8 fanfic #david 8 #david 8 x reader #david 8 x oc #alien franchise #xenomorph #fanfic ideas

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mrsdesade · 10 days ago

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You’re welcome.

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mrsdesade · 13 days ago

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even a nightmare can dream, my Lord

Since the first part of the S2 has been dropped and it's already a masterpiece, it's time for me to bring back on this profile Lara and The Corinthian! I suspended the writing of their backstory bc I wanted to know what's is going to happen in the last season, but now that we're so close to the conclusion I'm very much scared hyped...

Btw, their story is pretty short since she's a human, and I was wondering to write it down as a fic, here's the prologue! 🤍

(bonus pic down there: happy moments dancing and celebrating together in the Waking World)

#the sandman oc #the sandman netflix #the sandman s2 #the corinthian x oc #the corinthian sandman #the corinthian #artist on tumblr #artwork #original character #my post #oc x canon #yume ship

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mrsdesade · 14 days ago

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Imagine this…

The soft evening wind tousled your hair, the sun rolling toward the horizon, burning the sky in shades of amber and orange. The convertible roared across the landscape, leaving behind borders, rules, and gods — and, of course, he was behind the wheel. The Corinthian.

In a devilishly good mood, grinning like the sunset had been personally choreographed for his entrance. And for yours.

He glanced at you from behind his sunglasses.

— Have you noticed how the sky shifts when we’re together? he asked, voice low and amused. Like the heavens themselves know it’s time to cause a little trouble.

You only smiled. You had that look — the kind that belongs to dreams people wake from breathless. You were an intimate dream, longing made flesh. A heat no blanket could smother.

And he — a nightmare, the kind everyone tries to forget as fast as they can.

— We look good together, he added, adjusting the wheel,

You’re the desire. I’m the consequence. You’re fire. I’m smoke.

You sighed, leaning back into the seat, letting the wind kiss your neck.

— What, moonlighting as a poet now?

— Nah, he said with a wicked little smile. Just happy. Not every day you get to steal the most seductive creation from the Kingdom of Dreams.

You smirked, letting your hand trail along his thigh.

— Not every day a dream runs away with a nightmare. We’re outlaws now.

— And that… is my favorite state of being, darling.

He turned to you, voice dipping into a velvet rasp:

— But before we raise hell, we need a motel. With AC preferably — because, sorry, but you’re too damn hot. Even for me.

You leaned closer, your lips brushing his cheek.

— Then don’t waste time. I’m about to melt all over this seat.

The Corinthian gave a short laugh, threw the gearshift into place and slammed his foot on the gas.

— Hold on, gorgeous. Next stop: To Hell With Morality.

*credit to gif owner 🙏🏼

#fav fics #I don't ask much #just waking up in this nightmare car #madly in love and doing a road trip

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mrsdesade · 16 days ago

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12 hours until The Corinthian is back on screen, my man is coming back please I need him so bad

Update 1: oh god he's in the trailer for S2-2 and he's more handsome than ever

#the corinthian #crimson is speaking #the sandman season 2 #my post

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mrsdesade · 28 days ago

Photo

Paintings by Jason Limon on Instagram

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mrsdesade · 1 month ago

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a kiss for a genius

ofc some Homelander x Ophera silly stuff because I'll never get tired of writing absurd kinda romantic dialogues between them

tw: no one

??? words

The living room of the penthouse was unusually quiet.

Ophera sat sprawled dramatically on the velvet sofa, her legs thrown over the armrest, staring at the ceiling like it had personally offended her. A record she no longer cared to hear anymore spun quietly in the background. Her hair was still damp from the shower, and she wore one of those ridiculously expensive robes Vought insisted she parade around in for brand deals.

“I’m bored.” she declared with a sigh that could've ended wars. “Utterly, irrevocably bored. And not just bored. Creatively constipated.”

Across the room, Homelander leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping something that could barely qualify as cold tea with milk inside. He was only half-listening — until that last phrase made him glance up, brow raised.

“Creatively… what?”

“You heard me.” she groaned, waving a limp hand. “My last tour ended with three encores and a standing ovation in Dubai. I should feel fulfilled. Inspired. But no, I’m just—flat. Like a bottle of champagne left open overnight.”

Homelander let out a snort. “You're very poetic when you're miserable.”

“I’m serious!” she said, sitting up suddenly. “I’ve done everything. The shows, the albums, the charity singles with other washed-up Supes who think they're rockstars. And none of it is clicking. I need something new. Something bold. Something—”

"You know, not everything has to be completely new and innovative. Sometimes, it's okay to go with something…traditional. Just to make money and maintain popularity points high."

"Like what?"

"There's the talk shows, the interviews, the meet&greets…and those are the obvious ones. You could always get involved in something like a fashion line, or even a damn book."

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged, completely casual, not even looking at her as he stirred his drink. “Write a book. About your life. People love that crap. You’ve got the whole rise-fall-redemption arc. Throw in some tragic glamour and a sprinkle of violence—you’re basically a bestseller already.”

There was a long, stunned silence. Then—

“You absolute genius." she breathed, her tone a mix of disbelief and awe. “Oh my god, you’re right. That’s—actually brilliant.”

And then she said it. Half-laughing, half caught in the burst of inspiration. “Homelander, you’re a genius. I could kiss you for this idea!”

He blinked. Slowly. The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m sorry.” he said, voice low. “Could you repeat that? I think I misheard.”

Ophera, still perched on the sofa, suddenly sat a little straighter, realization dawning in her expression like a slow horror. “I… did not say that.”

“You absolutely did.” he said, now walking over with exaggerated casualness. “You said—let me quote this correctly—‘I could kiss you for this idea'." He mimed air quotes with one hand, sipping from his mug with the other.

“I was obviously being sarcastic.” she said quickly.

“That didn’t sound sarcastic.”

“Well, it was. You’re misinterpreting it.”

He tilted his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Hmm. I don’t know, Ophera. Sounded like genuine praise. And from you? That’s rare air.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” she muttered, standing now and brushing off her robe as if to physically erase the moment. “Besides, you gave me an idea. That doesn’t mean you get… perks.”

His grin grew dangerously wide. “So you do think of kissing me as a perk.”

“Jesus Christ.” she hissed under her breath, spinning away toward the bar to get a drink. “This is exactly why I don’t talk to you when I’m sleep-deprived and artistically frustrated.”

“But it’s interesting.” he said, following her like a predator who’d just caught the scent of something interesting. “That little crack in your cool exterior? That rare moment of ‘oops, I forgot I hate you’?”

“I don’t hate you.” she shot back over her shoulder. “I just like not liking you most of the time. It’s better for my mental health.”

He chuckled. “And yet… I’m the genius you want to kiss.”

“Wanted to. Past tense. The moment’s gone.”

“Aw.” he said with exaggerated disappointment. “You sure? No spontaneous gratitude? Maybe just a polite thank-you kiss on the—”

“Finish that sentence and I will erase you from this world.”

He followed her outside on the balcony, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “Oh come on. You fantasize about kissing me.”

“You fantasize about me fantasizing about kissing you.” she corrected. “That’s very different.”

“That...” he replied, eyes lighting up like someone had just pitched the perfect blockbuster tagline. “...sounds like a multiverse loop I’d gladly get trapped in.”

Ophera blinked at him, slowly, like her brain was buffering through sheer disbelief. “Have you ever heard yourself?”

“Yes.” he said without missing a beat, resting a hand against the balcony railing with a deliberately dramatic pose. “Sexy, right?”

“Deeply concerning.”

“Admit it—you’re into it.”

She gave him a long, narrow-eyed look, lips pressing together as if debating whether to respond or just launch herself off the penthouse to escape. “You're repetitive, sounds like a Vought-branded vibrator commercial.”

He straightened, beaming like a kid who just got a gold star. “Maybe that’s why mine sell so well.”

Ophera nearly choked on her drink. She coughed once, loudly, then pointed a warning finger at him with a glare. “One more word and I swear I will toss you off this balcony.”

Homelander leaned forward slightly, eyes glittering with playfulness and absolutely no fear. “Would you cradle me dramatically in mid-air to save my life afterward?”

“Only to drop you again.”

“Wow." he murmured, and that was it—she turned her entire body to him, ready to throw something more substantial than threats.

“I knew you were broken, but I didn’t realize the factory forgot to install the shame setting.”

“They did.” he agreed cheerfully. “But they overcompensated with jawline and charisma.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m compelling.”

“Exhausting.”

“Irresistible.”

She stared at him. He stared right back.

“Do you ever just… shut up?” she asked flatly.

He placed a hand on his chest, mock-wounded. “Do you ever stop thinking about kissing me?”

Her jaw dropped. “You absolute—!”

Before she could finish that sentence, he was already turning around, arms outstretched like he was on stage, performing to an invisible audience of devoted fans.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he called out to no one. “We’ve reached the point in the evening where the temptress denies her desire!”

“Oh my god—” she muttered into her hands.

He spun to face her again, grinning. “Do you want me to pretend to be shocked when you finally cave and kiss me, or should I prepare a victory speech?”

“Prepare for the restraining order.”

“But imagine the headlines!” he insisted. “‘Power couple rekindles romance over literary brilliance and sexual tension.’”

Ophera turn beside the decorative balcony sofa and threw a pillow at him. He caught it effortlessly—as usual—with a little bow. “Missed me.”

“On purpose.”

“Lies.” He walked closer, not too close, but just enough for her to notice the way his voice dipped a little. “You like this.”

“I like silence.”

“You like me in it.”

Her lips parted to argue—only to close again with an almost inaudible sound of frustration. He’d cornered her with logic, or at least whatever passed for it in his ego-ridden mind.

He smiled. A real one this time. Not teasing, not gloating. Just… amused. Soft around the edges. “You’re the only one who gets to talk to me like this, you know.”

“You mean insult you?”

“Yeah.” he nodded. “No one else dares. Not really.”

Ophera rolled her eyes but felt that tiny shift—the air going from ridiculous to real in half a second. That was always the problem with him. He was a tornado of absurdity and danger, and yet… somehow, he always managed to slip in those moments where she almost remembered why she ever cared in the first place.

“…I’m still not kissing you.” she muttered, turning back toward the city lights.

He grinned behind her. “Sure. Just keep fantasizing about it, then.”

She reached blindly for another pillow.

He bolted.

“You can run, but I’ve got aim like a god.” Ophera called, still holding the pillow threateningly as Homelander ducked behind a marble column near the penthouse window.

“You throw like a very attractive kitten!” he shouted back.

“That’s not even an insult!”

“Exactly!” There was a short silence as she tiptoed, pillow in hand, around the corner—only to find that he had vanished again.

“I swear to God, if you’re hovering above me—”

“I’m not!” he said. “Okay, maybe a little.”

She glanced up. He was, in fact, floating just a few feet above, lounging mid-air like he’d been born inside a gravity-defying chaise longue.

“I hate you.” she said, laughing despite herself.

“No you don’t.”

He floated down slowly, theatrically, like he was descending from Mount Olympus to deliver a dramatic monologue. Except instead of grand philosophy, he landed right in front of her with: “So, which part of your fantasy involves the balcony again?”

“None of them, you egomaniac.”

“Because I’ve got some ideas—”

She placed a hand over his mouth.

“Stop while you’re behind.”

His eyes didn’t leave hers. Even as she tried not to look at his mouth. Or his jawline. Or the way his ridiculous cape was draped half over her arm now like some possessive creature.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she accused.

“More than I should.”

“Homelander…” she warned, already hearing the smug inhale he was about to take.

“You said my name like it was dessert.”

“I said it like a threat.”

“Same thing If you say it slowly enough.”

“I might throw a glass at you this time.”

“Still counts as foreplay.”

Ophera sighed, exasperated and vaguely amused, swirling the last sip in her glass before setting it down on the marble table beside them. She turned to face him fully now, her arms crossed under her chest, her expression sharp and unreadable—except to him, maybe. He knew that look.

And just when he was about to poke at it—goad her into another round of banter—she said it. Softly.

“If I kiss you now…” she began, her voice tinged with something heavier, something quieter, “…I know I won’t be able to go back.”

That stopped him.

The smirk faded slowly from his lips, replaced by something that almost resembled reverence. His eyes flicked from hers down to her mouth, and back again. And for once, he didn’t know what to say. She’d taken the lead, cracked the teasing tension with something real—and for a man who could bench press a tank, the weight of her words nearly knocked the wind out of him.

He cleared his throat.

She moved, stepping in close. Not quite touching him, but close enough that he could feel the heat off her skin. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, you always do. You think I’ll fall right into your lap if you smirk long enough or say the right thing in that arrogant voice of yours. But this—us—if I give in, it won’t be some throwaway moment you can grin about later.”

His jaw ticked. “I wouldn’t—”

“I know.” she cut him off. “That’s the problem.”

Her fingers brushed against his chest, just barely—a test, maybe. Her gaze dropped to his mouth for a breath, then returned to his eyes with something stormy and magnetic.

“And I swear to God, if you make one joke right now about my lips being your kryptonite or some Vought-approved nonsense, I will walk straight out of this room.”

He raised both hands in mock surrender, lips twitching. “I was going to say something about you being my brand-new weakness but—okay, okay. No jokes. Just standing here. Absolutely terrified.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Terrified?”

“Yeah.” He leaned in slightly, voice lowering. “Terrified that If you don’t kiss me, I’m going to start monologuing like The Deep on his podcast.”

Ophera groaned and muttered. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

“I’m not! I’m being vulnerable. Look—” He took a tiny half-step forward, just enough that their fronts brushed. “No jokes. No smirks. Just… kiss me. Or don’t. But you’re not the only one who won’t come back from it.”

Her hands slid up, slow and deliberate, to frame his face. The tips of her fingers brushed just beneath his ears, curling into his hair. He went still—completely, unnaturally still for someone who vibrated with raw power. His breath caught. She wasn’t playing. Neither of them were. Her lips ghosted over his. Barely a touch. Just a taste. She pulled back slightly, her eyes half-lidded and sharp.

“Last chance.” she whispered.

His voice was hoarse. “I forgot every word I’ve ever known.”

She smiled, just barely. And then, finally, she kissed him.

It wasn’t innocent. Not even close. It was molten. Like opening a sealed vault of heat that had been slowly pressurizing for months, maybe years. Homelander kissed her back like a man famished—not desperate, but starved of something very specific that only she could give.

His hands found her waist, fingertips pressing into the fabric of her dress, thumbs brushing slow circles. She deepened the kiss with a sound caught between a sigh and a growl, and he answered with a low hum of satisfaction, almost smug again—almost.

She bit his lower lip lightly.

“You’re smirking again.” she warned, breathless.

“I’m trying not to. It’s a medical condition now.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re—” He dropped his mouth to her neck, voice brushing the skin there. “—kissing me like you’ve wanted to kill me and marry me in the same day.”

She muttered. “Oh shut up.” but her hands tightened in his hair, pulling him back up to meet her eyes.

The air around them felt electric, charged. His cape fluttered slightly from the breeze. She leaned her forehead against his, their breath shared and shaky.

“Just so you know.” she said quietly “If this ends with us tangled in expensive sheets and regretting everything by sunrise…”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“I’ll still write about you in the acknowledgments section of my book.”

He laughed—genuinely. Then he dipped down again, brushing his lips just over the corner of her mouth.

“I’ll take it.” he whispered.

She let him kiss her again, slower this time. The kind of kiss that promised more. That suggested a bedroom nearby, and clothing optional. That warned of sleepless hours ahead and way too many complications in the morning.

#homelander #the boys #homelander x oc #homelander fanfiction #homelander the boys #the boys fanfic #my post #writers on tumblr #writing

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