#and also the third chapter in a row of it all

[mcrdvcks]

i love you, always and forever ࿐‧₊ one of me is cute, but two, though?

chapter summary: Now that you are finally pregnant, you and Logan embark on the 9 month journey.

word count: 10.9k+ (23.9k+ total)

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: this spans 9 months of reader's pregnancy. i didn't write every single week; i tried to hit the main milestones. i researched every stage of pregnancy, so if anything's wrong... idk man, i'm 20, i'm not gonna get pregnant just for a fic

also apparently 24k words is too much for tumblr, so this is split in 2 parts

warnings/tags: reader wears glasses, fluff, a few mentions of puking, protective!logan, protective!laura, hormones, pregnancy, giving birth

series masterlist - chapter 14 → chapter 15.5

6 Weeks

You should’ve expected it, especially since it happened the past three days at the exact same time, but as soon as you finished getting dressed in the morning and right before you put your shoes on, you ran to the bathroom, kneeling down by the toilet just in time.

The nausea hit hard, a wave that left you gripping the rim of the toilet bowl like it was your lifeline. Your stomach churned, and before you knew it, you were emptying what little breakfast you’d managed to get down. The experience was far from new at this point, but it wasn’t getting any easier.

You barely noticed the sound of footsteps approaching until Logan’s voice cut through the haze. “Y/N?” His tone was cautious, concerned, and so unmistakably him that it was enough to keep you grounded.

You groaned in response, resting your forehead against your arm as you waited for the nausea to subside. A moment later, Logan was crouched beside you, his large hand resting gently on your back.

“Darlin’,” he said softly, brushing your hair out of your face. “That’s the third day in a row. You alright?”

You glanced up at him, feeling pale and a little miserable. “Not really,” you admitted. “I think I hate mornings now.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes stayed serious. “You been keepin’ anything down?”

“Not much,” you murmured. “I managed half a piece of toast before…” You gestured vaguely at the toilet.

Logan sighed, his hand moving in soothing circles on your back. “Jean say this was normal?”

“Yeah,” you said, leaning back slightly. “She said morning sickness can be bad for some people, and apparently, I’m one of them. Lucky me.”

“Did she say there’s anything you can do about it?” he pressed, his brows knitting together.

“Small meals, ginger tea, crackers… all the stuff I’ve already been trying. She said it’ll probably ease up in a few weeks, though.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his worry evident despite his best efforts to mask it. He didn’t say anything right away, just reached over to grab a washcloth from the sink, running it under cool water before handing it to you.

“Here,” he said, his voice softer now. “For your face.”

“Thanks,” you said quietly, pressing the cloth to your forehead. The coolness helped a little, enough that you finally managed to push yourself into a sitting position. “I’m sorry,” you added after a moment, avoiding his gaze.

Logan frowned. “What’re you apologizin’ for?”

You shrugged weakly. “Being a mess? Throwing up every morning? I don’t know… take your pick.”

“Y/N,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. You’re growin’ a whole damn human in there. If throwin’ up comes with the territory, then so be it.”

You couldn’t help but crack a small smile at that. “A whole human, huh?”

“That’s right,” Logan said, his lips twitching into a smirk. “And that’s no small thing, darlin’. You’re doin’ great.”

“Even when I’m hugging a toilet?” you teased lightly, though there was a flicker of gratitude in your voice.

“Especially then,” Logan shot back, his smirk softening into something gentler. He stood, offering you a hand. “C’mon. Let’s get you back to bed. You need rest.”

“Laura’s going to barge in the second I lie down,” you pointed out, taking his hand and letting him help you up.

“I’ll handle Laura,” he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “You just focus on feelin’ better.”

You let him guide you back to the bed, where he tucked you in with surprising tenderness for someone as rough around the edges as Logan. He brushed a kiss against your temple before heading for the door.

“Logan,” you called softly, stopping him in his tracks.

He turned, his expression warm. “Yeah?”

“Thank you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gave you a small smile, the kind that was rare but always genuine. “Always, sweetheart.” And with that, he slipped out of the room, leaving you with the faintest sense of comfort despite the nausea still lingering in your stomach.

---

7 Weeks

The mansion was quiet, a rarity given the number of kids running around, but late afternoons often brought a lull. You sat at the desk in the bedroom you shared with Logan, grading papers from the physics summer course you were teaching. A warm cup of tea sat beside you, untouched and long since gone cold.

Your hand paused over the last problem on a student’s worksheet, your mind wandering for the hundredth time that day.

Logan had been right—taking it one day at a time helped. But now, in the stillness of the room, the weight of the unknown crept back in. You set down your pen and rested a hand on your stomach, the gesture automatic. There wasn’t much to feel yet, just a faint heaviness, but the knowledge of what was growing there made your chest tighten in equal parts wonder and fear.

The door creaked open, and Logan stepped inside, his broad shoulders filling the frame. He carried a small tray with what looked like a sandwich and some sliced fruit.

“Brought you something,” he said, setting it down on the desk. His gaze lingered on the untouched tea. “Figured you’d need it since you forgot about that.”

You smiled faintly. “Thanks, Logan. I got caught up with grading.”

He nodded, leaning against the edge of the desk, his arms crossing over his chest. His sharp eyes scanned the stack of papers. “You overworkin’ again?”

“No,” you replied, a bit too quickly, earning a skeptical raise of his eyebrow. “I’m just… distracted.”

Logan’s expression softened, and he crouched down so he was eye level with you. “Wanna talk about it?”

You hesitated, your fingers brushing the edge of the desk. “It’s nothing, really. Just… I hit seven weeks today. I guess I’m having a hard time relaxing.”

His jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm. “I get it, darlin’. I do.” He reached out, his hand covering yours where it rested on the desk. “But you’re doin’ good. Everything’s good so far. And whatever happens, I’m here.”

You exhaled a shaky breath, his words grounding you. “I know. I just… I keep waiting for something to go wrong. Like if I let myself be happy about this, it’ll get taken away again.”

Logan’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, and he leaned closer, his eyes locking onto yours. “Listen to me. You deserve to feel happy about this. You deserve to be excited. And I’ll be damned if I let anything make you think otherwise.”

A small, grateful smile tugged at your lips, and you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. “How do you always know what to say?”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Years of practice.”

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, his steady presence washing over you. When you finally pulled back, Logan nudged the plate closer.

“Now, eat somethin’, will ya? You’re not just feedin’ yourself anymore.”

You rolled your eyes but picked up a slice of apple anyway. “Yes, sir.”

Logan chuckled, his rough voice warm and teasing. “If that’s what it takes to get you to listen.”

For the first time all day, you felt lighter, the knot in your chest loosening. One day at a time. Logan was right—you could do this.

---

Week 8

You closed your eyes as Jean pressed the cold, slick ultrasound wand against your stomach. The gel was cold, but it barely registered over the anxiety clawing at your chest. You had to remind yourself to breathe, to focus on the sound of Jean’s calm voice explaining the process.

“It’s not going to be much yet,” she said gently, her tone laced with understanding. “At eight weeks, we’re mostly just checking to make sure everything looks as it should.”

You nodded, keeping your eyes shut tightly. You weren’t sure if you were more afraid of opening them and seeing something wrong—or seeing something right and letting yourself hope too much. It was easier to stay in the limbo of uncertainty.

“You don’t have to look yet,” Jean added, her voice soothing. “I’ll tell you when I’ve got a good image.”

Logan’s hand found yours, his grip solid and grounding. He hadn’t said much since you’d come into the medical bay, but his presence was enough. He stood beside the exam table, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, even through your nerves.

“You’re okay, darlin’,” Logan murmured, his rough voice low and steady. “Jean’s got this. And I’m right here.”

His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, and you squeezed his in return, drawing strength from the simple gesture. You wanted to believe him, to trust that everything was fine, but the memory of your first pregnancy lingered like a shadow—constant, inescapable.

Jean’s voice pulled you back. “Alright,” she said softly. “I’ve got a clear image now. Do you want to see?”

You hesitated, your hand tightening around Logan’s. For a moment, you thought about saying no. Maybe it would be safer to keep your eyes closed, to protect yourself from the possibility of another heartbreak. But Logan’s hand squeezed yours again, his presence anchoring you.

“Go on, darlin’,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You can do this.”

Slowly, you opened your eyes and turned your head toward the screen. The black-and-white image was blurry, abstract, and nothing like the clear, perfect pictures you’d seen in movies. Still, it was there—a tiny shape nestled in the center of it all.

“That’s…” Your voice faltered, caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. “That’s it?”

Jean smiled, her expression warm. “That’s it. Everything looks perfect so far. The sac is measuring exactly where it should be, and the embryo looks healthy.”

You stared at the screen, your breath catching in your chest. There was a faint flicker of movement, too small to register as anything significant but enough to spark something in you—hope, tentative and fragile but real.

“You won’t hear a heartbeat yet,” Jean added, her voice soft but matter-of-fact. “That usually starts closer to ten or twelve weeks. But this…” She gestured to the screen, her smile widening. “This is a really good sign.”

Logan leaned closer, his gaze fixed on the screen. He didn’t say anything, but his hand stayed wrapped around yours, his thumb still stroking gently over your skin.

“You seein’ this?” he asked after a moment, his voice unusually quiet.

You nodded, barely able to tear your eyes away from the screen. “I see it.”

For the first time in weeks—maybe years—you felt the tight knot in your chest begin to loosen. The fear didn’t vanish entirely, but it faded enough for something else to take its place.

Hope.

---

Later that evening, you sat curled up on the couch in the living room, a blanket draped over your legs. Laura was perched on the armrest beside you, her small frame leaning against your shoulder. She’d been unusually quiet since you came back from the medical bay, her sharp eyes flicking between you and Logan as if trying to read something in your expressions.

“Is it okay?” she asked finally, her voice soft but direct.

You glanced at Logan, who was sitting in the armchair across from you, his arms resting on the sides. He gave you a small nod, leaving it to you to answer.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling down at Laura. “Everything looks good so far.”

Her face didn’t change much, but she nodded once, her small hand brushing against yours. “Good,” she said simply. Then, as if the moment had passed, she hopped down from the armrest and grabbed the TV remote. “Can we watch cartoons now?”

You laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in a long time. “Sure, kiddo. Cartoons it is.”

Logan chuckled, shaking his head as Laura flipped through channels with the intensity of someone searching for buried treasure. His gaze shifted back to you, warm and steady.

“You feelin’ better?” he asked, his voice low enough that Laura wouldn’t overhear.

You nodded, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. I think I am.”

---

Week 9

You heard the pop before you felt it.

“What the—” Your bra fell down your arms, the clasps in the back undone. You froze for a moment, your face heating up as you struggled to process what just happened. With a groan, you grabbed the fabric and clutched it to your chest, muttering under your breath.

From the doorway of your shared bedroom, Logan’s voice rumbled. “Somethin’ wrong, darlin’?”

You whipped your head toward him, your cheeks flaming. “Uh, yeah. My bra just… it just broke.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, his eyes flicking to the offending garment in your hands. His lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “Broke? You sure it didn’t just give up?”

“Logan!” you hissed, though your voice cracked with laughter despite yourself. “Not helping.”

He stepped further into the room, his expression softening as he took in your flustered state. “Alright, alright. Let me see.”

You held the ruined bra up for inspection, the snapped clasps dangling uselessly. Logan leaned in, squinting at it like it was some kind of malfunctioning machinery. “Guess it couldn’t handle all the changes, huh?”

“Don’t,” you warned, pointing at him with your free hand. “I’m already hormonal. Don’t make me cry over a bra.”

Logan chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, sweetheart. No jokes. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Your body’s goin’ through a lot. It’s probably time to pick up some new stuff.”

You sighed, tossing the broken bra onto the bed. “I know. Jean mentioned this might happen, but I didn’t think I’d outgrow my clothes this fast.”

Logan moved closer, wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you gently into his chest. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, his voice low and reassuring. “How ‘bout we take a trip into town tomorrow? Pick up whatever you need.”

You leaned into him, letting his warmth calm the frustration bubbling beneath your skin. “You’re gonna come with me? To shop for bras?”

“Why not?” he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. “Ain’t like I haven’t seen you in ‘em before.”

You groaned, burying your face in his chest. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice softening again. “But I’m yours. And you need new stuff, so we’ll get it.”

You let out a small laugh, looking up at him. “Thanks, Logan.”

He brushed a kiss against your temple. “Always, darlin’. Now, why don’t you grab somethin’ else to wear, and I’ll meet you downstairs for dinner? Laura’s already pokin’ around the kitchen lookin’ for snacks.”

You smiled at the mention of Laura, the protective little girl who had taken to shadowing you more and more since your pregnancy was revealed. “Alright. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Logan gave your waist a gentle squeeze before releasing you and heading for the door. “Don’t keep her waitin’,” he said over his shoulder. “Kid’s got no patience.”

---

Later that evening, you were curled up on the couch in the living room, wearing one of Logan’s oversized flannels over your tank top. Laura was nestled beside you, her small hands busy with a coloring book while Logan sat in his usual chair, a beer in hand.

Laura glanced up from her work, her sharp eyes narrowing on you. “You still look tired,” she said bluntly.

You raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by her observation. “Well, thanks for pointing that out, Laura.”

Logan snorted, hiding a smirk behind his beer. “Kid’s got a point,” he muttered.

Laura ignored him, her focus still on you. “Are you sick again?”

“No,” you assured her quickly, not wanting her to worry. “I’m just tired from growing the baby. It takes a lot of energy.”

She nodded, her expression serious. “So you have to eat more. And sleep more. That’s what Jean said.”

You exchanged a glance with Logan, who was clearly trying not to laugh. “Jean’s right,” you said, reaching out to ruffle Laura’s hair. “I’ll try to rest more, okay?”

Laura seemed satisfied with that answer and went back to her coloring, but not before scooting just a little closer to you. Logan caught the movement and raised an eyebrow, his gaze softening as he looked between the two of you.

“You’re doin’ fine, darlin’,” he said quietly, his voice meant just for you. “Better than fine.”

You smiled at him, the familiar warmth of his presence chasing away any lingering worries. One day at a time, you reminded yourself. And with Logan and Laura by your side, you felt like you could handle anything.

---

The next day, you and Logan made it into town to look for new bras, specifically in the maternity section. The store wasn’t too busy, which was a relief. It meant fewer awkward stares as Logan stood beside you, thoroughly inspecting every single rack like a man on a mission. At one point, he grabbed a maternity shirt and held it up by the hanger, studying it with an almost comical intensity.

"This thing’s big enough to camp in," he muttered, stretching the fabric experimentally.

You stifled a laugh, tugging the shirt from his hands. "That’s the point, Logan. They’re supposed to be loose and comfy."

"Still," he replied, raising an eyebrow, "how much bigger are these clothes gonna get? You gonna need a damn tarp by the end of this?"

You playfully smacked his arm with the hanger you were holding. "Don’t tempt fate."

Logan smirked but didn’t push further, letting his hand rest lightly on your lower back as you moved toward the bras. It wasn’t lost on you how protective he was, his touch constant but unobtrusive. The two of you had waited so long for this—he wasn’t about to take any chances.

The maternity bras sat in neat rows, a variety of soft fabrics and bland colors. You bit your lip, feeling oddly embarrassed even though you were literally shopping for a necessity. Logan, of course, noticed your hesitation.

"Y’need help pickin’ one out?" he asked, his voice low enough to keep the conversation between the two of you.

"No," you said quickly, your cheeks heating. Then you softened. "Maybe."

Logan nodded, reaching over to examine a plain beige bra, holding it like it was some kind of alien artifact. "This one looks soft," he said.

"That’s a nursing bra," you informed him with a tiny laugh. "It’s for after the baby comes."

"Oh." He shrugged and put it back, unbothered. "So what kinda bra are we lookin’ for here, then?"

You covered your face with both hands, overwhelmed by the absurdity of the situation. "I can’t believe we’re having this conversation in public."

"Darlin'," Logan said, amused but patient, "you’ve been throwin’ up in front of me for weeks, and we’re havin’ a baby together. You think I care if people overhear us talkin’ about bras?"

He had a point, damn him. Lowering your hands, you gave him a sheepish smile and started thumbing through the racks. He stood there silently, just a steady presence beside you, only stepping in to lift something off a higher rack when you needed it.

"How about this one?" he asked, holding up a pale blue option with some lace detail at the top.

You gave it a quick look and nodded. "That works."

He raised an eyebrow. "Just ‘works’? That ain’t much enthusiasm."

"Logan," you whispered, giving him a sharp look, "I don’t need it to spark joy. I just need it to fit."

That earned a chuckle from him. "Fair enough."

With a small pile of options in hand, you made your way to the fitting room. Logan stood just outside, arms crossed, looking as intimidating as ever and thoroughly discouraging anyone from approaching. You tried a couple on before stepping out to show him one that actually felt comfortable.

"How’s this?" you asked, feeling weirdly self-conscious.

Logan’s eyes moved briefly to the bra before meeting your gaze. "Looks good," he said simply, his tone free of teasing this time. "Fits alright?"

You nodded. "Yeah, it does."

"Then we’re good," he said. "Grab a couple of those."

"Just one or two," you corrected him. "I’ll probably need different ones as I get bigger."

Logan raised a brow but didn’t argue. "Fine, but if it gets too tight, you tell me, and we’ll come back. No arguments."

"Deal," you agreed, retreating into the fitting room to finish up.

---

Back at the mansion that evening, you walked into the kitchen to find Laura perched on a stool at the counter, munching on a slice of apple. She looked up as you entered, her sharp gaze immediately landing on the shopping bag in your hand.

"What's that?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Clothes," you said, setting the bag down. "I needed a couple of new things."

Laura frowned slightly, as though processing this information. "Because the baby’s making you bigger?"

"Exactly," you said, impressed by how quickly she’d pieced it together.

Laura chewed her apple thoughtfully. "Jean said you might not feel good sometimes. Do you feel better now?"

"I do," you said, smiling at her. "Thanks for asking, Laura."

"Good," she said firmly, hopping off the stool. Then she grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the living room. "You should sit down. Jean says that helps."

Logan, already in the room flipping through the TV channels, looked up and smirked. "You got a bossy little nurse there, darlin’."

"I’m looking after her," Laura said matter-of-factly, settling beside you on the couch and leaning into your side.

"I can see that," Logan said with a chuckle, settling into his armchair.

You glanced down at Laura, your heart warming at her seriousness. It might’ve taken a long time to get here, but this—Logan’s quiet love, Laura’s fierce protectiveness—was more than worth the wait.

---

Week 10

You could feel tears coming on at the predicament right in front of you. Your jeans weren’t fitting. And all you could think about was how you should’ve gotten them when you went last week.

Logan found you standing in the closet, glaring down at the waistband of your jeans as though sheer force of will could make them zip.

“You alright, darlin’?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

You huffed, tossing your hands up in defeat. “No! I’m not alright. My jeans won’t zip, and now I’m realizing I should’ve bought maternity ones last week, but noooo, I had to be stubborn and say, ‘Oh, I’ll be fine for another month.’” Your voice wavered, and you swallowed hard, trying to keep your emotions in check.

Logan stepped into the room, his brows furrowing as he took in the situation. “Hey, it’s no big deal. We’ll go back into town and get you some new ones.”

“That’s not the point!” you said, your voice cracking. “I didn’t want to need them yet. I wanted to be able to wear my regular clothes for a little longer. I just—I feel ridiculous for crying over jeans.”

“C’mere,” Logan said softly, pulling you into his arms. You melted into his chest, letting out a shaky breath as his steady heartbeat anchored you. “It’s not ridiculous. Your body’s changin’ a lot, and it’s a lot to take in. You’re allowed to feel however you need to.”

You sniffled, your face pressed against his flannel. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been all over the place lately.”

“Don’t apologize,” he murmured, his hand gently rubbing your back. “You’re growin’ a whole person, Y/N. You think I don’t get that’s a big deal? You’ve been strong for years, darlin’. Let me take some of that weight for a while.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, his rugged face soft with affection. “I don’t deserve you, you know that?”

Logan smirked, his thumb brushing a stray tear off your cheek. “I think it’s the other way around, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, feeling a little lighter. “Okay, fine. Let’s go back to town. But you’re carrying the bags this time.”

“Deal,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead before stepping back. “Now, how about you wear somethin’ comfortable, and we’ll head out?”

You nodded, grabbing one of his oversized flannels to throw on over a stretchy pair of leggings.

---

At the store, Logan fell into his usual rhythm of standing nearby with his arms crossed, a quiet force of nature who somehow made the maternity section feel safer. He didn’t rush you or make any comments about the overwhelming selection, but he was there every time you needed help reaching something or an opinion on the fit.

As you held up a pair of maternity jeans to inspect them, Logan quirked an eyebrow. “Those look like they could stretch to fit the Hulk.”

“They’re supposed to,” you said, half-laughing. “They have a stretchy waistband so they grow with you.”

“Smart,” he muttered, then glanced down the aisle where a couple of women were watching him. “Why do I feel like I’m the main attraction here?”

“Because you’re a grumpy-looking man in the maternity section,” you teased, smirking as you added the jeans to your cart. “They’re probably wondering if you got lost.”

Logan gave you a dry look. “You’re real funny, you know that?”

“Part of my charm,” you said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

---

Back at the mansion, you were folding your new clothes in the bedroom when Laura appeared in the doorway.

“What’s in the bag?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Clothes,” you replied, holding up the new jeans. “For when the baby keeps growing.”

Laura frowned thoughtfully. “Your old ones didn’t fit anymore?”

“Not really,” you said. “But that’s okay. These will be a lot more comfortable.”

Laura climbed onto the bed and picked up one of your shirts, running her small fingers over the fabric. “Jean said your body is working hard because of the baby. Does it hurt?”

“Not really,” you said, sitting beside her. “Sometimes it’s uncomfortable, but it’s worth it. You’ll get to meet them soon enough.”

Laura’s lips twitched into a small smile, and she placed the shirt back into the pile. “Jean said I should look after you. So if you need help, you have to tell me.”

Your heart swelled at her earnestness. “Deal. Thanks, Laura.”

She nodded seriously, then hopped off the bed. “Logan’s downstairs. He said you should eat something.”

You chuckled. “Of course he did. I’ll be down in a minute.”

As Laura scampered off, you shook your head, a fond smile on your face. Between Logan’s unwavering support and Laura’s fierce determination to take care of you, you knew you were in good hands.

---

Week 11

“I’m just a little worried about my age, Jean. I’ve been reading up on women getting pregnant at 40 and—”

Jean looked up from her clipboard, “you’re 40?”

You blinked, “…yeah? Why do you sound so surprised? You’ve known me for like 15 years.”

Jean froze, her pen hovering over the clipboard. “Hold on a second.” She spun her chair to face the desk, typing something into the computer at lightning speed. Her expression shifted from surprise to something closer to intrigue as she clicked through files.

“Jean?” You raised an eyebrow, clutching your sweater a little tighter around yourself. “What are you looking for?”

“Give me a second,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the screen. “This is… interesting.”

You folded your arms, equal parts curious and impatient. “Interesting how?”

Jean finally turned back to you, her lips quirking into a small smile. “I don’t think your body knows how to age properly.”

“What?” you asked, laughing nervously. “What does that even mean?”

Jean gestured toward the computer. “Your time manipulation powers—they’re doing more than you think. From what I can tell, they’ve essentially slowed your aging process to a crawl. Biologically, you’re probably closer to 25 or 30.”

Your mouth opened, then shut again. “Wait… what?”

Jean chuckled softly. “I’m serious, Y/N. It explains why you don’t have the typical markers we’d expect in someone your age. Your body’s holding on in a way that’s… well, almost like Logan’s.”

You blinked, struggling to process. “You’re saying I’m… not 40?”

“You’re 40 chronologically,” Jean clarified. “But physically? Not so much.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “That’s… wild. But it does explain why I don’t have as many gray hairs as I should.”

Jean smirked. “Exactly. And hey, this is good news for the pregnancy. Your body’s in its prime for this. Strong, healthy, ready to handle anything.”

“Even another shopping trip?” you teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Jean laughed. “Especially that. Though, if Logan’s involved, I’d call it survival training.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks, Jean. For, you know, all of this.”

“Of course,” she said warmly. “And hey, you’ve got this, Y/N. I’m here if you need anything.”

You nodded, letting her words sink in. It was a lot to process, but in some strange way, it was comforting. Another piece of the puzzle that was your life—and another reason Logan always seemed to look at you like you were timeless.

---

That evening, you found yourself curled up on the couch, glasses slipping down your nose as you read a book. Logan walked into the living room, holding two mugs of tea. He set one on the side table next to you and sank into the armchair across from you.

“Jean say anything interesting today?” he asked, watching you over the rim of his mug.

You hesitated, glancing at him. “She said my powers are keeping me young.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, shrugging. “Apparently, my body’s been stuck in time this whole… time.”

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, setting his mug down. “Guess that explains why you never change. You’ve looked the same since the day I met you.”

You smiled, the warmth in his voice wrapping around you like a blanket. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

He shook his head. “Nah. Just makes sense. You’re always gonna be you, darlin’. Powers or not.”

Your chest tightened at his words, the sincerity in his tone hitting you square in the heart. “You really mean that?”

Logan leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he held your gaze. “Y/N, I’ve known you through lifetimes. You’ve always been you—smart, stubborn, and the strongest person I know. This doesn’t change a damn thing.”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away. “You’re too good to me, you know that?”

He smirked, his eyes softening. “Someone’s gotta be.”

---

Week 12

Jean pressed the wand to your stomach, the ultrasound screen lighting up in grayscale. The room was quiet except for the steady hum of the machine. You held your breath, your fingers tightly gripping Logan's hand as you lay back on the examination table. His thumb rubbed gentle circles over your knuckles, a small, grounding gesture that helped calm your nerves.

Jean’s brow furrowed in concentration as she moved the wand around. Then, her face softened, a small smile spreading across her lips.

“There it is,” she murmured, pointing to a small flicker on the screen. “See that? That’s the heartbeat.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes welling with tears as you stared at the screen. That tiny, fluttering motion felt like the most miraculous thing you’d ever seen.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “That’s… that’s them?”

Logan’s hand tightened around yours as he leaned closer to the screen, his gaze fixed on the tiny image. “That’s them,” he echoed, his voice low and full of wonder.

Jean nodded, her smile widening. “Twelve weeks along, and everything looks perfect. Strong heartbeat, healthy growth—your baby’s doing great.”

You let out a shaky laugh, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. “I can’t believe this is real.”

“It’s real, sweetheart,” Logan said softly, his eyes never leaving the screen. There was a quiet reverence in his tone, as if he was afraid to break the spell.

Jean glanced between the two of you, her expression warm and affectionate. “Do you want to hear the heartbeat?”

You nodded quickly, unable to speak. Jean adjusted the settings, and a steady, rhythmic sound filled the room. It was the most beautiful noise you’d ever heard—a strong, rapid thrum that seemed to echo in your chest.

Logan’s jaw tightened, his eyes glistening as he listened. “That’s incredible,” he murmured.

You turned to look at him, your heart swelling at the raw emotion on his face. “Logan…”

He met your gaze, his expression softening. “You did this, darlin’. You’re amazing.”

“We did this,” you corrected, your voice thick with emotion.

Jean gave you both a moment before breaking the silence. “I’ll print some pictures for you to take home. And if you’re ready, we can start talking about the next steps—appointments, tests, all that fun stuff.”

You nodded, still a little dazed. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

As Jean moved to print the images, Logan helped you sit up, his hand resting protectively on your back. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

You smiled up at him, your tears returning. “Better than okay. I’m happy. Really, really happy.”

Logan’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Good. You deserve that.”

Jean returned with the printed images, handing them to you with a grin. “Here you go. Something to stick on the fridge.”

You held the pictures carefully, your fingers trembling. “Thank you, Jean. For everything.”

“Of course,” she said, her voice gentle. “You know I’m always here for you.”

As you left the medical wing, Logan kept a steady hand on your lower back, his touch firm and reassuring. The two of you walked in comfortable silence, the ultrasound pictures held tightly in your hands.

When you reached the living room, Laura was perched on the couch, a coloring book spread out in front of her. She looked up as you entered, her sharp eyes immediately zeroing in on the pictures.

“What’s that?” she asked, tilting her head.

You hesitated, glancing at Logan. He crouched down to her level, his tone gentle. “It’s pictures of the baby.”

Laura’s eyes widened, and she slid off the couch, padding over to you. “The baby?”

You knelt down, holding the pictures out for her to see. “Yeah, look. That little spot right there? That’s your baby brother or sister.”

Laura studied the images closely, her expression unreadable. Then, she looked up at you, her brows furrowing. “They’re really small.”

“They’re growing,” Logan said with a small smile. “They’ll get bigger.”

Laura nodded slowly, then surprised you by leaning forward and wrapping her arms around your neck. “I’m gonna help take care of them,” she said firmly, her voice muffled against your shoulder.

Your throat tightened, and you hugged her back. “I know you will, sweetie. You’re going to be an amazing big sister.”

From behind you, Logan’s voice was quiet but filled with pride. “We’re all pretty lucky, huh?”

Laura pulled back, nodding solemnly. “Yeah. We are.”

---

Week 13

The sun filtered through the windows of the mansion’s common area, casting warm streaks of light across the hardwood floor. You sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, reviewing the lesson plans for your upcoming physics class. Laura sat across from you, her coloring book open, crayons scattered around like little explosions of color. She was quiet, her tongue peeking out in concentration as she worked on her masterpiece.

Logan’s heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, his familiar silhouette appearing in the doorway. He held a grocery bag in one hand and a small bouquet of wildflowers in the other. His eyes met yours, and he gave you that small, crooked smile that never failed to make your heart skip a beat.

“Brought somethin’ for you,” he said, holding up the flowers.

You blinked, surprised, as he walked over to you. “Flowers? Logan, what’s the occasion?”

He set them on the table in front of you, then leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Do I need a reason?”

You smiled, your fingers brushing over the soft petals. “No, but it’s sweet. Thank you.”

Laura glanced up from her coloring, eyeing the flowers critically. “Why flowers? She doesn’t eat flowers.”

Logan snorted, ruffling her hair as he sat down at the table. “Not everything’s about food, kid.”

Laura frowned, clearly unconvinced, but went back to her coloring.

Logan leaned back in his chair, watching you for a moment before speaking. “How you feelin’ today?”

You shrugged, setting your lesson plans aside. “Tired, but not as bad as last week. Jean said the second trimester is supposed to be easier.”

He nodded, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. “Good. You need to take it easy.”

You gave him a pointed look. “I’m pregnant, Logan. Not fragile.”

He smirked. “You’re both. Humor me.”

Before you could respond, Laura spoke up, her head still bent over her coloring. “Are you gonna get fat now?”

You choked on a laugh, while Logan let out a bark of amusement. “Laura!” you said, half-laughing, half-scolding.

“What?” she asked innocently, looking up at you. “Jean said the baby makes your belly big.”

“Well, she’s not wrong,” Logan said, his grin widening. “You’re gonna be waddlin’ around here in no time.”

You glared at him, though your lips twitched with amusement. “Don’t you start.”

“Not sayin’ it’s a bad thing, darlin’,” he teased, leaning forward to rest his chin in his hand. “Kinda lookin’ forward to it.”

Laura tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “Why?”

Logan’s expression softened as he looked at you, his voice quieter now. “’Cause it means the baby’s growin’. Means we’re gettin’ closer to meetin’ ‘em.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and for a moment, you forgot all your fatigue, all your worries. You reached across the table, taking his hand in yours. “Me too.”

Laura made a face. “You’re being mushy again.”

Logan ruffled her hair. “Get used to it, kid.”

---

Week 14

You opened up the freezer, looking for your carton of strawberry ice cream—something you didn’t particularly like before getting pregnant. You moved around some of the food in the freezer, looking for the familiar carton.

As you were looking, Scott and Hank came into the kitchen, putting two small bowls in the sink.

You peeked your head around the freezer door, eyes narrowing in disbelief. The carton of strawberry ice cream you had been craving for days was nowhere to be found. Instead, there were two small bowls in the sink, both with remnants of what looked like your ice cream.

Scott and Hank were standing nearby, chatting like nothing was amiss. Your hand gripped the edge of the freezer door tighter, your jaw clenching. You had specifically labeled that carton. In big bold letters. Y/N ONLY.

“Seriously?” you said, your voice a little sharper than usual as you stepped into the kitchen. You weren’t about to let this slide. “It was labeled.”

Scott turned around, his face a picture of innocence—though you knew better. He adjusted his glasses, a little nervous. “Oh, uh… sorry, Y/N. We just figured… you know, you weren’t around and—”

You didn’t let him finish. Before you could even stop yourself, you were across the counter, right in his space. Your fingers shot out, grabbing the collar of his shirt and tugging him toward you. “You figured? You figured?”

Scott's eyes widened, clearly startled. “Y/N—"

"Don't Y/N me. That was my ice cream. My craving,” you snapped, glaring at him. “This wasn’t up for negotiation. You don’t just take something that’s clearly not yours.”

Hank froze, eyes darting between you and Scott, unsure whether to intervene.

Scott, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat, his face turning a shade of red you rarely saw. “Look, I—"

“Don’t make excuses. You—” You gave his shirt one more yank, your voice lower but heated, “—you knew it was mine. And yet here we are with two empty bowls. What part of ‘Y/N ONLY’ do you not understand?”

You were so worked up, you didn’t even hear Logan's heavy footsteps approaching from down the hall. He had been coming back from the garage, his usual silent presence somehow more imposing when you were mad.

"Hey." Logan's voice cut through the tension in the room, his tone low but firm. He stepped into the kitchen, eyes narrowing when he saw the situation. He placed a hand gently on your shoulder, trying to keep you calm. “What’s going on here?”

Your hands were still gripping Scott’s shirt, and you could feel your pulse pounding in your ears. You didn’t want to seem ridiculous, but the irritation was bubbling over. “They took my ice cream, Logan. And not just a scoop. The whole carton.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, glancing at Scott and Hank before settling his gaze on you. There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but it didn’t stop him from stepping closer, his presence radiating a calm that made the air in the room feel a little less thick.

“Is that so?” he said, his voice smooth, but you could hear the slight edge of a smile in his words. He placed a hand on your back, gently guiding you away from Scott. You released the collar of Scott’s shirt, but only because Logan was there, giving you that quiet, steady presence you couldn’t resist.

Scott coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We didn’t think it would be that big of a deal, Y/N.”

“Yeah, well, it was,” you muttered under your breath, still glaring at the now-empty freezer.

Logan gave Scott a pointed look. “How many times have I told you, Scott? Don’t touch things that aren’t yours.” He turned to Hank, who was still silently observing the situation. “And you, too.”

Hank held up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t even know it was labeled. It wasn’t my fault. I was just—”

“—Just being an idiot?” Logan finished for him, eyes flickering over the pair of them.

Scott didn’t respond right away, clearly not prepared for Logan’s intensity. Hank, on the other hand, was nervously shifting, rubbing his neck. “I didn’t realize it was that big of a deal,” Hank said, his voice apologetic but unsure.

Logan's gaze flickered to Hank, then back to Scott. “You don’t get to decide that, not when it’s someone else’s. You’ve got a whole damn kitchen to raid, and you choose her craving?” He turned back to you, his hand briefly squeezing your shoulder. “You good?”

You let out a slow breath, the irritation still bubbling but mostly contained now. “I’m fine. Just… seriously. The one thing I’ve been craving for weeks, and they—”

Logan’s hand on your shoulder tightened just enough to ground you. “I know, sweetheart. I know.” He turned back to Scott and Hank, his expression hardening. “And just for the record, I’m not going to let this slide.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Scott said, though it was clear he didn’t know how to salvage the situation. He seemed genuinely remorseful, but that didn’t change what had happened.

You stared at them, your pulse still a little elevated. “You’re both lucky I’m pregnant right now and not about to throttle you.”

Logan let out a soft laugh, his anger melting into a small, more familiar smirk. He placed his hand on your back, guiding you toward the kitchen table. “I’ll handle it, darlin’.” He turned toward the two men, who were looking somewhat sheepish. “You two better make this right.”

Before either of them could respond, you shot them a pointed look. “Yeah, you can start by getting me another carton of ice cream. And this time, don’t touch it.”

Scott and Hank exchanged uneasy glances, clearly defeated. “Got it,” Scott muttered.

With a final, almost resigned sigh, you pulled out the chair and sank into it. Logan slid into the seat next to you, his hand sliding over your back in a slow, reassuring motion. He shot Scott and Hank one more look before they silently left the kitchen, no doubt off to “make things right.”

“I swear,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “I’ve got enough on my plate without having to deal with this.”

Logan chuckled quietly, leaning in to kiss the side of your head. “You’re doing fine. You’ve got a lot to handle. But don’t worry, I’ve got your back.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes glinting with that familiar mix of mischief and affection. “Though, next time they touch your stuff, I’ll make sure they know what a mistake they made.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips. “I’m starting to think you enjoy this a little too much.”

He grinned. “Maybe a little. But only when it’s deserved.”

Just then, Laura appeared in the doorway, her small figure looking up at the two of you with a serious expression. “What happened to your ice cream?” she asked innocently, her eyes already darting between you and Logan.

You glanced at Logan, sharing a look. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We’re working on it, kid.”

Laura tilted her head, looking confused but not asking any more questions. Instead, she padded over to you, climbing into your lap with surprising ease for a five-year-old. “Are you okay?” she asked softly, her little hands resting on your stomach.

You smiled warmly, your heart swelling at the gesture. “Yeah, sweetie, I’m okay. Just a little… frustrated.”

Laura nodded solemnly, her brow furrowing. “I’ll protect your ice cream next time.”

Logan’s laugh was low, but it felt good to hear. “I’m sure you will, kiddo.” He ruffled her hair lightly, then turned back to you. “Guess we’re all looking out for each other.”

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

---

Week 15

You walked out of the bathroom after finishing your shower, seeing both Logan and Laura on the bed with a book in his hands.

“Hey, you two. What’re you readin’?”

Laura, who had an apple she’d barely taken a bite of, crawled to the end of the bed with all the solemnity of a child on a very important mission. She held the fruit out, lining it up with your stomach like she was conducting a scientific study. Her small face was scrunched up in concentration, her dark eyes flickering between the apple and your belly.

“It says the baby’s the size of this now,” she announced matter-of-factly, her voice a mix of curiosity and pride at having learned something new.

You blinked at her, then at Logan, who was lounging against the headboard with a well-worn pregnancy book open in his hands. His eyes met yours, the corners crinkling as a grin tugged at his lips. “She’s been real focused on this chapter,” he said, his tone warm, amused.

Laura turned back to you, still holding the apple in front of your stomach like it was a critical experiment. “Is it true? Is it really this big?”

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. “Yep, that’s about right,” you said, adjusting the towel around your shoulders as you sat on the edge of the bed. “Fifteen weeks, so it’s about the size of an apple.”

Her brow furrowed, and she looked at the fruit like she didn’t quite trust it. “That doesn’t seem very big.”

“Well, it’s gotta start small,” Logan interjected, flipping a page in the book. “Baby’s got a lotta growin’ left to do.”

Laura nodded slowly, seeming to accept that logic. She finally took a proper bite of the apple, chewing thoughtfully before climbing back up the bed to settle between the two of you. “What happens next?” she asked, craning her neck to look at the book in Logan’s hands.

Logan raised an eyebrow at you, silently asking if you were okay with the impromptu lesson. When you nodded, he shifted the book so Laura could see the page. “Next couple weeks, baby gets bigger, starts growin’ stronger. Might even start hearin’ things soon,” he explained, his voice patient in a way you’d only ever seen him use with her.

Laura’s eyes widened. “Like what?”

“Like voices. Yours, mine…” Logan paused, his gaze flickering to yours, softening. “Y/N’s.”

Her head snapped to you, her expression alight with wonder. “Really?”

“Really,” you confirmed, your heart squeezing at the way she called you that so naturally now. “The baby will hear you too, though. So you’ll have to be careful what you say, okay?”

Laura’s face turned serious again, and she nodded like she was accepting an important mission. “I won’t say anything bad.”

Logan chuckled, setting the book aside and ruffling her hair. “Good. Don’t want the kid comin’ out with your attitude.”

Laura scowled, swatting at his hand. “I don’t have an attitude.”

“Sure you don’t, kid,” Logan teased, his grin widening.

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help smiling at the exchange. “Alright, that’s enough,” you said, reaching over to tug Laura into your lap. She settled there easily, curling against you like she’d been doing it her whole life.

For a moment, the three of you sat there in comfortable silence, the soft hum of the mansion in the background. It was a rare, quiet moment, and you let yourself sink into it, your hand resting lightly over your stomach.

“You think the baby will like apples?” Laura asked suddenly, her head resting against your chest.

“Probably,” you said, running your fingers through her dark hair. “Especially since you’re already setting the example.”

Logan smirked, leaning back against the headboard with his arms crossed. “Yeah, but I bet they’ll like burgers better.”

You shot him a mock glare. “Not everything has to be about burgers, Logan.”

He shrugged, unrepentant. “Just sayin’. It’s in their blood.”

Laura giggled, and you couldn’t help laughing too, the sound lightening the air around you. For all the chaos and uncertainty that life at the mansion brought, moments like this—small, quiet, filled with love—were what made it all worth it.

---

Week 17

After sitting on the couch for 30 minutes, enjoying a movie with Logan and Laura—though you had been drifting off since it started—you realized, once again, you had to go to the bathroom. Pregnancy had brought on all kinds of changes, but the constant bathroom trips were quickly climbing your personal list of “most inconvenient side effects.”

You stretched as you stood, steadying yourself by placing a hand on Logan’s shoulder. He glanced up at you, concern flickering in his eyes the moment he noticed the hesitation in your movement.

“You alright, sweetheart?” His voice was low, the same roughness that usually made your heart flutter, now laced with worry.

“I’m fine,” you assured him with a faint smile, adjusting your glasses. You hated when your body betrayed your independence, even in these little ways. “Just the baby crowding everything.”

As you stepped away, a faint dizziness made your vision swim. You instinctively reached out for support, clutching the side of the couch as the world wavered for a moment.

Logan was on his feet before you could take another breath, his hands steadying you with the kind of ease that came from years of knowing exactly how to support you. “Whoa there, take it easy,” he murmured, his strong arm curling around your waist.

Laura, who had been leaning against Logan moments before, looked over with wide, concerned eyes. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, exhaling slowly as the dizziness passed. “Yeah, just stood up too fast.” You looked at Logan, who wasn’t quite convinced, his hand still resting on the small of your back. “I’m fine, really. It’s nothing Jean didn’t warn me about.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop worryin’,” Logan said, his voice firm but tender. “You’ve gotta be more careful.”

Laura jumped off the couch and padded over to you, her small hand slipping into yours. “Do you need me to get Jean?” she asked seriously, her forehead creased with concern.

Your heart melted a little at her earnestness. “I don’t think Jean needs to know about every time I get dizzy,” you said gently, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Don’t mean it ain’t somethin’ to keep an eye on,” Logan interjected. “You want me to go with you?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “To the bathroom? I think I can handle that, Logan.”

He huffed a soft laugh, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t fully relax. “Alright, but if it happens again, you’re tellin’ Jean.”

“Deal,” you said, though you knew he’d end up telling her himself if it came to that.

Laura tugged your hand gently, looking up at you with determination. “I’ll stay here, but if you need anything, yell. I’ll come running.”

You chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

As you shuffled off to the bathroom, Logan’s voice floated after you. “Take it slow, darlin’. No rush.”

You could hear Laura whispering something to Logan as you made your way down the hall. She was probably asking if you were going to be okay or demanding to know how she could help. Her protective streak, much like Logan’s, was something you’d grown to love more than you ever thought possible.

When you returned, Logan had coaxed Laura back onto the couch, but both their eyes snapped to you the moment you stepped into the room.

“Back in one piece,” you announced, trying to lighten the mood.

Laura crawled into your lap the moment you sat down, her tiny frame settling against your growing belly like it was the most natural thing in the world. She laid her head against your chest and muttered, “You scared me.”

You kissed the top of her head softly. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’ll be more careful.”

Logan pulled the blanket up around the both of you, his arm draping along the back of the couch. The flickering light of the TV reflected in his warm eyes as he tilted his head to look at you. “You sure you’re good?”

“I’m sure,” you said softly, meeting his gaze with a small smile. “But thanks for looking out for me. Both of you.”

“Always,” he said simply, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment before resting back against the couch.

Laura’s tiny hand curled over your bump as if guarding the baby herself. “No more dizzy,” she mumbled sleepily.

“I’ll try my best,” you whispered, your heart swelling. Moments like this—wrapped in warmth, family close—reminded you just how much you had to look forward to.

---

Week 18

Jean glanced up from the monitor, her expression warm as she held the ultrasound wand steady. “Do you want to know the gender?” she asked, her voice gentle but curious. Her gaze flicked between you and Logan, her best attempt at gauging your reaction.

You glanced over at Logan, who was standing beside you with his arms crossed, his usual tough exterior softened by the faintest of smiles as he watched the monitor. The rhythmic whoosh of the baby’s heartbeat filled the room, and for a moment, it was the only sound.

Logan’s eyes shifted to you, his brow quirking slightly. “Your call, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and steady.

You bit your lip, considering it for a moment, but the decision had already been made in your heart. “I think… I’d like to be surprised,” you said, looking back at Jean with a small, shy smile. “We’ve waited this long. What’s a few more months?”

Logan chuckled softly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Yeah, I’m with her. Let’s keep it a surprise.”

Jean grinned, clearly amused. “A surprise it is, then,” she said, setting the wand aside. “You’re officially stronger-willed than most.”

You smirked, adjusting your glasses as you shifted slightly on the exam table. “Well, we’re used to waiting. What’s another milestone?”

Jean’s expression softened at that, the unspoken weight of your journey hanging in the air. “The baby looks perfect,” she assured you, her tone quiet but firm. “Healthy, strong heartbeat, and measuring right on track. You’re doing great.”

Logan rested a hand on your shoulder, his thumb brushing lightly against the fabric of your shirt. “Told you,” he murmured, his voice warm and proud.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile was genuine. “I never said I wasn’t doing great.”

Jean laughed softly, leaning back against the counter as she made a few notes in your chart. “You’re both doing great,” she said, glancing at Logan. “Even if one of you is a little overprotective.”

Logan shrugged, unbothered by the comment. “Can’t help it. She’s carrying my kid.”

“Your kid and her kid,” Jean teased, her eyes sparkling.

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan muttered, but the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. He turned his attention back to you, his hand lingering on your shoulder as if grounding himself in the moment. “You ready to head back?”

“Yeah,” you said, nodding as you adjusted your shirt. “Thanks, Jean.”

“Anytime,” she said, her tone warm and sincere. “And remember, Y/N—if you need anything, you’ve got me on speed dial. Don’t hesitate to call.”

You nodded, sliding off the table with Logan’s steadying hand at your elbow. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you promised.

As you made your way back to the mansion’s main hall, Logan’s hand remained at the small of your back, a protective presence that you’d grown to cherish. The sound of children’s laughter echoed down the hall, a reminder of how much life the mansion now held.

Laura was the first to spot you as you stepped into the living room, her dark eyes lighting up as she ran over to meet you. “Did you find out?” she asked eagerly, her small hands tugging at yours.

You crouched down, meeting her gaze with a smile. “We decided to wait,” you said softly. “It’ll be a surprise when the baby’s born.”

Laura’s face scrunched up in thought before she nodded firmly. “Okay. But I still think it’s a girl.”

Logan ruffled her hair as he passed by, his grin widening. “We’ll see, kiddo.”

One of the other children peeked out from behind the couch, their curiosity evident. “When’s the baby gonna be here?” they asked.

You smiled, settling onto the couch with Laura climbing into your lap. “Not for a while yet,” you said. “But I promise, you’ll all be the first to know when it’s time.”

As the children gathered around, peppering you with questions and theories about the baby, you couldn’t help but feel the warmth of the moment settle over you. Logan leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed and a rare softness in his expression as he watched the scene unfold.

For the first time in a long time, everything felt right.

---

Week 20

You were in the kitchen, eating some mango slices when Ororo came in, holding a few grocery bags. “Here ya go. You’re really going through them, huh?”

You grabbed the four-pack of tissue boxes, sighing as you placed them on the counter. “Yeah, they’ll all be gone in less than a week though.” You opened one of the boxes, pulling out a tissue to dab at your nose. “Pregnancy perk number… what are we on now? Five hundred? Congestion, my old friend.”

Ororo laughed softly as she began unpacking groceries. “I read that happens to a lot of pregnant women. Something about hormones making your nasal passages swell?”

You nodded, tossing the used tissue into the nearby trash can. “Exactly. It’s called pregnancy rhinitis. Apparently, it’s totally normal, but nobody warned me I’d feel like I had a permanent cold for nine months.”

“Well,” Ororo said, placing a carton of eggs in the fridge, “at least it’s not one of the really awful side effects. And hey, your sense of humor’s still intact.”

You smirked, leaning against the counter. “Yeah, but Logan’s probably going to start buying tissues in bulk soon. He caught me trying to steal one of his bandanas the other day.”

Ororo shook her head with a smile. “He’d let you use every bandana he owns if it made you feel better.”

“True,” you admitted, warmth spreading through your chest. Logan’s overprotectiveness could be exhausting at times, but it came from such a genuine place that it was hard not to appreciate it.

As Ororo started chatting about the latest drama among the students—something involving Bobby accidentally freezing the pool—you were reaching for another tissue when it happened. A sudden, fluttery sensation deep in your belly, like the faint brush of butterfly wings. You froze, your hand resting on your abdomen as a quiet gasp escaped your lips.

“What’s wrong?” Ororo asked immediately, her brow furrowing in concern.

Before you could answer, Logan appeared in the doorway, his expression tense and alert. “What happened?” His eyes darted to you, then to Ororo, searching for any sign of trouble.

You blinked up at him, your heart racing—not from fear, but from the realization of what you’d just felt. “I think… the baby just kicked.”

Logan’s eyes widened slightly, and he was at your side in an instant. “You sure?” His hand moved hesitantly toward your stomach, stopping just short as if waiting for permission.

You nodded, taking his hand and guiding it to the spot where you’d felt the movement. “Right here,” you murmured, your voice trembling with emotion.

For a moment, the three of you stood in silence, the anticipation almost tangible. Then, faint but unmistakable, the flutter came again. Logan’s fingers twitched slightly against your belly, his eyes softening as a rare, unguarded smile spread across his face.

“There it is,” he said quietly, awe evident in his voice. “That’s our kid.”

Ororo’s expression melted into one of pure joy as she stepped closer. “That’s amazing, Y/N. And so early—you’re what, twenty weeks?”

You nodded, your hand still resting over Logan’s. “Yeah, twenty weeks today. Jean said it could happen anytime now, but I wasn’t expecting it to feel… like this.”

Logan chuckled, his thumb brushing lightly over your stomach. “What’d you think it’d feel like? A punch?”

“Honestly? Kind of,” you admitted with a laugh. “But this is… wow.”

Ororo grinned, picking up her empty grocery bags. “I’ll leave you two to enjoy the moment. But let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Thanks, Ororo,” you said, your voice warm with gratitude.

As she left, Logan leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your temple. “You alright, sweetheart?”

“More than alright,” you said, tilting your head to look up at him. “I’m… I can’t even put it into words.”

Logan’s hand lingered on your belly, his eyes shining with a mix of pride and tenderness. “Our kid’s got some timing, huh? Knew I’d be right here when it happened.”

You chuckled softly. “They’re already showing off, just like their dad.”

He smirked at that, but the teasing look in his eyes gave way to something deeper as he met your gaze. “I still can’t believe this is real sometimes,” he said, his voice low and rough. “After everything…”

You reached up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over the stubble there. “It’s real, Logan. We’re here. We’re doing this.”

He covered your hand with his, leaning into your touch. “Yeah. We are.”

The baby kicked again, and Logan’s grin widened as he gave your stomach a playful, protective pat. “Already makin’ sure we don’t forget they’re here.”

“As if we ever could,” you said with a laugh, your heart full. Moments like this made every struggle, every tear, worth it. This was the life you’d fought for, and you weren’t taking a single second of it for granted.

go read part 2 for the complete chapter!!

also, i know i kinda brushed over reader not really aging because of her time powers, but i found those two scenes really hard to write for some reason so just go with it, lol

[campbyler]

hiiii suni here popping back on to add that the reason ch11 is taking meeee forever is less bc of actual writer’s block and more bc this chapter is just very technically challenging to me in terms of how i want to execute certain things!! so i’ve been opening the doc every day and chipping away at it like. 20 words at a time. i’ll get back in the groove eventually though i have #faith

Is this fic still being updated? Absolutely no rush but I was just curious 😋

yes it is!! we are just the slowest writers in the world ♥️

[amaranthdahlia]

happy holidays everybody ! i dont have anything on theme to celebrate with, so instead have this months worth of kudoichi art :] !

[i recently got an ipad for christmas so im practicing using a stylus for the first time and also procreate :D this is one of my practice sketches]

[two types of people after the end of a month long gay situationship]

[so i have this kinda cheesy headcanon where since kudou called afo demon lord in chapter 407, what if he ....... hear me out......... calls yoichi 'angel' ...... atleast by accident]

[redraw meme from twt]

[all of these is to contribute to a rarepair poll from twitter (which btw, they won, only after a series of botting from the other side and drama lmao)]

[some miscellaneous stuff]

[below are some kdch au doodles]

[tallichi has hit the 2nd tower again]

[kudoichi fankids from an undisclosed family au about kdch being katsuki's great grandparents, which is not related to any of the family aus ive posted before (bc god am i Obsessed with designing fankids, these two arent even the only ones, theres 5 more kids that i havent drawn yet. and if ur wondering why that amount, this just to follow the ofa user count. and to also reinforce the thing where the much older generation had so many kids back then LMAO)]

commissions

[motorsportbarbie13]

Aftermath - Chapter 1

When Lando leaves you heartbroken after you get tired of trying to make something into nothing for far too long, Max steps in to help you pick up the pieces.

Warnings: Lando is a dick in this. Small mention of not eating/losing weight but it's not discussed at length. angst. all. the. angst. Pairing: Max Verstappen x LeClercSister!Reader Word Count: 4.4k

(Also big giant huge thank you to @nitaekook for beta reading/editing/hyping this up and convincing me it was ready to be posted! ❤️❤️)

Master List

Falling out of love is exhausting. The way the silent negligence slowly chips away at the glossy veneer of gold plated faux happiness was soul crushingly agonizing. It wasn’t ever loud or raw or angry. No. It never spared you any emotion other than cool indifference. You could never quite figure out why the boy who had once warmed your entire life with his sunshine now refused to even glance your way. 

It started slowly. So slowly that it took you a while to even realize what was happening. The way you lingered a little longer at the end of the day in the art studio. The way you stopped in front of the window of a real estate office, staring longingly at the listings of the pretty apartments that weren’t yours. The way you slowly slipped out of his life in a way that neither of you saw coming. 

Everything changed the day you ran into your brother in a part of town neither of you usually frequent. Neither of you were supposed to be there that day, all the way across town from where you belonged. 

After a third day in a row of being left on read and not even getting a phone call from Lando, despite him spending all night on Max Fewtrell’s stream playing Tarkov, you had gotten sick of waiting around the apartment. You were tired of waiting for just the littles crumb of attention from him, which he only seemed to give to you the moment you strayed a bit too far from him. You finally worked up the courage to leave your phone at home and go out without it, knowing that if he called and you didn’t answer you’d probably go another three days without so much as a text, just because he could. At this point though, you weren’t sure you even cared. 

You changed into your favorite workout set and took a selfie before posting it to your stories (so he knew what you were doing. Lando loved watching your stories to make sure you were where you told him you were) and walked out the door. 

The silence washed over you as you began your run, a sense of freedom coupled with a bit of anxiety settling in your bones as you turned down the street where your apartment was. You ran, leaving all of the stress of your three year relationship behind, without really knowing where you were going or what you would do when you were done. Part of you hoped Lando called you while you were out so he knew that you were flexing your wings a bit without him but you knew that would come with consequences. He’d ignore you, a punishment that he knew you hated but it was almost worth it. The potential punishment from him was almost worth knowing that you’d scare him into action. 

Mile after mile, your sneakers hit the pavement at a steady pace, the rhythmic sound soothing your anxiety like a weighted blanket. Around you, the city buzzed with cars and people rushing around during the summer busy season. Expensive cars zipped by and tourists wandered down the sidewalks, sometimes making passing them difficult but you were used to the crowds of Monaco. You had grown up running these streets, first with your brother Charles and twin Arthur, trying to keep up with them as they trained for their respective racing seasons, but as you got older and Charles moved into the higher Formula series, your runs with him became fewer and far between until it was a rare occasion that you got the chance to train with him. Arthur was still regularly around, but you didn’t like training with him as much and he tended to be a little too chatty while working out where you preferred the silence of your thoughts.

You see your brother exit the apartment building ahead of you before he notices you heading towards him. His dark waves that match yours teased by the Mediterranean breeze as he turns around to speak to the man who follows him out of the building. Charles is everything a big brother should be and it kills you how much you have to lie to him about your relationship with Lando. 

You slow down to a light jog as you approach, waiting patiently for Charles to notice you. When he does though, his entire face lights up. “Little Dove! What are you doing on this side of town?”

Something deep in your chest twists at the nickname Charles has called you your entire life. There’s something nostalgic about it, the way he calls you his little dove, the LeClerc Princess in a house full of boys, fluttering around like a little bird preening under the attention of the birds of prey. 

He reaches for you, pulling you into a tight hug. You’ve been too busy lately, trying desperately to keep the weight of your failing relationship out of the harsh light of the public eye so you haven’t seen your brother as much as you’d like.

Falling out of love is exhausting.

Charles has noticed, of course. You’ve stopped coming to races like you used to when you were freshly with Lando or even when he was new in Formula One. You used to love races. The people, the sounds of the engines roaring around the track, seeing your brother do what he loves at the pinnacle of his sport. You used to drink it all in, obsessed with anything and everything racing. But then the world had tarnished when Lando started choosing racing over you. It was subtle at first, the way he would spend an extra night in Woking to spend time on the sim instead of coming home to your shared apartment. He’d go on trips with Max F, Keegan, and Ed but an invite was never extended to you. Even when he was home, he was always half there. Expecting you to wait around for when he was finally finished streaming. ‘But baby, it’s all work! I’m training for the season. And Max needs my help with the stream! The trips are for Quadrant!’ Excuses were always at the ready with Lando. So much so that you had stopped asking to be a priority. 

When he was with you though it was different. When he finally got around to paying attention to you, he was the doting, loving Lando you had fallen for. He’d bring you breakfast in bed, cuddle with you late at night watching movies, surprising you with a last minute trip to somewhere tropical. Although, if you were being honest with yourself, these little surges of attention always came after a fight or an extended period of time that he had spent away from you. Almost like he was trying to sooth the guilt within himself instead of spending time with you. 

Charles lets you out of his arms, looking down at you with sadness and hesitation in his gaze. 

“I just needed to go for a run.” You say, avoiding the pointed look that Charles fixes on you. You didn’t really want to delve into the real reason for needing to get out of your own head with your brother’s real estate agent standing right next to him. It was only then when you realized just how far you’d come, the tall residential buildings unfamiliar at first glance. You hadn’t been on this side of town in ages but the complex that Charles had just come out of was instantly recognizable. 

Your eyes flick over to the man standing beside Charles. You knew him well, a family friend who had helped Charles and Alex find their current apartment as well as the villa they had bought in Italy last year. “I could ask you the same thing. Are you and Alex planning on moving?” 

“Not exactly.” Charles grins, momentarily willing to move on from the fact that you looked like you were ten seconds away from crying. 

You tilt your head at him, waiting for an explanation. 

“Units in this building rarely ever come on the market and Nick is trying to convince me it would be a good investment.” 

“We’re lucky we even managed to get a showing.” Nick interjects as he runs a hand through his hair. “This building is beyond exclusive.” 

You laugh, light and airy, while rolling your eyes. “Charles? The Prince of Monaco? Lucky to get a showing?”  Mock shock colors your voice and for a flicker of a second, you feel normal again. “Nicholas, I’m surprised at you. Cha could bat those eyelashes of his at anyone in town and get whatever he asked for and you know it.” 

Charles blushes but both of them know it’s true. Charles could ask for anything in this city and get it handed to him on a silver platter. More so now, after winning Monaco last year, finally breaking his home race curse. 

He turns towards his friend. “Let them know I’m interested in making an offer, oui?” 

Nick’s eyes light up and you can practically see the dollar signs spinning around in his head, no doubt trying to calculate the amount of commission he’d potentially earn from even the smallest unit in the building. “I’ll head back to the office and get the offer drawn up right now. Want to go in at asking?” 

Charles nods, “That’s fine. I want to make sure I don’t miss out on this unit.” He eyes you then, suddenly coming up with an idea that might just solve a problem he’s been dealing with for the last three years. “Have you had lunch yet?” 

Glancing at your watch, you’re surprised to see that nearly two hours has passed since you’d left the house. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a small voice wonders just how annoyed Lando is going to be that you left your phone at home. 

You ignore it.

“No, I didn’t even realize how late it was. I guess I went a little time blind.” You sigh, not wanting to admit that you had skipped both breakfast and lunch the last few days. Your appetite while Lando was gone was next to nonexistent, the anxiety of being in the apartment without him too much for your body to handle. 

“Let’s go get some food then.” Charles slips his arm around your waist, pulling you close. “It’s been too long since we’ve had a sibling lunch date, just the two of us. 

Something warm blooms in your chest at his words. It had been a while since you’d seen your brother, since you’d seen any members of your family really. Between your work in the studio and Lando, you didn’t have much spare time on your hands. 

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.” You murmur, allowing yourself to get swept away by your big brother. 

“So tell me about work.” Charles implores as he leans forward on the white linen table cloth. “Don’t you have a new show coming up?” 

You nod, taking a sip of water as your eyes dart over the menu of the small Italian restaurant Charles had chosen. At first you had protested, insisting that the white linen and heavy sterling silver flatware were much too fancy for you and your sweaty workout clothes but Charles had insisted. ‘Please. You are in Monaco, everyone here is rich enough to wear their grungy clothes without a care in the world.’ Had been his plea but you knew he had ulterior motives: the pasta at this little eatery was divine. So of course you had given in. 

“I do. I’m still working on getting the theming right though, I haven’t been feeling very inspired lately. But the one in two weeks is nearly finished being installed.” Your thoughts flicker to your studio across town, where half a dozen partly completed paintings sit in various states of disarray almost mocking you whenever you walk in the door. 

Like Charles, you were an artist at heart. Except where Charles chose music, you had always been drawn to paint. The thrill of prepping a new canvas, of planning out the idea and initial sketches, to finally, finally getting to put that first bit of color on an otherwise blank canvas. You never felt more at home than when you were seated in front of a canvas, alone in your studio. 

Charles sees the opening he’s been waiting for, leaping on the opportunity like a stowaway in a boxcar train. “I’ve noticed you’ve been…” He pauses, knowing he has to choose his words carefully. “Not yourself lately and now it’s effecting your art? Little Dove, I am worried about you.” 

Your heart aches at the sound of desperation in your brothers words. You hadn’t realized how out of control you’d allowed yourself to be. How desperate you’d become for just a shred of attention from Lando.

“I’m fine, Cha.” The lie slips off your tongue easier than you’d like. 

Charles narrow his eyes because while Arthur may be your twin, Charles? Charles has always been your safe place. You had been the one who had kept him afloat after your father passed. Whenever there were fights over the cost of his’ racing career, you had always been his biggest advocate. If there was one person you trusted more in this world than Arthur, it was Charles. 

And because Charles knows you like the back of his hand, he knows that you’re lying. 

“He’s not good for you.” He hates saying the words, knowing that Lando is also a coworker and at one time, a friend. He may race for McLaren but Charles still had to spend a significant amount of time with him, especially over the last three years that you two had dated. But lately, something had changed in Lando. He wasn’t the same guy he had raced with in 2019. He was darker somehow, more withdrawn his usual crowd but up until now he had just chalked that up to Lando grown up and maturing. 

“Don’t say that, Charles.” You whisper, voice pleading and thick. Your eyes drop to the plate of roasted chicken in front of you while the napkin twists in your fingers. 

“If you want that apartment I just bought, it’s yours.” Your brother’s voice is desperate. “You can pay me rent if you want, I don’t care if you do but that place is yours if you want it.” The offer crashes over you like a giant swell of water breaking over your body. 

It takes a moment for you to process what Charles just offered you. The apartment he just bought? In one of the most exclusive buildings in the city? He wants you to take it? You’re utterly stunned because while Charles has always been more than generous monetarily with his family, gifting you the multi million dollar apartment was bordering on crazy. 

“Charles, I…” You stammer, utterly at a loss for words. 

Charles shakes his head, “Don’t give me an answer now. Think about it, it’s going to take a few months to close the deal but, please my dove. Please think about it.” 

Two Weeks Later

No matter how many shows your work was featured in, opening night always had you on edge. Your art was deeply personal to you and while you loved sharing it with the world, watching that first group of outsiders that had access to your work see it was always enough to fray the delicate edges of your nerves. 

Charles hadn’t brought up his proposition any more after you had left the restaurant that day two weeks ago. He’d hopped on a jet the next day, needing to fly to a race half way across the world. Lando had left that next day too without barely more than a good-bye. He had seen your story on Instagram and had sent you several text messages while you had been with Charles, but beyond that he never even mentioned it. The quiet dismissal was even more painful than any anger he could have directed at you.

You hadn’t been invited to the race by Lando either, not that you would have been able to go. The opening for the gallery where your art was being featured was your priority so you hadn’t even bothered asking Lando if he wanted you there. You had already known the answer anyway. 

When you left the apartment that evening, Lando was still playing Tarkov with Max on his stream. He said he still a while until the show started, why would he want to go with you to get there so early just to stand around and stare at a bunch of paintings? He swore up and down that he’d be there in an hour, just after he finished the next raid with Max and then kissed  you absentmindedly on the cheek as you said good-bye. 

He hadn’t missed a single shot on the screen. 

The gallery is tucked away on a quiet street a few blocks from your apartment so instead of calling an Uber or asking Charles to pick you up, you decided to walk the short distance. The warm Monaco breeze teased at your hair as you slowly wandered down the sidewalk towards your destination alone. 

The lights of the building spill out of windows in the setting Mediterranean sun, casting a warm light out onto the sidewalks. You’d shown your work in this gallery before and loved the owner, who had been one of your first supporters many years ago when your career was just getting started. The way the gallery was set up was ideal for the way your paintings demanded to be displayed and you knew that no matter what, the designers who were in charge of hanging your work would do it all justice.

In the large picture window out front hangs two of your favorite paintings that you’ve painted in a long time. You took a lot of inspiration from the impressionists: Monet, Degas, Renoir and these two were no exception. Lately though, your work had taken a bit of a dark turn with even the gallery owner making a comment on how moody and different your paintings had been lately. You were proud of them though, the bright slashes of color felt like your feelings laid bare on the stretched white canvas were a cathartic release of the stress and anxiety of your home life. 

There are a few people milling about inside, mostly employees but a genuine smile, the first to flit across your face all day, spreads slowly when you spot your brothers walking down the sidewalk. Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo all saunter towards you but you’re surprised at the fourth figure following your three siblings. 

“Little Dove.” Charles calls when he’s within shouting distance and you walk towards the four men, bright smile fixed on your face. He folds you up into his arms, kissing your cheeks, before passing you over first to Arthur who gives you the same greeting before once again passing you over to Lorenzo. 

The familiar chatter with your brothers is a soothing balm to the opening night jitters that are fluttering around in your chest but it’s the figure who stands quietly off to the side that intrigues you the most.

“Max, it’s so good to see you.” Stepping out of Lorenzo’s hold you walk straight into the Dutchman’s waiting arms. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.” 

“And miss the newest works of Monaco’s best artist?” His voice drips with incredulous teasing. “I could never.” 

You know he’s teasing but the words carve themselves deep into your skin, the ache sitting in your chest, all bright and painful. Here you were, in another man’s arms while he praised your work while your boyfriend couldn’t have even bothered to leave the house at the same time as you. 

Reluctantly, Max lets you step out of his arms and not for the first time that night, he takes your figure in. He swears you're thinner than you were last time, a thick cloud of anxiety and something darker hanging over your usually bright demeanor. It physically aches looking at you, how much you’ve changed in the last three years. Max has known you for as long as he’s known Charles and Arthur. When you were younger, you spent most of your time toddling along after your big brother so when he befriended the two brothers from Monaco, you had kind of been part of the package deal. 

He has to resist the urge to rub at the ache in his chest, knowing that you’re with Lando and looking this miserable. You put on a good face though and Max knows that if he hadn’t been so familiar with every dip and plane of your face, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. 

“Thank you for coming.” You murmur, allowing your eyes to linger on Max a beat longer than your brothers. 

Lorenzo, ever the eldest brother, leads the group into the gallery, Max behind you and Arthur in front of you. You can feel the heat of his body radiating when he reaches around your shoulder to hold the door open for you from behind and turn your face upwards to give him a heart stopping smile. “Thank you.” 

You excuse yourself to go find Nessa, the gallery’s owner, leaving your brothers and Max to their own devices while you make sure everything is set for the show. 

Max plucks a flute of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray before he turns to Charles. “Want to take bets on if Lando shows?” He grumbles, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. 

Charles does it for him though, muttering something that sounds a lot like ‘proper idiot’ under his breath. 

Max nods and turns his attention to the paintings hanging on the wall. You’re not the only artist being featured tonight but your work is the most striking in the room and Max finds himself drawn to a large piece depicting a meadow tucked into a valley with a set of mountains in the background. The sky was what caught Max’s attention though. It was a riot of grays, blues, and shades of the deepest black. The storm was close to boiling over, gathering strength in the background as the foreground of the painting remained seemingly bathed in a golden sunlight. 

The emotion that you had poured into this canvas practically shimmered off the surface and Max found himself with the most overwhelming desire to touch it. 

“This is my favorite of all the pieces I did for tonight.” You murmur as you come to stand beside Max, who tries to hide the involuntary shiver that travels over his skin at the sound of your voice. 

Max slides his eyes over to you without turning his head, almost as if he’s afraid that he’ll scare you away if he moves too fast. “It’s different from your other work.” He observes and your heart clenches. 

Max’s thoughts flicker to the piece he purchased from you four years ago when he moved into his penthouse apartment. It was a piece as big as the one in front of him now, but the color scheme was markedly different. Where the piece in front of him was moody and stormy, the piece that hung in his living room was light and airy. He had seen a similar painting of the French countryside in your studio and had asked you to paint a similar but the Dutch tulip fields of his home country.

Normally, you didn’t take commissions. You were much too attached to your craft and the control you craved to give up such an important piece of your creative process. It was a policy that was a therapist’s dream. 

You had broken your own rule for Max though. You had been powerless against those glacial blue eyes of his and without a second thought you had agreed to do as Max asked. 

“Do you not like it?” You ask, surprising yourself with how much you care about what Max thinks. 

He shakes his head before taking a sip of his champagne. He hadn’t been this close to you for this long in so long, he was almost afraid to move. “No, Dovie. That’s not what I was saying at all. I was just thinking of the one in my house and how different they are.” 

You nod, eyes darting back up to your painting as you think of the tulip fields that was secretly your favorite piece of art you’d ever made. “I was a different person when I painted yours.” You say simply. 

“And how is the person you are now?” Max’s voice is low as he leans into your bare shoulder just a fraction more than might be appropriate for someone who knows you have a boyfriend. 

Chest tightening, the weight of having a boyfriend who is currently running forty five minutes late after promising to be there for you settles on your shoulders so heavily you think you may break. Your cheeks burn as you contemplate how to answer Max’s question. You desperately want to tell him you’re okay. To lie about how broken you feel while the man that you’re in love with misses another milestone in your life. 

“I don’t know.” Emotion claws at your throat, threatening to pull you under right here in the middle of an art gallery. 

Suddenly you turn away from Max, eyes scanning the room desperately looking for a familiar shock of mahogany colored hair. Max stares after you, eyes narrowed at your sudden departure. Your answer plays in his head as he watches you seemingly spot the person you’d been looking for. You start across the room, hoping your sense of determination lasts until you reach Charles. 

“Are you okay?” Your brother looks past the man he’d been speaking to when he sees the desperation in your face. 

“I…Charles, I…” You fumble for your words, mind still scrambling to figure out what your body’s plan was. 

Charles steps around the man and grabs your elbow. “Take a breath, Little Dove.” He soothes. You follow his instructions and take a few steadying breaths, allowing the feeling of your brother’s hand sitting heavy at your elbow to ground you. 

After a few moments you manage to find your voice. “When do you close on the new apartment?”

missleclerc posted:

57,029 likes liked by charlesleclerc, maxverstappen1, nessas_gallery and others missleclerc oh what a night <3 thank you to everyone who took time out of their busy schedules to spend an evening with me celebrating the new show. the pieces will be on display at @/nessas_gallery for the rest of the month!! charlesleclerc another successful opening, little dove! so proud of you >>>arthurleclerc yes, so proud! glad we were able to make it out to support you! >>>user028 the way her brothers are her biggest fans is just...ugh. so cute. >>>user000 and the little dove nickname!! i die. user122 no lando in the likes, comments OR pictures??? where you at bruh??? >>>user0200 did you see that gossip post?! he didn't even show up! >>>user122 ew. seriously???

f1_wag_gossip posted

35,291 likes f1_wag_gossip Lando's girlfriend (also Charles LeClerc's little sister) @/missleclerc’s art was on display at an art gallery opening this Friday night in Monaco but one person was notably missing: Lando Norris himself. Sources snapped photos inside of Miss LeClerc laughing with none other than Max Verstappen before leaving the gallery later in the evening with her brothers and Max in tow. Several people tell me that she looked very upset after the show. Max even had his arm around her as she swiped at tears while waiting for Arthur's car to be brought around. Is there trouble in paradise for the artist and her longtime pilot boyfriend??? user222 he was on Max F's stream for HOURS Friday night. He chose playing Tarkov over going to his girlfriend's art show??? user122 If Max Verstappen, the man that had to have a CURFEW imposed on him by his own team because he stayed up too late playing video games, can put the controller down for one night to attend a FRIENDS art show, surely the poor girls own boyfriend could have done the same??? >>>user222 seriously. tf were you thinking @/Lando??? user988 gross behavior. idk why she's still with him user2237 I wonder how many other events of hers he's ruined?

Tag List: @shelbyteller, @formulaal, @martygraciesversion381, @longhairkoo, @samantha-chicago, @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland, @chlmtfilms , @aykxz98 @forensicheart @cheer-bear-go-vroom @lieutenantchaos @willowsnook @linnygirl09 @meglouise00 @mixedstyles @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies @mrosales16 @charlesgirl16 @leclercdream @daemyratwst @dramaticpiratellamas @mochimommy2002 @llando4norris @chelseyyouraverageluigi @iamaunknownsecret @maxivstappen @imlonelydontsendhelp @nina-or-anna-or-nora @a1leexxa @littlegrapejuice @sunflowervol18 @freyathehuntress @finn-dot-com @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @chirasama @lauralarsen @dr3wstarkey @saskiaalonso @rbv3rstappen @ilovechickenwings @guaaafiiburg @mcmuppet @glitteryturtledeer @mindless-rock @piastri-fvx

[ily-sunghoon]

The Omen of Sterling | ENHYPEN

Pairing : vampire!enhypen x fem!oc

Genre : vampire, kingdom, reverse harem <3, fluff, angst, smut on some chapters

Summary : The name Sterling hits like thunder for the royal bloodlines. Sterling is the most dangerous vampire family throughout the ages. After they left Krashoviel due to their sweet human daughter, twenty-one years later the same daughter came back for help... or the omen that Cairneyes warned the others about.

WARNINGS : mdni, heavy content, deep world building (i went kinda crazy), blood, murder, manipulation, gaslighting, toxic behavior, curses, religious theme mentioned sometimes, obsessive, (more to add later). DO NOT PROCEED if uncomfortable

Disclaimer : THIS IS PURE FICTION, ALL THE BEHAVIORS OF MY CHARACTERS ARE NOT RELATED TO ENHYPEN REAL MEMBERS AT ALL!

Note : hi, guys. i finally contribute to the enhablr community by publishing this old draft that i wrote years ago. it was inspired by one of my loooong dream that i had on christmas eve night back then in 2020. i decided to stick on the original names that i have for them. all the fem characters doesn't have any face claims, i leave them to your imaginations. some random male idols might appear in the future as relatives/enemy/friends. without further do, meet the characters and i hope you guys enjoy!

CHAPTERS — PROLOGUE CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV

Introduction to our vampires:

Jestel Sinflame

/jé-ssel/ 299 years old — The rightful crown prince of Krashoviel. Choosing peace over war right now (living under the same roof as his brother-like best friends rather than in the sucking dry and toxic castle). A little bit classist like his family, Sinflame, except towards Ricardo, who he saw the potential of that kid himself. His parents died during the Red War and now he’s trying his hardest to contact his brother, Holstein, who also got lost in the war.

Sarco Phelanflame

/sár-ko/ 288 years old — Phelanflame has always been the first row at wars. They’re the leader of the soldiers. Very strong since birth with a little sadistic tendency. Their personality is cold, much colder than the other vampires around Krashoviel. If not cold, they’re always a little bit of an oddball. All the elders in his family were deceased during the last war. Now, Phelanflame only has three members, including Sarco and his two other cousins.

Ricardo Nikolai

/ree-kár-do/ 20 years old — Came from an orphanage, Ricardo is a third-class vampire in Krashoviel. He got lucky because Jestel and Sarco saw his potential while visiting his orphanage, they took him home and gave him all the facilities he needed. Ricardo likes to play fight with almost everybody, but his favorite activity to do is disturbing Jusarlie’s peace.

Jasper

/jæs-per/ approximately 23 years old — A new vamp who was found in the woods during their monthly patrolling. No one knows about his background, he lost his memory, so they named him Jasper.

Saine Cairneye

/sāin/ 201 years old — Grandson of the current Queen on the throne. His mother died during the war. The Cairneye bloodline is in charge of magick, witchcraft, astrology, omen, and so on. Their current job is reading people intentions and possible-futures with their crazy personality tests. They are blessed with good physical appearance, and all of them look like elves. They have a silly little hobby, which is accidentally having a vision that scares the royal family a.k.a Sinflame!

Jusarlie Grieffang

/jou-sār-lee/ 297 years old — Grieffang, the fang of Krashoviel. They are the greatest strategists and professors, Grieffang is one of the keys of Krashoviel’s endless winning of wars. They’re still relatives with Sinflame. Jusarlie is Jestel’s distant nephew, though their age gap is not far. Rival kingdoms tried to kidnap and use Grieffangs against Krashoviel during their wars, but it was no use, Grieffangs are loyal and far smarter than them. Plenty of them are still alive after the wars along with Sinflames.

Hiael Von Ruden

/heeæl/ 314 years old — His original nation is Slevado, Hiael was a crown prince. He turned his back after the Red War, and it creates a huge controversy. He is now working under Jestel’s command and is currently busy training Jasper. He’s reserved, calm, to the point where it becomes scary rather than comforting for his surroundings. No one knows what is on his mind, but for Jestel, as long as he has made a blood pact then he’s good.

© ily-sunghoon, 2024 DO NOT COPY, STEAL, PLAGIARIZE, OR REPOST ON OTHER PLATFORM DO NOT TRANSLATE WITHOUT PERMISSION

[bbywriter]

aftermath | c. sturniolo

masterlist

summary: your cheating ex is back in boston for tour… what’s one more night together in the grand scheme of things?

pairing: christopher sturniolo x fem!reader

warnings: MDNI. slow build, mentions of cheating, unresolved angst, roughish smut?, penetrative sex, no protection, choking, everything about chris in this is out of character pls ik he would never

notes: creds to @vxnitra for the gif<3! and @wife-of-all-dilfs for the fic idea, go read bad idea, right? rn!

word count: 10.7k

—

“Dude just come, it won’t be the same without you.”

It’s Saturday night and you’re sprawled out on your bed, buried under the untouched assignment that has been staring back at you for three hours. Mikayla’s called, once again, as your latest distraction. 

Her heels click through the speaker as she paces her room getting ready for a party, one she’s trying to persuade you to join.

“I can’t, Mickey, I’m busy,” you say, although the excuse is unconvincing even to yourself. 

Her call interrupted the tik tok scroll you’d been lost in, a break you were taking from your third episode of Criminal Minds in a row. After she hangs up, you know you’ll be in the same spot until morning, assignment still untouched and all. 

Apparently she knows it too. 

“No you’re not, bitch.” You can hear her eyes roll as she drowns herself in perfume. “You have to go. Everyone’s gonna be there.”

You let out a quiet scoff and mumble under your breath. “Yeah, exactly why I’m not going.” 

Everyone includes the triplets, who are back in Boston for tour. 

Coming home isn’t an unusual visit for them, and actually, their return home used to be something you really looked forward to. Their visits meant long nights and too much laughter with best friends. 

It also meant time with Chris. With your lives split across the country, those week-long visits were your fleeting chances to be close to him, just the two of you, picking up where you left off months before.

But things aren’t the same anymore. Because unlike the love you held for Chris every other time they’ve visited, you absolutely despise him now. 

“I’m serious, ___, come,” Mikayla presses. “I’ll make sure you won’t have to talk to Chris, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Your phone slips from your grip and lands right on your nose. Even though your hatred for your ex is a universally known fact, like yeah, you would rather poke your eyes out than ever have to be in the same room as him again, she doesn’t have to say it out loud. Everyone knows you’re over it anyways. You roll onto your side, cradling the bridge of your nose that’s surely broken now.

“Dude I don’t give a fuck if he’s there or not, I’m just busy,” you reply, overly defensive. “I have to finish this paper.”

The shuffling around her room promptly comes to a halt. You can’t see her, but you know her eyebrow is raised. “Well damn, I didn’t know this paper suddenly meant so much to you,” she laughs, “it’s fine though, just stay home then I guess.”

“I mean it doesn’t but I wanna pass, don’t I?”

“Don’t know why you’re asking me but a night out’s never stopped you from passing before.” Her reply is absent minded. Her purse jingles through the speaker as she fills it with her lipgloss and keys.

You scoff and return to laying on your back, watching the clock tick and tick. You’ve never been one to pass on a night out, and with good luck and discipline through several hangovers, your grades have also never taken a hit. This paper’s no exception. The both of you know it. 

“I just haven’t even started yet,” you continue, glancing at the empty doc on your Mac. “And I have no idea what the fuck is going on in this chapter.”

“Dude, I said it’s fine. If you need to finish it, you can just come next time,” she replies, chuckling softly at the end.

For some reason, one you will not admit or name, her laughter bothers you. 

For some reason you take it personally when she insinuates you’re not actually busy, and it offends you that she doesn’t believe this paper is the reason you can’t go. 

And you know she’s just trying to be a good friend—that she called you with the sole intention to remind you that ‘we’re never gonna be this young and hot at this party again fuck your ex!’—but you can’t help the irritation bubbling in the middle of your chest. 

“I do need to finish it and you’re really distracting me so like.. are you done? Can you go?” 

Her mouth is hanging open when the line is silent for a few seconds. You instantly feel bad for snapping at her and you’re about to apologize when she replies. “Was just about to head out, so yeah. Hope you have fun with that.”

The call ends before you can even respond, leaving you feeling ridiculous and even more annoyed. You realize how dramatic you’re being, but your stubbornness doesn’t let you call back to say sorry right now. Instead, you toss your phone to the end of your bed.

Your room suddenly feels overwhelmingly quiet and Mikayla’s voice replays in your head, filling you with pure guilt. You groan and drag a hand over your face. 

The least you can do now is actually write your paper, so with a heavy sigh, you chug the remaining half of your Redbull and try to focus. It takes a few minutes for your regretful words to subside, but once they do, you fall into the assignment easily. 

Some time passes and your phone rings again at your feet. 

And see this is why you love Mikayla. As much as you guys bicker and clash, you both understand that it’s all with love. Your arguments last a day at most before one of you apologizes, and then it’s right back to your normal. 

Mindlessly you answer the phone and the last traces of your guilt dissolve. You take the chance to apologize to your friend. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you—”

“___.”

And that is not Mikayla. 

You recognize the voice instantly. It’s a sound you have spent the past five months trying to forget, along with the person attached to it—the perfect mess of curls, the most beautiful blue eyes, the deceiving smile of a mouth that knows every inch of your body.

You need to hang up, need to say ‘wrong number’ and end the call now. But for all your pride, all your carefully constructed walls, you don’t. 

“What do you want, Chris?” 

—

This isn’t the first time you’ve ever left the house late at night to make a horrible decision. Typically Mikayla and some other friends even tag along with you, but tonight they’re all at that party.

It’s a comforting fact, because if she knew where you were going right now she’d be scolding your ear off. Wouldn’t that suck? 

Sounds better than the way your own conscience won’t stop calling you a stupid fucking idiot. 

It’s almost midnight, but multicoloured lights still slip through the cracks of your roomies’ closed doors as you step into the hallway. 

Through the muffled walls you recognize ‘10 minute instant abs - no equipment required’ streaming from one room, and a vulgar, vulgar game of League happening in the other. At least the two of them are spending their night wisely. 

The sleepy hum of your house is broken by a third phone call of the night. It rings in your hand, and when you glance at the screen, you choke. Of course. It’s Mikayla. It’s like she knows you’re leaving.

“___!” she shouts. Her voice is scratchy and barely cuts through the heavy bass of music around her.

“Dude it’s so fucking loud,” you grimace, pulling the phone slightly from your ear. 

“What?! Dude it’s so fucking loud I can’t hear you.” 

Her response makes you laugh as you head out the front door, making sure you’re out of earshot from anyone in the house to reply a little louder. “Can you hear me now?” 

Not any softer, she replies, “Barely, yeah. Are you done with your paper?”

A cool breeze hits you as you cross the driveway to your car. 

“Not even close,” you say. Her question reminds you of your earlier apology—the one you started to the wrong person—so you try again. “Also I’m sorry I yelled at you about it earlier–”

“Stop, it's okay. Forget about the paper, that's not why I’m calling.” You’re cut short again, and her voice raises a little with excitement. “Chris isn’t here.” 

You pause. Maybe it’s the caffeine coursing your veins or simply pure adrenaline, but your heart skips at the mention of his name. The information doesn’t come as a surprise. You already know he’s not at the party, and in fact, you even know why. 

But you don’t tell her.

“Oh my god, wait really?” You cringe at the fake wonder in your voice. 

“Yeah, Nick said he’s not feeling well or something so he didn’t come,” her explanation is eager, along with her next words. “Fucking pussy.”

You chuckle awkwardly at her statement and slip into your driver’s seat. Before you can respond, she continues. “Just leave the paper for tomorrow and come.” Her words drag in a subtle beg. 

Under any other circumstance, her compelling argument would have worked. Girls night with no ex—the persuasion couldn’t be any simpler. 

The universe must be testing you, giving you a chance to walk away from self sabotage instead of straight into it like you are now. But you’re a stupid fucking idiot. So you lie.

“I don’t know Mickey, like I actually need to finish this paper.” Your stomach curls with guilt from how easily the words slip from your mouth. “I think I’m gonna stay home.”

She sighs. “You’re also a fucking pussy.”

Her words offend you a little, but they offset the guilt leveling in your stomach. You lie to her about Chris, she compares you to him. Same thing essentially. You try to laugh it off. “I know I’m sorry.” 

“I’m kidding, dude, it’s fine.” Despite how loud she’s still talking over the music, her tone is more understanding than it’s been all night. “Just wanted to double check on you, thought you might change your mind.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut, knocking your head on the steering wheel. You feel so bad. “No don’t even worry about me,” you say through gritted teeth. “You have fun.”

She lets out a laugh. “Bitch tell that to yourself, I feel like I need to take a shot for you, you sound so stressed.”

And the universe must be mocking you.

“Please do, I really am.” 

Her heels click again and on the other end of the line, Mikayla’s already finding the bar. Oblivious to the actual source of your anxiety, she quickly shoos you away, “Okay yeah no, go finish your thing, you’re actually making me anxious.”

You wish she’d just stayed irritated with you a little longer and didn’t call. That way the only poor decision you’d be making tonight would be agreeing to meet up with your ex. A horrible idea in itself, sure, but at least you wouldn’t be lying to your best friend too. 

Too late to turn back on either now.

—

The drive from Somerville to the bus in Boston isn’t long, but it’s far enough for you to overthink everything. 

‘Nothing’s gonna happen,’ he said he only wants to talk. There’s no truth in his words and you know it, because unlike yourself, Chris has always been a very good liar. Those same words are the very reason you two broke up and they’re the source of all your hatred and suffering, but no matter how much you place him at fault for all your heartbreak, in hindsight, you realize you are also partly to blame…

The sun was shining bright through your bedroom window, warm but nothing like the arm Chris held around your waist. For the first time in two months, you woke up with him beside you in bed, and everything was perfect, and simple, and so, so deceiving. 

You were aimlessly scrolling through tik tok, keeping yourself entertained as Chris slept beside you when a specific post caught your attention. 

“Christopher Sturniolo finally confirms lucky mystery girl,” you read softly. It was classic clickbait. Dramatic and attention grabbing, and something a fan or follower would fall for if they didn’t know any better. With a chuckle, you swiped right. “Wonder who it is this time.”

Rumors weren’t hard to come by as Chris’s girlfriend. Fans had been suspicious of his hidden relationship for months now. 

And yes, they were always onto something with the boys. There was the car accident death hoax a couple years back, and the monthly ‘omg they’re quitting they hate us fuck im gonna kms’ allegations. Usually nonsense. 

But for once, although they didn’t know it was with you, they were right that he was in love. 

Chris never confirmed nor denied the rumors. As much as you wished he would; wished he would claim you with a kiss or hold your hand in public, he always chose to prioritize your peace. Any trace of your relationship was kept hidden from the internet, buried in the safety of real life. Its existence belonged only to you, Chris, and the few people you both trusted most. 

You told yourself that was enough. That in the quiet, away from jealous envy-filled eyes, every kiss and every hug and every ‘I love you’ you shared meant more. That privacy made it sacred. That what was hidden was more real, more honest. 

So when you swiped right, you expected nothing more than the usual—maybe him in a fan edit with one of his friends, or a silly AI photo kissing a stranger he’s never met before. You thought it would be anything but this. 

You were staring at a paparazzi picture. The shot was a little grainy and taken from far away, but the unreleased Fresh Love cap on his head was crystal clear, holding back his hair as he sat in a hot tub with his brothers, a couple friends, and a girl on his lap. 

The hairs on your arms instantly stood tall. 

You recognized her. She was the one in their most recent photo dump, the one in the background of their January vlog, the one Chris always defended when fans would send hate for simply being in their presence. She was the one he claimed was just a friend. 

You scanned the picture carefully, because you thought maybe you were missing a detail or your brain was playing a funny trick, but the longer you stared at it, the more you noticed. 

His arm was wrapped comfortably around her waist, and she smiled at him with crimson red lips that were slightly smudged along the edges. The remnants of it were painted along Chris’s lips and neck. 

And suddenly, you felt so uncomfortable in his grip. The weight of his arm was suffocating, holding you the same way he was holding her. 

“Chris, wake up,” you said. Your voice was steady despite the tears you felt already welling in your eyes. 

He hummed and stirred for a second, but tightened his grip as he replied. “It’s so early, baby…” 

It was a nickname he’d been calling you for 3 years now, but hearing it in that moment made you feel so dirty. Like the meaning of it was rotten, and calling you it poisoned your stomach entirely. You wanted to vomit. 

“Please, Chris,” you insisted, a little more firmly this time, pushing his arm from your waist. 

He rolled over on his back, and the second he let go, you sat up. 

“Are you okay?” He asked, more alert now with your unusually distant movements. 

You looked at him. He was sitting up now too, genuine concern laced through his tired eyes. For a second you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because asking Chris ‘are you cheating on me?’ felt so outrageous and wrong. 

Instead you looked to your lap at the photo on your phone. A tear landed on the screen when you blinked, and you took a deep breath before turning it to him. 

“Who is this?” You asked hesitantly. 

You watched the colour drain from his skin when his eyes finally focused. He strained his neck forward and his brows furrowed, like he was also trying to confirm what he was seeing. “Oh it’s not what it looks like, nothing happened, I promise—“

You cut him off. “But why is she on your lap?”

“She’s just a friend,” he replied, like reflex. It didn’t answer your question at all and it made your vision blur. He was still defending her, against you of all people.  

“So you just let all your friends sit there?” The back of your throat was burning—obvious in the way your voice broke at the end. 

“No…” he started, “it was just this one time I swear,” then amended, finishing with another excuse. He didn’t even sound like he was being defensive, but like he actually believed that made it okay.

You gave him a hopeless, watery laugh. “Is that her lipstick on your neck?” 

Chris’s mouth fell open at the question. He stared at you for a second then looked at the picture once more. The detail was small and hard to see at first glance, but you caught the flicker of regret in his features the moment he noticed it. 

His expression fell when he looked back to you, waiting for his reply. His eyes shifted between yours, and the silence stretched a little longer before he sighed. He didn’t have another excuse.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. 

Although you were prying the words from his lips, needing to hear him admit it himself, your heart cracked at his apology. You were already so close to losing it, so close to breaking, and the confession made your tears fall over the edge. 

Chris’s heart began to race at the sight of your tears. “___ I’m sorry, I never meant for it to get this far.” He said quickly, remorse clear in his voice as he instinctively tried to wipe your eyes. 

But the brush of his thumb against your cheek made you flinch away, your brain catching on his words. “This far?” You asked, brows pinching. “How far exactly has this gotten?”

His face pulled into one of guilt at the recognition of what he’d just admitted. He began to shake his head and his mouth parted a few times before his shoulders rose in a hopeless way. He couldn’t bring himself to lie again, and he feels bad when he tells you the truth. “It’s been six months.”

A single scoff of disbelief passes through your lips. 

Now you always imagined that if you ever found yourself in this position, being cheated on, that you would simply get up and walk away. Infidelity is more than enough reason to move on. 

So while your brain was yelling at you to leave him there and that he didn’t deserve your tears, the biggest part of your heart, the part that loved Chris, was fighting so hard to deny it.  

It frustrated you, because you really didn’t want to be crying. You were doing your best to keep it together because you weren’t pathetic. You were not going to beg for a spot in his life. But you couldn’t help your tears, and that only made them fall more.

You had to stand up from the bed and face away from him. Like looking up at the ceiling was the only way to stop your eyes. Feelings of defeat and anger and betrayal continued to splinter painfully through your heart.

After a deep breath, you finally spoke. “Did she know about me?” 

It was self-sabotage to even ask. 

You just thought that maybe—if she kissed him knowing he had a girlfriend, if he held her while she knew you existed—then that would have to mean that she agreed to be the second option. That even though there were two of you, Chris still picked you first. That this whole time, he really was hiding you for your peace, and not just hiding you from her. 

“No, she didn’t,” he replied with a sigh. 

It was the response you were expecting but you still exhaled pain. How could you be so naive?

You squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head. “Were you ever gonna tell me?” 

Chris got up from the bed and took a tentative step to stand behind you. 

He was going to tell you, he really was. Guilt gnawed at his mind constantly. He always told himself he would come clean the next time he saw you, that you deserved to hear it face to face at the very least. But then next time would come and the week would be so perfect together, and he’d end up on the plane back to LA telling himself the same thing once again. Next time.

He knew it was no excuse, so he stayed silent. 

The quiet pulled violently at the knot in your gut.

“So how long were you planning to lie?” You asked. You could feel clips of anger start to replace the sadness in your chest, your voice coming out a little harsher than before.

“I’m sorry—“

A defeated sigh escaped your lips. “Stop apologizing,” you said, tilting your head back. “How long were you gonna lie to me?” 

Behind you, his own eyes began to sting. “I was going to tell you, I swear… I just… things got complicated.” 

It was a worthless response, yet you paused to let his explanation sink in. You were trying to see his point of view. Not because what he did was okay, you just wanted to understand why he thought hurting you for this long was. 

From every angle you looked at it, the reality of the situation was that he was simply wrong. 

“No it couldn’t have been that hard, Chris,” you tell him, a little desperately because he should have known that. 

“You could’ve ended things with me. You could’ve told me when it started. You could’ve come clean when you realized what you were doing wasn’t just a mistake. This was all a choice. Like you chose this.” 

Cheating was so easily avoidable. 

So when you turned to face him and were met with his own glossy eyes, the sight clouded your vision with anger. You couldn’t help your scoff of laughter or the words that followed. “Why the fuck are you crying?”

Chris winced at the venom in your voice. He rolled his lips between his teeth and stayed quiet. A single tear slipped down his cheek. 

You took a step closer. “Say something, like you don’t get to cry. You’re the one who fucking did this. You’re the one who lied.” 

You didn’t really know what you wanted him to say, but his silence was triggering. Because it felt like he was protecting himself, or like he didn’t really care about the conversation, or like he was relying on you to fix his mistake. 

Your own eyes were now pouring freely with tears. 

“I trusted you. I never questioned you because I fucking trust you, Chris. I never doubted you when you said she was just a friend. I never wanted to hold you back from the life you guys have built down there.” 

You shoved a finger at his chest with every sentence, piercing every word through his skin. Even though these were your decisions, you needed him to realize how unfair this was to you. 

“And you just came back every time. You pretended like nothing was wrong. You kissed me. You slept in my bed.” You looked at him for a moment. “Like how many times did we fuck just for you to go sleep with her too?” The words were hissed with so much hatred, the kind you could only feel after so much love— “Every time you said you loved me, when did you stop meaning that?”

His hands cupped your cheeks at those words, and this time you didn’t pull away from his touch. His composure was breaking and it was written all over his face, how much it hurt him to hurt you, even though his actions were intentional all this time. 

“I never stopped ___, I do love you.” he whispered.

“No I love you Chris.” You corrected him, begging him to understand. “I love you. I never would have done this to you.”

You stared at each other for a long second. You could see everything in his face now—regret, panic, guilt, grief. But that didn’t make it enough.

“I don’t know how you could do this to me, and mean it when you say you love me…”

The steering wheel is cold under your palms, a single tear slipping down your cheek at the memory. Maybe this is a really bad idea. Nothing good is going to come from seeing him again.

You should just go home.

—

You knock on the bus door.

It echoes around the empty parking lot of the venue and you feel immediate regret, like the sound of it has finally knocked some sense into you, too. 

Silence hangs in the air for about a minute before you sigh heavily and glance at your surroundings. You don’t know what you’re looking for exactly. Perhaps a bear or maybe a house fire. Any reason to get away from this bus. But the area is calm and still and quiet as ever.

When a cool breeze flows through your hair, irritation swells through your chest. 

“Is he actually serious right now?” You mutter under your breath. 

You cross your arms against the cold and take a step back to look through the window for any sign of movement. Even though it’s tinted, the lights seem to be off inside. 

You huff and knock again. This time the banging can surely be heard from inside, yet after a couple seconds, there’s still no response. Your irritation quickly becomes restless. 

Of course he would do this. 

Of course he made you drive all the way down here. He made you ditch all your friends and your stupid paper and made you waste all your gas to stand outside this bus like an idiot. This is such a waste of time. This is all his fault. If he wasn’t a lying asshole it wouldn’t be so cold and windy right now, and you could be doing literally anything else but—

“___,” Chris calls from behind.

You flinch out of your thoughts and your heart instantly picks up in pace. 

It’s a natural fight or flight response, only your body can’t tell if it’s from being startled, or from standing in the presence of your cheating ex for the first time in five months. Against your instincts, you turn towards the source. 

Fuck. 

He’s even more gorgeous than the last time you saw him. 

He’s wearing sweats and a light stubble shadows his face, yet somehow he still looks clean and put together. His curls have grown slightly, and maybe it’s just the cause of five months of time, but the scruff makes him look a little older. 

On his feet, he’s wearing boots. They’re big and black and you’ve never seen him wear them before. But you can recognize Balenciagas, and they’ve made his presence so tall as he strides towards you—frantically and rushed. 

“Sorry, were you waiting long? I had to drop off Nick and Matt,” he starts explaining, “would’ve just made them uber or something if I knew how busy downtown is right now.”

The cool air becomes slightly dense with tension when he reaches your side. It’s not entirely uncomfortable, it feels familiar, just somewhat tainted. 

“Couple minutes,” you reply, keeping the rest of your thoughts about his punctuality to yourself. 

You hug your sweater tighter around your body like a make-shift shield against the cold, but also against him. The zipper suddenly catches your interest. Fiddling with it helps you avoid eye contact by making you look occupied.

“Right,” he nods. Silence settles between the two of you for a second, before he thinks of another thing to say, “how was the drive?”

Despite the ease in his voice, you can tell he’s nervous too. 

Chris stands before you, stiff and looking at the ground beneath his feet. Similarly evading your gaze just like you’re doing with his. He’s clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides before he shoves them deep into his pockets. 

Looking back, you feel like you did so much of the talking that morning in your bedroom. Probably too much, if you’re being honest. You feel like you never really gave yourself the time to hear his side or a proper chance to take in his apology. It’s the closure you’re missing. 

So this time, you want him to do most of the talking. Want him to actually give you answers, at the very least. Of all the things you deserve after everything he put you through, an explanation for his actions feels like the bare minimum.

Which is why you don’t sound very enthusiastic when you finally reply, “so you called me here for small talk?” 

Chris pokes his tongue to his cheek at your stubborn, slightly irritated tone.

“You’re the one who called. You’re ditching your own party,” you wave your hand at him, indicating you want him to get on with it. “Must have something important to say.”  

A staring contest ensues as you force yourselves to look at each other. Your stomach shrivels over the awkwardness and a slight twinge of pain cramps your heart. It never used to be this hard to look at him. 

"Yeah, it is important," he claims, voice low. 

For a second, he thinks about staying quiet, because he doesn’t really know how to go about the conversation at this point. But he reminds himself he can’t. Not anymore. For whatever sliver of decency he has left, he needs to say something. 

"I wanted to apologize to you."

You cast your eyes down, fixing them once again on your zipper. Cold air stings your lungs when you take a deep breath and ask, “are you still with her?” 

The question leaves your mouth before you can rethink it. You ask because you know what it’s like for him to lie to you. And if he’s still with her, if she has no idea he’s here with you, you’re not about to be part of it again. 

His eyes flicker with shame, but he shakes his head. 

“No,” he says bluntly. “Swear to god I told her everything. That same day, I told her about us… about everything. It was over after that.”

You roll your lips between your teeth and nod slowly. The motion feels mechanical. Like your body knows it’s the expected thing to do, even if your heart is somewhere else entirely.

It should’ve made you feel better to hear him say that. That he ended it. That he told her the truth. She deserved to know, too, at the very least. 

But your stomach still twists. Because none of it undoes what he did. None of it changes the fact that he cheated on you.

You try to keep your face more or less neutral when you look back up at him. Then once again, like months before, you start looking for answers. "Why did you do it?"  

Chris’s jaw tightens at the question and he brings a hand through his hair. You know he’s fighting for the right thing to say, brows pinching as he thinks intently for an answer you deserve. Yet everything seems to fall short.

Still, he tries.

"I don’t know," he says quietly, voice unstable, "I wish I had something better to give you than that, but... I don’t."

You nod and you stay silent. Your gaze presses heavy on him, forcing him to continue.

"I think I was just scared," he eventually admits, shifting his weight between his heels. "I didn’t know how to deal with everything– the distance, I mean. Things were getting so busy with youtube and we couldn’t come home as often anymore." 

It’s not an excuse, yet pesky pinpricks of tears sting the back of your eyes. You’re not entirely sure why. You know you don’t feel bad for him. Maybe it’s just the weight of everything hitting you all at once, finally hearing an explanation for a situation you’ve spent the past five months trying so hard not to blame yourself for. 

"I felt like… I don’t know, I felt so alone," he concedes, "and instead of talking to you about it, I wanted something easy. And seeing her didn’t scare me as much."

The words almost feel worse than if he just kept lying or said nothing at all. 

You didn’t know what to expect coming here tonight, but you hadn’t planned on feeling this wound again. So raw and fresh. But here it is, clawing its way up your throat, constricting any ability for you to speak. Any ability for you to stop him.

So he keeps going. 

"I regret it," he says, voice cracking under the truth. "Every second. I regret everything I did to you. I regret not telling you sooner. I regret ever hurting you the way I did in the first place."

He inhales a shaky breath, taking a step closer.

"It’s just.. I'm hurting too,” he finishes softly. He hopes that if he says it quietly enough, it won’t sound like an insult.

You let out a breathless laugh in response. Nothing is funny. Everything he said is just so wildly unfair.

A heavy silence settles between you. It gives you a second to think, to consider what you even want to say. How vulnerable you’re willing to get. Your mouth opens before you even get to decide.

“Being with her scared you less than talking to me...” you repeat, more as a statement than a question. 

Chris doesn’t have to hear you say any more to know you’re hurt once again. The tone of your voice is unsure, and the pain in it is elusive, but he knows. Of course he does. You were together for years, he knew you better than anyone else at one point in time. 

So as hard as you try to hide behind a veil of composure, he easily pinpoints the cadence of sadness in your words, “...and you think you’re hurting?”

“I am. I miss you everyday, I feel horrible.” 

Such a sick, grossly feeling comes over you. 

"Yeah but not like me," you start, hot tears brimming to the forefront of your eyes. "You’re hurting because you feel guilty. I'm hurting because you let me believe I was right to trust you."

Despite wanting to meet his eyes and seem untouched by what he did, you can’t. Despite how badly you want to prove you’re past this, that you’ve healed and grown and it doesn’t hurt so bad anymore, the truth is, it does. 

“I couldn’t eat for weeks afterwards. I couldn’t leave my bed. I cried everyday,” you tell him.

You don’t mean to undermine his feelings and you’re not trying to ask for pity. But you just need him to understand that the pain he’s feeling is self-inflicted, and cannot compare to the involuntary suffering he’s put you through. 

“I feel like I'm never gonna be able to trust someone again, and I hate you for it.” 

And you know Chris, too. Know exactly which of his buttons to push. Reminding him that he had someone who loved him completely, and he ruined them in return, will hurt him exactly how you want it to.

He winces at your words. 

He knows he should explain. 

Say sorry.

Beg, if he has to.

But he can’t seem to get a single thought out.

It’s like the apology he’s spent months rehearsing is stuck somewhere deep in his chest. Weighed down by everything he’s done, and by the unbearable truth of how much he’s broken you in ways he can never take back.

All he can do is stand there and hope you give him a second. And maybe another. Just enough time to try and pull himself together, even though he’s already been given so many chances, and has wasted every single one.

In the few seconds that pass, you wipe your cheeks with your sleeves, blinking hard and furious at yourself for letting your tears fall. Then for the briefest, most fleeting moment, your expression softens.

It’s barely there. So quick, but he doesn’t miss it, the tiniest crack in the wall you’ve built up between you two.

He knows it’s not forgiveness. He’s foolish, but not enough to believe that you could ever forgive him again. It’s just like there’s still a part of you, buried under all the pain, that is still showing him the most undeserved compassion. Beneath everything he ruined, there’s still a part of you that wishes things could be different. 

Chris gets caught up in it. In the glimpse of what he thinks he sees, in the small chance of reconciliation that he has no right to hold onto. So much so that he almost misses it when it slips away. 

Your shoulders slump. Your chest caves in. And whatever fragile hope he sees on your face collapses into disappointment.

He knew you would still be sad. He knew you’d be hurt and he was prepared, or at least he thought he was, to stand here tonight and take responsibility for all the ways he let you down.

But he wasn’t ready for this.

Wasn’t ready for the way you seem to turn all your sadness inwards. Wasn’t ready for the way you look at yourself, and not at him, like you are the one who made the mistake. Like the real shame isn’t what he did, but that you let yourself come here and believe things would be any different.

Chris stands useless and silent when you shake your head in defeat. 

He’s frozen, until you turn to walk away.

“Wait, don’t–” he stops, voice cracking open between you.

His hand is around your wrist before you can step back, eliciting a small gasp from your lips as he pulls you close. He’s suddenly towering over you, the warmth of his body surrounding yours entirely, his breath fanning small puffs of fog in the cold. “I’m sorry, ___.”

You dare yourself to look into his eyes. You couldn’t tell from a distance, but face to face you can see now that they’re red-rimmed from fighting his own stubborn tears. “I just needed to see you one more time,” he says.

You blink.

The finality of his statement shifts the weight of the atmosphere instantly. 

His gaze burns, and it becomes a stark contrast to the air that seems to have turned to ice around you. Tension starts to crackle in the small space between your bodies. 

The same pull that once made it so easy to fall for him hits you all over again, and despite the effort you’ve made to forget it over time, resisting it now feels useless. 

You know you shouldn’t give in, you know you need to leave him here now, but trying to fight such a magnetic force seems impossible when his hold has ignited an ache in your body for the connection—for his touch. 

What’s one more time in the grand scheme of things?

You swallow hard, heart racing in your ears. “Well I’m right here, aren’t I?” You test. “Small talk not enough for you?”

Once again, he’s silent. His gaze flickers between your eyes, searching for the meaning behind your words. He can’t understand completely, but when he loosens the grip on your wrist and you don’t pull away, he becomes a little more sure of his movements. 

When he speaks again, he counters. “Say you don’t want this, and I’ll let you walk away.” His voice is low, barely above a whisper, but he doesn’t move back. 

Instead he leans in even closer, like he already knows you won’t say no. You can see it written all over his face. The faux concern. The way he’s making it seem like you have an option in this when he has already decided for you. You can feel it in the heat radiating off his touch, moving his hand from your wrist to the nape of your neck. And because he knows you, he’s right.

On instinct, you tilt your head upwards, surrendering permission.

Only he needs to hear you say it.

“Please, ___,” he whispers, “Tell me you want this too.”

For a second, you almost hold out. 

For a second, you remember everything he’s done. Everything he ruined. Everything he doesn’t deserve.

But then your mind betrays your heart before you can second guess it, and the words slip past your lips.

“I want you, Chris.”

You barely finish speaking before he’s on you. 

There's no hesitation, no second chance to take it back. His lips catch your own and are burning with longing and desire, obvious in the way he wraps you up in his arms and practically merges your body with his. Your nerves light with need under his touch, muddling your thoughts and all your pride along with it. 

This is so wrong. 

Chris is your ex for a reason. Going back to him, even just for tonight, is the lowest betrayal you could inflict on yourself. But as your hands pull him closer, as his lips part so easily for you, as adrenaline and lust bleed into every frantic movement you share, you’re willing to abandon every last one of your morals in exchange for just five more minutes in his arms.

You don’t know who moves first. Whether you’re dragging him or he’s steering you. But you’re moving, stumbling blindly into the bus without ever breaking apart. The second you’re inside, he’s kicking the door shut behind him without even looking, sealing you both in the heavy, intoxicating heat of the hallway that has nothing to do with the temperature.

You both strip off your sweaters and kick your shoes aside without a word, urgency pulsing between you, just before he pushes you flush against the coat hanger closet. A gasp slips from your lips at the cold on your back. You can already feel the familiar pulse between your thighs throb more and more as a wet patch dampens your panties, exposing how much you crave this. You know he feels it too. His sweats leave little to the imagination.

Your hand slips between your bodies on instinct, trailing your nails down his stomach until your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his pants. 

Chris groans into your mouth the second you wrap your hand around him. The sound is so raw and so desperate and it shoots directly through your spine. His hips jerk against your touch, chasing the friction. He’s sticky against your palm as you pump him once more, slow and deliberate, just to hear him curse under his breath again.

“Fuck,” you whimper. 

You squeeze your thighs together at the way he feels, because in your palm, Chris is so hard. His cock is thick, and long. It’s pulsing, twitching sometimes when you touch him in the ways you remember he likes. 

He brings his hand to your wrist once again, urging you to grip him tighter, stroke him faster. “Just like that,” he moans.

His mouth hangs open and you look down. You can’t see much in the dimly lit space of the bus, but you can tell how badly he wants this. The way he gets impossibly harder in your palm, the wetness that taints your thumb every time you brush over the tip—it’s all a complete giveaway. His breath comes in deep pulls, his chest heaving against yours.

You bring your lips along his jaw until he’s tilting his head, exposing his neck for you to place a wet kiss along the column of his throat.  

“Do you pretend other girls are me when they touch you like this?” You ask, the question coming out airy and light with arousal. “I know they don’t even come close to how you feel when you’re inside me.”

Chris’s stomach tenses and contracts at the perfect sound of your voice. In his state, his pride has also faded, so he doesn’t stop himself when he admits, “there haven’t been any other girls…since that day I haven’t– wait, I–.” He pauses, squeezing your wrist slightly to try and slow your movements. “Fuck, slow down– I’ll cum.”

Your pussy throbs at the confession. “Yeah?” You hum. Your other hand slips between his legs to fondle his balls. A gasp falls from his lips, and despite his oppositions, he spreads his legs wider for you, angling his hips so you can touch him better. “Too guilty to move on?”

His breath continues to fall short and ragged by your ear. His free hand finds its way to your hip for support as you suck on the warmth of his neck, pulling a groan from his throat that buzzes against your lips. 

“___,” he says, voice strained. The call of your name is a warning, but he’s not even really sure what for. Is he trying to stop you before he comes like a horny teen? Or is he begging for more, so for the first time in months, he can finally finish in a hand that’s not his own?

You grin against his skin, pressing a soft kiss to his neck once more before pulling away to look up at him. Your brows instinctively pinch together, mirroring the way his are pulled tight in pleasure. You can’t help but mock him again. 

“Can’t believe you threw this all away for her.”  

The reminder causes frustration to blaze through his aroused eyes and it only turns you on more. Before you can stroke him again, he grabs your wrists and rips your hands from his pants, spinning you around in one harsh motion. 

You gasp as your chest hits the wall with a dull thud. His body pins yours in place, hard cock grinding against the curve of your ass through your clothes.

“You think I don’t get it?” he pants into your ear.

Chris’s lips harshly meet the side of your neck before you can even respond, making your breaths go up in pitch as his hands move all over your body. One of his palms settles over your tit, fingers kneading through the lacy fabric of your bra before pinching your nipple tight between his fingertips. The other drags around your waist, slipping into your waistband and finding your soaked pussy with no hesitation.

You cry out when two fingers thrust inside you without warning.

“I regret it everyday,” he mutters, fingers curling deep inside you at a relentless pace. The sound of your wetness echoes in the cramped space around you. “She got to be seen, while I kept this—you—hidden.” 

His hand leaves your breast and moves to your throat, firm and steady, pressing just enough to leave you dizzy.

“I should’ve shown them,” he hisses. “Should’ve let the whole fucking world see who you are when you fall apart for me.” He pushes his fingers deeper. “Nobody knows you only come apart like this for me, no?”

Your walls clench around his fingers, pulling them even further inside. Your tits press harder into the wall, crushed against the surface. The friction of your bra rubbing against your nipples sparks a jolt of heat through your body at each shift. His cock throbs against your ass from behind, and the hand at your throat tightens just enough to make the edges of your vision blur.

He knows your body so well.

Knows exactly how to unravel you. 

And he knows no one else has ever even come close.

Chris drives his fingers into you harder, dragging a shattered moan from your throat. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he growls.

The pad of his thumb is suddenly pressing into your clit and your entire body is overcome with chills. He works direct pressure in circular motions, keeping the stimulation pinpointed as his fingers continue to fuck you. Your knees buckle forward and hit the wall in front of you. You sigh and nod against the hand around your neck. 

“It’s just you, Chris,” you whine. “Only you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Your eyes fall shut as his fingers pump in and out of you, and you lean your head back against his chest. Your hips seem to have a mind of their own as they grind against his palm, matching his pace and chasing your high. Your moans begin to raise in pitch, and the familiar feeling quickly closes in, coiling tight in your lower belly. 

Just as you’re about to fall apart, Chris pulls his fingers from you, slipping out of your soaked panties with no warning. The sudden loss of friction makes the edge slip from your grasp and your orgasm fades into nothing. All that’s left is a pulsing ache and a frustration buzzing beneath your skin, sharp and unbearable.

You turn around, still breathless and flushed. Against the wall, Chris is leaning back like he has all the time in the world. His fingers glisten in the low light, and instead of wiping them clean, he brings them to his mouth, sucking them slow, like he’s tasting the proof of what you still are to him.

His eyes never leave yours. They burn with something between arrogance and hunger, daring you to say you don’t want more.

But you do.

“What the fuck, Chris?” You snap, shoving him hard in the chest. Aggravated tears fill instantly in your eyes. This is so cruel. “Fuck you!”

“Fuck me?” he murmurs, voice low and sharp. “You already look like you’re about to.”

A frustrated cry leaves your lips when you shove him again, once, and then twice, but he catches your wrists before you can hit him a third time. He yanks you into him and his mouth is on yours immediately, kissing you with a rough breathless urgency. You try to resist, pushing against his chest and writhing out of his grip. 

But eventually your body surrenders.

Because you still want this. You still need this, even after all that he’s said and done. And you hate yourself for how much you do.

Your arms wrap around his neck before you can stop yourself. The space between your bodies disappears, hips and chests aligned in a rhythm that neither of you can control. His hands are everywhere. Sliding up your sides, grabbing at your waist, curling into every inch of your skin. Lust is tangible in the air, just pouring from you both into the filthy atmosphere. 

His earlier words suddenly echo in your mind—‘I just needed to see you one more time.’ At the thought that this is never going to happen again, your kisses turn frantic and hard. Chris moves between your lips and your neck, glistening marks tainting here, there, everywhere. Soft moans shamelessly leave his lips, rough breath hitting your skin like he can’t get enough. He toys with the clasp of your bra, thinking about twisting it open but ends up leaving it alone. One track mind, taking over. 

The two of you move blindly through the narrow hallway, stumbling over a backpack and a case of water abandoned on the floor. You bump into a counter and something falls to the ground behind you, maybe a bottle or a decoration but neither of you flinch, never once breaking apart. 

You barely realize how far you’ve moved until your back hits the edge of something sturdy. You flinch at the impact, sucking in a breath as your fingers grip the surface behind you. Chris looks down, recognizing the dining table, but his attention doesn’t linger. His gaze flicks back to yours, and then he kisses you again, slower this time, like the chaos is settling into something heavier.

His hand comes to your hip, firm.

“Turn around,” he says.

And without thinking, you do.

He’s behind you now, the heat of his body unmistakable at your back. You try not to be eager, but your soaked pussy aches, making your movements crude as you roll your hips back against him, impatiently asking for whatever he’s going to do next. 

Chris doesn’t move at first. He just lets you grind against him, like he’s studying how badly you want it. How shameless you’ve become under his hands. Then, without a word, his palm drags up the back of your thigh, firm and slow, until it slips between your legs. He cups your pussy through your panties, fingers pressing into the damp fabric, and lets out a low exhale right against your ear.

“You’re so wet, baby,” he points out, running a finger over your clothed folds.

The pet name accidentally slips from his lips and makes you buzz, but you can only moan in response. There’s no point in denying how bad you want him when he can feel it, how you’re past the point of resistance, ready to give in just like he says you are. Like you both know you are.

He trails his fingers up your stomach, tracing a line up your torso, leaving heat in its wake, before reaching your shoulder. He pushes your hair aside and presses a kiss to the exposed skin.

Chris’s hand spreads wide between your shoulder blades and he pushes you down, bending you over the solid edge until the plush swell of your tits pillow against the table. The wood is cool against your chest, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling beneath your skin. He drags his fingertips lower, skimming the length of your spine until he reaches the waistband of your sweats. In one swift motion, he slides them down with your panties, making them gather at your ankles.

The cool air brushes over your bare skin and pulls a shaky breath of anticipation from your lips. Behind you, Chris settles his hands on your hips for a moment, biting his lip on a soft moan as his eyes train on your cunt. The way it clenches mindlessly around nothing, so wet and ready and perfect from his fingers alone. He could cum at the sight.

Oh, he’s missed this.

His hands briefly leave your side and you hear the low rustle of fabric behind you, then the dull sound of his sweats hit the floor. Your breathing stutters, shallow and uneven, the nerves hitting you all at once now that there’s nothing left between you. One of Chris’s palms finds your hip again, grounding you in place, while the other wraps around his cock.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t have to.

The tension says everything. This is happening because you both want it. Because you both need it.

Your next breath catches in your throat, and just like that, Chris slides between your folds. In one smooth, unforgiving push, he fills you completely, and it’s good. So mind-numbingly good. The moans that fall from your lips are synced, pleasure clear in how lewd and loud and so relieved you both sound. 

When he moves, he doesn't ease into it. He starts hard and fast, like neither of you have time to waste. Your palms press flat into the table as your body begins to jolt forward with the force of his thrusts.

With Chris inside of you, you almost let yourself forgive his mistakes. His stroke is so good and skilled, making you feel every inch of him every time he makes your hips meet. Pussy swallowing his cock, wet and slick. You never want him to leave, never want him to stop fucking you.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp, barely able to breathe.

Your body takes him like it never learned how to forget. Like it was waiting, tight, raw, and desperate for him. You spent months trying to fuck the memory out of yourself, hoping someone else could pull this from you. But nobody did. They barely scratched the surface.

Chris moves like he built the map. Every thrust hits deep. And it’s not just the stretch or the fullness. It’s the way he fits, the way he serves you, like your body was made to be fucked by him.

You’ve tried to mimic this with your own hands, but it was always a weak substitute for his cock. Nothing—not toys, not other men—ever came close. It was always shallow. Always empty. Chris has this way of hitting places you didn’t know existed, of filling you so completely that it borders on unbearable.

And now that he’s inside you again, it has all come back at once. It’s a rush. Like a drug relapse. Hot, heavy, all-consuming. This isn’t just pleasure. It’s need.

Your fingers claw at the edge of the wood, desperate for something to hold as he drives into you so well, cock dragging against every pulse and ridge of your tight walls. You’re stretched to your limit, stuffed full with no room to breathe.

“Fuck,” he grits out between thrusts. “You always feel so good around me.”

Chris’s pleasure has never been quiet. He’s shameless when he lets out sharp breaths, low groans, and the occasional whimper when you used to edge him just to watch him fall apart. He didn’t mind when you took control. Sometimes he liked it.

But not now.

Now you’re bent over, hands braced against the table while he fucks you hard and without pause. There’s no pretending who’s in charge. He’s got you exactly how he wants you.

And it feels insane how much you need it.

“Please,” you beg. “It feels so good, Chris, please. Don’t stop.”

Your words cause Chris to groan and shudder. His cock throbs, you can feel it jerk inside you. He has to slow down for just a moment, before he picks back up again, grabbing your hips and dragging you back into him, slamming deeper with every thrust. 

The guttural sound it pulls from your throat isn’t controlled. You don’t even try to hold it in. He hears his name, rough and desperate, and it only makes him fuck you harder.

He leans over you, strokes long and consistent, his chest brushing against your back. His lips are hot against your skin and suck along your shoulder in a way that’s more bruising than soft. After leaving a mark, he trails his mouth on the curve of your neck, then nips at your earlobe, making your whole body twitch.

One of his hands slides up and curls gently around your throat again. He draws you upright with him. Your back is flush to his chest, making your breathing shallow as the pressure sharpens your focus. Standing makes the angle deeper. Everything feels closer, heavier, like your body’s one touch away from unraveling.

“Fuck– I’m so close,” you moan.

You didn’t have to tell him. The tight clench of your walls around his cock is painfully familiar; Chris can tell. 

But at your words, his rhythm shifts and his thrusts increase in vigor, like he wants to push you there faster. Your breath shortens at the change, body tightening with every snap of his hips. Then his hand moves, sliding down your stomach and between your legs without warning.

When his fingers find your clit, everything stutters. Your back arches, your body pressing into his as your legs threaten to give out beneath you. His arm tightens around your middle and neck, holding you up like he already knew you'd fold.

He rubs your core quick and rough. Side to side with sharp pressure, right where it matters. Your moans rise, breath catching high in your throat as your stomach coils tighter, heat blooming low and fast.

Your pussy clenches around him, fluttering with each thrust, your body working against itself to keep up with how fast he's pulling you under.

“Cum, baby,” he coaxes into your ear. You can hear how much he struggles to hold back his own release as he talks. “Come on, you’re almost there. I can feel you.”

The slap of his hips is as loud as your moans, his words doing something insane to your body. You nod without thinking and reach back to hook your arm around his neck, needing something solid to hold onto. The pressure coils tighter in your gut, sharp enough to make your eyes squeeze shut, your grip around his neck locking down hard enough to almost choke him.

The hand at his neck surges another rush through his movements, and somehow Chris finds it in him to give you more. He digs in, moving into you faster, putting every last bit of strength into each brutal thrust.

Every second is faster than the last, wrecking your rhythm, tearing you closer to the edge without any way to pull back.

He sounds wrecked too. His breathing is loud and broken, groans ripping straight from his chest as he fucks into you without slowing down.

You’re right there. So close you can feel the crash coming.

He just needs to tighten his around your throat like this. Tear his fingers over your clit like that. Press his cock into that one spot deep inside you, over and over, merciless and exact until–

"Oh my god, I'm gonna cum–" you gasp out, words breaking apart.

It hits all at once. The overwhelming, devastating pressure in your stomach finally snaps, burning through you with a rush.

Your mouth falls open in a way that stops any sound from coming out. White spots litter the black conceals of your vision as you squeeze your eyes together, the pleasure ringing in your ears. Your body locks up, cunt clenching tight as you fall apart. Wetness spills out of you, creaming on his cock as he continues to fuck you through your high.

Behind you Chris groans against your skin at the swollen aftermath of your pussy. His hips can only jerk once, twice, and then his own release hits. He’s spilling inside you, thick and hot, fucking it deeper with a few broken, desperate thrusts. He’s so loud you’re half convinced someone will hear. You don't care.

Neither of you slow down. You keep dragging more out of each other, past the point of sensitivity, past the point of reason. Your nails dig into his skin, leaving scratches he’ll feel tomorrow, just like you’ll feel every bruise he stamps into your body.

The bus smells like sweat and sex and everything you’re not supposed to want anymore. But you cling to him anyway, stretching the night out just a little longer.

This isn’t a second chance.

It isn’t forgiveness.

It’s the last time you’ll ever get to pretend you still belong to each other.

And you hang on until you need to let go.

—

“Do you have to leave?”

Your fingers still as you zip up your hoodie. You glance over to Chris, clothed now in just his sweats, who watches you from the other side of couch.

You sigh. “I really shouldn’t have even come in the first place.”

“But you did,” he says. He moves to sit right beside you and places a gentle hand on your thigh, resting it where you used to let him touch you without thinking. His beautiful blue eyes, which were just blown out with pleasure, now search yours with subtle desperation. “You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t want to.”

Covering his hand with your own, you press your lips together and stare at him for a moment.

“It was a mistake,” you say simply.

His face falls, but you he doesn’t respond. Arguing now would be useless, he knows you’ve made up your mind. Your chest tightens slightly when his brows pinch and he shakes his head.

After tonight, sadness still finds its way into your heart, but it’s more for him than for yourself.

"I hope you take care of yourself, Chris."

With a final squeeze to his hand, you offer him a small smile and leave, clicking the door shut behind you without another word.

—

a/n: the ending of this is awful lmfao but thank u for readinggg<33 i started this on april 1st and wanted so badly to get it to u guys for the boston show but school and work didnt let it happen. so then i tried to post it at leasttt before tour ended lmfao but wtv. a day late but at least it’s here!!! lmk what u think!!!

[miapotterismyfav]

Innocence

———————————————

Summary: Sirius Black thought he had Y/N all figured out—until one offhand comment sends his world into a tailspin and unearths far more than he bargained for.

Matching: Siriusxfem!reader, Remusxfem!reader

Previous part, next part

———————————————

Chapter Two: Fact Confirming Mission Only

The library was too quiet for how loud Sirius felt.

He stormed through the rows like a one-man battalion, scanning tables, ears ringing with the words “Remus”, “gone”, and “wearing his jumper”. Marlene’s voice had echoed like a ghost all the way from the cupboard. And now, here Remus Lupin sat. Calm. Reading. Annotating a textbook like he wasn’t a traitor to all that was holy and good.

Sirius slammed his bag on the table.

Remus didn’t flinch. “Afternoon.”

“You,” Sirius said through gritted teeth, “have some explaining to do.”

Remus looked up slowly, quill poised mid-air. “Are you here about the chocolate frogs? Because I already told Peter I didn’t eat them.”

Sirius leaned in. “Did you or did you not sleep with Y/N?”

There was a pause. Remus blinked. “Pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“Loud and clear. Which is impressive, since this is a library,” he added pointedly, looking around.

Sirius grabbed a chair, sat down, and hissed, “Answer the question.”

Remus sighed, very put-upon. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“That’s not a no,” Sirius whispered, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not confirming or denying anything, Padfoot.”

“So yes,” Sirius said, throwing his arms out. “It’s a yes.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“You didn’t say no!”

“I also didn’t say I’ve snogged Rosmerta, but here we are.”

“Don’t do that thing where you get all logical and condescending, it makes me want to push you out a window.”

Remus closed his book slowly, placed his quill down like a man preparing for battle. “Are you upset because I’ve kissed someone, or because it was her?”

Sirius opened his mouth, then shut it again. “She’s not—She’s Y/N!”

“Yes,” Remus said dryly, “I’m aware. We’ve met.”

“She colour-codes her calendar by subject! She’s allergic to spontaneous fun! She turned down a dare to skinny dip in fourth year because, and I quote, ‘the lake isn’t heated.’”

Remus tilted his head. “And yet, somehow, she’s still managed to have a more interesting love life than you.”

Sirius stared at him like he’d been physically struck. “You’re—you’re dating?”

There was a pause. Remus looked away for a second too long. “We’re… talking.”

“‘Talking’?” Sirius repeated. “What is this, third year?”

Remus’s mouth twitched. “Fine. We’ve hooked up a few times. She’s… important to me.”

Sirius felt like someone had swapped out all the oxygen in the room. “Since when?”

“Since the New Year’s party,” Remus admitted. “But we’ve been… getting closer for a while.”

Sirius sat back hard, blinking. “You never said anything.”

Remus gave him a level look. “You never asked.”

—————————————————————————

Sirius stormed out of the library in a daze, only to land himself right in the middle of lunch. He moved like a man possessed, dropping into his seat at the Gryffindor table with all the grace of a falling bookshelf.

James raised an eyebrow from across the table. “You good, mate?”

“No,” Sirius muttered, ripping a bread roll in half with unnecessary aggression.

James followed his gaze across the hall, to the Slytherin table.

Y/N sat near the middle, head tilted in laughter, her elbow nudging Regulus Black of all people—his brother—who looked unusually relaxed, even slightly smug as he passed her something under the table. A letter? A Chocolate Frog? A declaration of eternal sin?

She smiled at whatever he said, nudging him with her shoulder like they’d been doing it for years.

Sirius clenched his jaw.

“She’s probably shagging him, too,” he muttered under his breath.

James froze, halfway to a bite of roast potato. “Who?”

“Regulus,” Sirius hissed. “My own flesh and blood.”

James blinked. “You think Y/N’s shagging your brother?”

“It makes perfect sense,” Sirius said darkly. “She’s playing the long game. Infiltrate the Marauders from within. She’s already got Remus, now she’s circling Reg to get to me. By Tuesday she’ll have my Gringotts account access and the bloody map.”

“You need to lie down.”

“She’s collecting us. Like cursed trading cards.”

“She smiled at him, mate. People do that. It doesn’t mean she’s plotting the downfall of your bloodline.”

Sirius shot him a betrayed look. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

“I am,” James said. “I’m seriously wondering if you’ve eaten enough today.”

Y/N laughed again—laughed—at something Regulus said, and Sirius felt his soul leave his body.

“I think I need to duel him.”

James choked. “You can’t duel your own brother over a girl you’re not dating.”

“It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t have principles, you have meltdowns.”

“She used to braid her hair so tight it squeaked when she turned her head,” Sirius whispered like a man remembering a past life. “She cried when I fell off my broom in first year. She saved me a seat in Potions every Monday.”

“And now she’s talking to your brother. The horror.”

“I liked it better when she was boring and safe and wore knee socks year-round.”

“She still wears knee socks, Sirius”

“Not for me, she doesn’t.”

Remus, who’d appeared behind them with a plate and a very knowing smirk, added unhelpfully, “She wore them last night.”

Sirius let out a strangled sound and collapsed face-first onto the table.

—————————————————————————

The Slytherin common room was blissfully quiet—aside from Regulus, who was currently trying to hex his own shoelaces into submission.

“You realise you could just untie them, right?” Y/N asked, flipping the page of her Charms notes without looking up.

“They’re cursed,” Regulus muttered, wand waving in frustration. “I can feel it.”

“You also thought the toast was cursed last week.”

“It was burnt in the shape of the Grimm.”

“It was the Ravenclaw crest, Reg. You’re not that special.”

He gave her an unimpressed glare and sat back with a defeated sigh, boots still tangled.

She smirked and tossed him a sweet from her pocket. “For the trauma.”

Regulus caught it, muttering a reluctant, “Thanks,” as she finally glanced up at him.

Despite being a Black, Reg had grown on her. Mostly because he was smart, sarcastic, and often looked like he was enduring a mental breakdown in muggle studies. Her kind of people.

The door to the common room opened and someone walked past, dropping to the lounge with a sigh. Dramatic entrance.

She blinked. Sirius.

She could feel him even before she looked.

Because of course he was here. Of course he’d found some excuse to storm down into Slytherin territory like a man on a warpath. He didn’t even acknowledge her. Just sat near the fireplace, talking loudly to a portrait about “ancient family betrayals” and “spiteful siblings.”

Y/N raised a brow at Regulus. “Is he broken?”

Reg didn’t look up from his shoelaces. “He’s been circling like a shark since breakfast. Started glaring at me halfway through my eggs.”

“Oh good,” she said dryly. “He’s added fratricide to the mood board.”

Regulus finally looked up, voice bored. “What did you do to him?”

She smiled innocently. “What makes you think I did anything?”

“Because he’s being Sirius. And you’re… you.”

She didn’t respond—just stood, stretched, and collected her things.

As she passed Sirius by the fire, she tossed him a lazy smile. “Nice of you to visit, Black. Trying to reconnect with your roots?”

He turned toward her a second too fast, expression somewhere between longing and unhinged. “I was just—”

“Don’t worry,” she said, stepping around him. “I’m sure she was worth the cupboard burn.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Before he could speak, she was already sweeping past.

—————————————————————————

Professor Green’s lecture on inferi was starting to feel like a lullaby. Y/N’s mind drifted, only half-paying attention to the professor’s drone about the dangers of corpses rising from the dead. She'd lived long enough in Slytherin to know the dead didn’t scare her. The living were far more dangerous.

The weight on the back of her neck told her that she wasn’t being left alone. It wasn’t the eyes of the professor, nor her classmates. It was his gaze.

Sirius Black. Of course. She felt his intense stare like a physical presence.

Glancing up lazily, she caught his gaze. He was sitting back, quill in hand, tapping it rhythmically against his bottom lip. It was like he knew the exact angle that would make her stomach twist—just enough to keep her on edge.

Y/N rolled her eyes and gave him an exaggerated yawn, tapping her fingers on her desk as if to signal her growing boredom with both the lesson and his silent theatrics.

Sirius tilted his head. His lips twitched into a half-smirk. Then, in the most Sirius of moves, he flicked a piece of parchment toward her.

The note landed on her desk with an almost too-perfect timing. She unfolded it without a hint of hesitation.

“You’re looking especially… studious today.”

Her lip curled into a smile despite herself. Sirius was insufferable, but she couldn’t help but enjoy his brand of torment. She scribbled back without even lifting her head from her notes.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to distract me.”

The note was back in an instant, this time a little more hurried, as if he was genuinely trying to provoke her.

“Distract you? I was just admiring the view. Those knee socks are hot.”

Y/N froze. She glanced at the note, then at Sirius, who was now looking at her with that infamous, half-amused, half-challenging expression.

She folded the note neatly and then sent it flying across the room, straight into his hands. The corner of her mouth twitched as he uncrumpled it eagerly.

“You’re quite right. If I were wearing knee socks, you’d be the last person to notice.”

This time, Sirius’s brow furrowed, but only for a second. He looked down at the parchment and then back at her, lips pulling into a grin.

“Touché, Y/N. But just so you know, I notice everything.”

She didn’t respond immediately, her eyes scanning the rest of the class. She could feel the pull of his attention, and it was the only thing she could focus on now. It wasn’t just Sirius Black. It was the anticipation of something unspoken hanging between them.

When the next note arrived, it was the final straw.

“So, is it true? About Remus?”

She felt her pulse quicken.

A subtle flash of something flickered in her chest as she took a breath, looked over at him, and then whispered without a second thought:

“It’s not your business, Black.”

He didn’t press further, but the smile didn’t leave his lips.

The class seemed to go on forever after that, the tension between them growing with every passing second. She didn’t know what it meant—didn’t want to. She wasn’t the type to get caught up in Sirius Black’s drama.

But for the rest of the lesson, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of his gaze.

—————————————————————————

The Black Lake sparkled under the late afternoon sun, its surface catching the light like glass. Y/N leaned back on her elbows, her green and silver tie loosened just enough to look casually disheveled, like she hadn’t tried at all (though she absolutely had). Her skirt rode a little higher when she stretched her legs out, and she didn’t bother fixing it. If people looked, let them.

Remus, sitting cross-legged beside her with a book half-forgotten in his lap, was definitely trying not to look. But his ears were pink.

“Something wrong, Lupin?” she asked, voice all honey and bite.

Remus blinked, like he’d just realised he was staring. “No—no, not at all. You’re just very distracting when you’re smug.”

She grinned. “I’m always smug.”

He gave a small, helpless laugh and glanced down at the book again, but his eyes didn’t move with the text.

Y/N let the breeze sweep through her hair as she plucked a blade of grass and twirled it between her fingers. “You know,” she mused, “I used to be terrified of talking to you.”

Remus looked up, startled. “Me?”

“Mm-hmm.” She smiled, a little wickedly. “You were quiet. Bookish. Serious. Intimidating.”

He snorted. “I was intimidating? You’re the one who had half the school convinced you had basilisk blood by third year.”

“That was an accident. I told one first-year he should watch where he’s going before he ends up cursed and the rumour just... grew.”

“I don’t know. I think you liked it.”

“I loved it,” she admitted with a smirk. “People didn’t bother me. Until fifth year. When everyone suddenly wanted to.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Including you lot.”

Remus blushed again. “Right. Well. That’s not entirely inaccurate.”

She bumped her shoulder into his. “Don’t worry. You’re the only one who ever tried talking to me like I wasn’t a dare.”

He went quiet at that, and when she looked over, he was already looking at her with that soft, unreadable expression of his. She swallowed, but didn’t look away. Not until someone’s voice echoed across the lawn.

“Y/N!”

She turned lazily to see a seventh-year Ravenclaw boy jogging toward them, looking sun-kissed and cocky. He threw himself dramatically onto the grass in front of her, ignoring Remus completely.

“Thought I’d find you out here. You coming to Slughorn’s party tonight? Rumour is there’s firewhisky and a game of truth-or-dare that might end in someone skinny-dipping in the Prefects’ bath.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Is that an invitation or a threat?”

“Only if you pick dare.” He winked.

She grinned, all teeth. “Then I guess I’ll be picking truth.”

“Boring,” the boy groaned, flopping back.

Y/N turned back to Remus, already dismissing the boy with a roll of her eyes. “See what I mean?”

Remus smiled, bemused. “You’re very popular.”

“I’m very bored,” she corrected, voice low. “Except with you.”

That made Remus flush again, but he didn’t look away this time. “Glad I’m keeping up.”

—————————————————————————

Tag list

@bache3

@amatoanima

Next part

[borkunlimited]

Take Your Time, Miss Deer (Sylus x Reader) - Ch. 4

In a tailor shop tucked in the calmer side of the N109 zone is a little room where all clothes of many different designs come together under the delicate hands of an unassuming deer living in the den of all sorts of beasts and sitting on them is the dragon who wears your clothes.

Your many interactions with Skye, Mr. Sylus’ messenger or-

-Sylus is waiting for you to finally figure out he is playing his own messenger.

A Deer Hybrid! Reader x Dragon Hybrid! Sylus Fic

Tags: Sylus x Reader, Hybrid AU, Suggestive Themes, Fluff, Predator/Prey, Self-Harm

Chapter Summary: Horns. Antlers. A long tail with smooth scales. A short tail. If those are gone, then both of you are almost the same, right?

Author's Note: Some lines have references to existing media. I have been playing Disco Elysium every now and then with a dash of Reverse 1999. Still going with the main themes tackled by Beastars and BNA though but you know, I really do love certain lines from these games that I just want to put it in here as well.

Enjoy!

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10 / Side A / Side B

4: My Dearest, Generous

A little downpour has visited the N109 zone today.

It was close to the afternoon when you heard the soft pitter patter against the windows of your studio that is steadily increasing intensity within each passing minute and you immediately rushed to close them one by one, not wanting water to get inside and ruin the patterns and the fabrics you have prepared to sew for tomorrow.

You were about to close the last window when a small, dark figure zoomed past you, spreading droplets on the wooden floor.

It looks like your odd little crow friend has decided to take shelter here at your studio.

Daisy settled on one of the armchairs, shaking the excess rainwater that clung on its feathers, letting out an indignant caw before preening itself.

“I know. It is quite sudden,” you chuckled softly, locking the last window with your ears flicking away little beads of rainwater that clung on your fur.

Daisy seemed to also agree and it let you remove the damp good luck ribbon you have made for it. It is a little worse for wear now so maybe it is time to make a new one. 

Perhaps something more stylish? The image of your crow friend wearing a scarf made you smile. Very fitting because it is becoming colder but for now, another good luck ribbon with the color it prefers should do.

“It’s alright. I won’t throw it away,” you assured it when it hopped along with you, worried where you would put its cherished item.

Will you repair it? Mephisto thinks you can. 

If its master can repair its circuits easily then it thinks you can do the same. You seemed very capable of fixing everything after seeing you stitch together large tears on the twins’ jacket before so it also means piecing back its worn ribbon should be easy to you.

For Mephisto, it doesn’t matter if its good luck charm is slightly damaged (What do you mean it's hanging by a thread?) All the affections you have poured into that ribbon will always be there no matter how it looks and it feels rather naked now that you have removed it.

Your finger grazed against the old wood of the cabinet while you hum absentmindedly, counting the number of the rows of shelves that store everything you need to sew any of your clients’ requests.

‘Oh, dear stranger journeying to a far off land, how many days must pass till I see you again?’

Third column from the left of the cabinet. Above where you keep the little boxes of buttons of various colors, all neatly organized, and then you finally pull out the drawer to retrieve a box inside of it.

Your crow flapped up to your sewing table, watching you set the item and it hopped in excitement.

Mephisto knows this particular box. This is a box where you store all of its trinkets it gave to you (Fine, and its master’s too.)

It was one of the few belongings you brought along before you left the place you once called home with your father. 

A little gift to you when you were young by an old hybrid couple after you knitted them scarves. You never quite remember their faces anymore but even then, the memory of their gratitude lingered, the playful pinch on your cheeks when you handed them their scarves wrapped in brown paper and twine.

“Do you want me to play it?”, you asked Daisy, opening the box to reveal the various precious ores and gemstones resting together with the dried flowers your crow has brought for you.

All of it, hidden in one place, little memories preserved and forever cherished.

Mephisto let out a beep, a yes, its optics adjusting to take a recording once again of this little moment that it may or may not hold over its master’s head (Again) upon its return to the base when the rain subsides.

You nodded in approval, tying around Daisy’s old ribbon around one of the horns of the little black dragon figurine sitting inside the box then turned the key.

A soft melody began playing and both you and Daisy watched the black dragon spin among the field of red blossoms painted in the background as if it was chasing the white ribbon on its horn, a lonesome game but still fun while the two of you looked back at your reflections on the small mirror.

Mephisto pushed the top of its head under your chin, nuzzling you and you laughed softly, petting its back while you listened to the gentle lullaby.

“Quite a downpour, don’t you think?”

Your heart skipped a bit, the lullaby cut short as you immediately closed the box, pushing it near the pile of fabrics beside you. 

These impromptu guests of yours always catch you off guard. Perhaps it comes with their innate trait of being able to make their presence hidden until they choose to reveal themselves.

Or so you thought.

The door shut with a soft click, your surprise visitor making his way towards you and your eyes widened. His footsteps were quiet, almost like Skye’s and twins’ but how is it possible? How is it possible when you and the person standing across your table are certainly alike, are of-

-the same species.

You nodded slowly, and Daisy hopped between you and your visitor, silently assessing this newcomer, one of the many who had made themselves comfortable in your studio.

“Louis,” the deer hybrid said, raising his hand for you to shake which you returned, telling him your name in return but not like you need to tell him, he already knows about you anyways. Everyone who has transactions with Sylus is fully aware of who you are.

The seamstress who dresses all the wolves of this den in sheep’s clothing.

The deer fiercely guarded by the dragon kept in this hidden corner of the N109 zone.

The object of Sylus’ affections.

Or, from people who harbors deep hatred to Sylus-

Sylus’ well-seasoned meal.

“What brings you here, Mister Louis?”, you asked politely, your hands on your lap. You haven’t seen this deer before. 

Is he a new resident here in the N109 zone? 

He is well-dressed, clearly wealthy, and the cut of his clothes fit him well. 

His eyes lingered on Mephisto and he knew that this was the  little heathen made by Sylus to carry out his commands. One of his three errand runners  as people said who goes about doing his dirty work on his behalf. 

That dragon really does keep a close eye over you, doesn’t he?

It was almost concerning. A predator hybrid and prey hybrid spending too much time with each other spells trouble. Is Sylus fattening you up? A meal reserved for a special occasion?

“I heard you are Sylus’ personal tailor,” he said, walking around your studio, studying the clothes on display.

“Yes, but more like his lead tailor,” you corrected him, your eyes watching him closely. It has been so long since you have met your own kind. Is it comforting? Maybe, “He still has other tailors as well.”

“Did he come here often?”

“Oh, never.”

“Never?”

“Yes, he has yet to pay us a visit.”

His eyes narrow slightly at you. The word in the streets is that you and Sylus are seen together more often and people have claimed that he is very forward on his affections to you, how his tail wrapped around your waist, and even how he gazed at you as if when you tell him to jump, he will ask how high you want.

“He only sends his people here,” you continued but you caught the subtle hint of confusion in his gaze and then you added, “Good people.”

Good people?

A brief look of surprise crossed your visitor’s face. Did he hear that right?

You think those wolf cubs, that crow between you, and Sylus of all people are good ? 

Maybe it is true that every hybrids like you and him indeed lost their instincts when they stepped here in the N109 zone which is why your lot has to look after each other just in case, just in case that the beasts who reside here decide to remove their masks and hurt you just like how the humans did outside. 

Because you prey hybrids are just so damn pitiful.

“It didn’t cross your mind that they would hurt you?”

“Everyone who entered this room didn’t.”

“There will always be the first.”

“I trust them more over the humans,” you replied. His concern is valid, of course, and Mister Louis here isn’t the first prey hybrid who expressed his worry over you being friendly with any of your visitors.

Your father is a different case, though, who is specifically worried about Skye.

Skye, of all people.

Skye who never crossed the line when he was here. Skye who doesn’t have to stay but chose to. Skye who helps you if he doesn’t have to.

But you know their concern stems from reality. 

Humans. 

Predator hybrids. 

Prey hybrids. 

That’s how the hierarchy goes. That’s how it has always been. Your kind stood in a delicate balance, docile enough in the eyes of the humans that you are taken advantage of often and weaker than the weakest predator hybrid as long as they have fangs to nip and claws to scratch.

“We’re deers by the end of the day.”

“I know but even then, it doesn’t make much difference.”

If anything, predator or prey, you are all just animals in the eyes of humans.

Tainted blood.

“I appreciate your concern, Mister Louis,” you added politely, giving him a small smile. “But it wouldn’t be fair for us to judge them easily when they haven’t harmed any of us here so far.”

Louis studied you closely. You genuinely do believe that all of you hybrids are equal.

How naive. How idealistic.

It will take centuries or more for prey and predator hybrids to get along and another more for hybrids and humans.

But then again, your father did mention to him you would rather run towards the nearest predator hybrid when in danger than seek help from a human.

“You’re an odd deer, Miss,” he chuckled softly.

He pushed a small package towards you wrapped in old newspaper.

“But just so you know, I heard dragons play with their prey before they eat them alive.”

────────────────────

Sylus adores the subtle signs of affection every time he is visiting you.

The faint blush on your cheeks when he stepped in to observe what you were doing. How you automatically shift closer when his tail is wrapped around your waist or when you listen to his words, your ears flicking while you pay attention.

His species in particular are naturally warm yet he only grew to understand the value of another person’s warmth every time he is with you and if he only can pull you closer, it is an irrevocable fact that you will be the warmest treasure he ever had held in his hands.

Not because of the blood pumping on your veins.

But because of the peaceful grace you have with you.

The deer doesn’t need to step out of her meadow if anything. He had already stepped foot on your paradise under the sunlight that passed the trees and if he can, he doesn’t want to leave the only place that treated him with sincere kindness.

Today, Sylus has been eagerly looking forward to his visit despite the sudden downpour. 

As if a little rain would stop him from seeing his favorite deer and as usual, he is not one to be in your shop without gifts for you.

He gave your father an easy smile and the older deer simply nodded in return, a polite greeting, when the dragon hybrid passed by him.

Thirty steps from the entrance of your shop to the hallway and another set of ten from the hallway to your studio. Oh, Sylus can’t wait to see his hardworking darling and he was halfway to your studio when he stopped, his ears picking up your sweet voice from behind the closed door and well, well, what’s this?

His eyes narrowed, picking up the scent of another guest. Another deer hybrid just like you and-

-A male one.

Your voices were muffled by the walls of your studio but he would always recognize the always gentle and polite tone you used when talking to anyone.

Then, the door opened and Sylus immediately piece together the identity of the newcomer you were just talking to earlier.

He isn’t one to forget the name to the face, afterall.

A young upstart in the N109 zone trying to make a name and recently, the little birds had told him that this one is creating a small association for all prey hybrids living here, not that Sylus minds.

He caught the familiar scent of fear from the male deer hybrid but this one was able to put all of his apprehension under a nonchalant expression laced with subtle defiance.

This gaze is all too familiar to him at this point.

This visitor of yours does not like him.

“I was told you had never set foot in this shop,” the deer hybrid started, not looking away from Sylus.

Brave, perhaps there is a reason why this one managed to reel the leashes of all the predators following his orders but he has a thought that this particular hybrid will be a little nuisance.

“And what exactly have you been told?”, Sylus asked casually, studying the newcomer. A good looking one but he is aware your father wouldn’t set you up with anyone, not when the older deer had gotten the message loud and clear that he is pursuing you.

“The miss said you only send good people in this shop,” the deer hybrid answered, as if piecing together your words and Sylus’ presence, “That Sylus himself never set foot here. Not even once.”

“Is this miss lying, Sylus?” the deer hybrid continued, letting go of the door handle, “Or are you deceiving the poor girl?”

“You’re quite a detective, aren’t you?”

“I took it as my responsibility to look after people here who get too cozy with predators like you.”

“Are you implying I am going to snap and attack her one day?”

“There are too many cases of your kind that did,” the deer hybrid countered. 

These answers, these excuses. 

The same lines recited by predators who thought they could reel in their natural instincts and not harm the prey hybrids they claimed they love and adore.

“Oh really? I suppose you have a solution for that? Locking my sweetheart away just to make sure she is safe from the big bad dragon,” Sylus replied, taking a few steps forward but the deer hybrid did not seem to falter.

Sweetheart.

So the words are true. Sylus is indeed courting you in his own twisted way.

“No, my solution is not drastic,” the male retorted, walking towards him until they were shoulder to shoulder. “You still seemed a reasonable man so just a word of advice-”

“-Pursue your own kind and leave her alone.”

The newcomer walked away but Sylus can’t shake the audacity of this upstart. 

Why? 

Why do people think that he can’t love you or be loved by you just because of your differences?

If you removed your antlers and he cut his horns, both of you would have been humans and no one would bat an eye.

Sylus took a deep breath, the faint scent of rain still clung to his hair and clothes, calming him down slightly and even when the smell of your previous visitor hung about, he could still shift through all the mixed scents and pick up the aroma of cotton and wildflowers.

The scent of you.

It was more than enough to soothe him and then, he opened the door to your studio, ready to see you.

The tension that lingered on his interaction with your previous visitor breaks, in this room, in the garden of fabrics and threads where there is only the two of you, the world is a distant away. 

The ocean of chaos in his heart slowly subsides.

In this little piece of paradise, a small voice emerges. Yours .

The dearest thing he wants to hear for his remaining days.

“Skye, quite a rain we are having, don’t you think?”

If all the precious metals and minerals he had ever owned merged together, its value will not be able to measure up on the fondest smile you wear when you see him. 

Warm like the first rays of the sun after a long winter.

“Well, it certainly did not stop me, didn’t it?” he remarked, all the words the deer hybrid said to him fading in the background and your voice is the only sound he can hear.

He watched you move around your desk, coming close to him to examine him and he chuckled softly when you had to stand by your tiptoes to do so.

“Are you wet? Do you want me to get a towel for you?”, you fretted about.

“You’re so considerate,” he replied, his hands reaching out and settling on your waist to steady you, “But I’m fine, little doe.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have really come over. You might get sick,” you pointed out, looking up to him.

You’d be surprised how far his constitution goes as a dragon but then again, he does love being doted by you.

“I’ll be fine, sweetie.”

“You could always turn down Mr. Sylus. His gifts can always wait.”

“But bringing his gifts to you is the only task I do enjoy.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else, Skye?”, you asked while he brushes the threads hanging on your antlers. 

There are so many things he wants to ask from you. Those kisses you give freely to the twins and Mephisto, to hold you close and take in your comforting scent, and for you to finally call him by his real name but his requests, his pleas overflow, the words lost in his tongue and only then what matters is you, you, you.

Just you.

“Just keep doing your own thing, hm?”, Sylus replied, tapping your nose playfully.

“How about you help me and Daisy then?”, you asked, and you were so quick on pulling a chair for him, setting it beside where you usually sit on your sewing table, “If you don’t mind being my second assistant for today?”

His eyes fleeted on Mephisto which is busy shifting through the pile of fabrics you have laid out on the table. His mechanical crow really does enjoy spending time with you from the looks of it and he caught the absence of that familiar white ribbon you tried around its neck. 

Had his companion managed to lose its valuable treasure already? That seemed unlikely. He had seen Mephisto snap at another crow once who tried to pull it off its neck.

“Just tell me what to do, darling deer.”

“Daisy and I are making another good luck ribbon,” you said, sitting on your chair and you patted on the chair beside you, an indication for him to do the same which he gladly did. 

Oh, is that how that little item is called? No wonder Mephisto is very attached to it.

“A good luck ribbon?”

“Yes, to keep Daisy safe.”

“Well, isn’t Daisy a lucky bird to have you, miss seamstress.”

“I’ll make one for you as well, Skye”, you smiled, and the idea of having Mr. Sylus’ bodyguard wearing a ribbon in one of his horns sounds quite appealing to you. He would very much resemble the dragon figurine inside the music box you have beside you and he will be more approachable, you are sure.

“Are you saying I need good luck, sweetheart?”, he replied but he was already shifting through the fabrics laid out in front of him together with Mephisto and he already had a color in mind.

Afterall, he had always loved the color of your eyes. Warm, welcoming, and eager. He certainly wouldn’t mind a ribbon of that hue tied around one of his horns.

Your ears drooped slightly on his response, “You don’t want one?”

Oh, he doesn’t need luck. 

Not when he already has you near him but how could he resist that cute pout on your face? This little tactic of yours, even if you are not aware of it, always works so well that he always finds himself abiding to whatever you would say.

“Don’t give me that look, Miss Deer,” he gently chided you and tapped your nose, “Of course I want one.”

Your tail wagged just slightly upon hearing his reply. It always gives you a sense of purpose when people say they like to receive gifts from you and since you are now making him one, maybe you should sew one for Mr. Sylus as well, a little token of gratitude for all the gifts.

“Do you think Mr. Sylus would want one as well?”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

“What color do you think he would want?”

“Red,” Sylus replied, an idea already forming in his head after you are done with this project while he fiddled at the edge of the fabric that shares the color of your eyes, “Definitely red, sweetie.”

Daisy hopped near you, dragging its chosen fabric by its beak and Sylus shifted closer to you, your shoulders touching and ready to take any instructions you would give him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the sewing part.”

“Just say the word, miss seamstress.”

Certainly not a bad way to spend a rainy afternoon with you.

────────────────────

Sylus had always detested the horns sitting on top of his head.

Monster.

Among the thousand curses and more he has been called, the word had always carried a certain weight every time humans and hybrids alike had laid eyes upon him. 

His kind is a rarity these days, a dying breed after being hunted and culled like livestocks when the humans had deemed they are a threat.

How many times had he sawed them off? He only lost that habit when he realized that they always grow back, more pointed than ever and-

-If he can’t convince his hunters he meant no harm, then it is time to prove their fears right.

The blood drips from the blade, into his face, and then into the white tiles of the bathroom. In this world overflowing with laughter mocking him from being the last of his kind, he had decided to level the playing field and carve a utopia for himself that slowly grew, a twisted safe haven initially meant for fiends such as him.

Then, on this land of despair, a small patch of paradise had taken root. Clearly impossible but certainly, without a doubt, a miracle.

Sylus then realized having horns isn’t too bad. A grotesque reflection of your elegant antlers, a bad imitation, but one of the similarities you both share.

“I am glad you love it, Daisy,” you clapped your hands, watching your odd little bird hopped about and turn for you and Skye, showing off the little ribbon you have sewn together.

His mechanical crow is more than pleased and Sylus is already sure it is about to show it off to the twins for receiving a new gift from you. 

It has become a little competition between those three and they don’t need to know that their boss is more than aware their contest involves who gets the most kisses and pats from you.

And here he is, sitting at the bottom of the list with the lowest score even if he isn’t technically part of that game.

“Do you want me to put on yours as well, Skye?”, you asked him.

“Just try not to tie it too tight, darling deer,” he said and he bent his head slightly, enough for you to reach his horn.

There was a shiver that ran on his spine when your fingers grazed his horn while you carefully fastened the ribbon around it and he let out a small whimper. 

It was a gesture of trust but you wouldn’t know that, not when it was common for you deer hybrids to touch each other’s antlers.

But it was more than a gesture of trust.

Afterall, Sylus is more than aware that his kind only allows closed family to touch their horns and-

-Their mate.

He almost sounded pathetic in his own ears and for once, he is afraid to see the look of pity on your eyes. Here is your liar, Miss Deer, he wants to tell you but he wouldn’t deny there is a hint of fear that eventually you will realize ‘Skye’ and ‘Mr. Sylus’ are one and the same. 

Would your fond gaze turn to fear by then?

“Oh, did I put it on too tight?”, you asked when your ears picked up the sound he made.

It was not pity that he saw but a flicker of concern if you have hurt him and oh, his sweetheart, always so caring. What did he do to deserve your kindness?

Too tight? Hardly. Your touch was so gentle, so unfamiliar yet he yearned for more.

“No sweetheart, you haven’t,” he replied and then you let out a small laugh when he pinched your cheek.

“I am glad,” you nodded and you studied the bow closely placed at the base of his horn. You should put more ribbons on him because it certainly made him look less threatening. 

Maybe then, your clients wouldn’t have a heart attack if you and him had to go again to do a delivery run soon. 

“It really looks good on you, Skye. People would believe you are a nice and friendly dragon now.”

“Perhaps I should wear ribbons more often then,” he joked but your ears seemed to perk up at his comment, and he caught the anticipation in your eyes at the prospect of making him more bows.

You nodded, and he froze slightly when you rub your antlers against his horn where the ribbon is tied in approval, “That sounds great. I can’t wait to see you in them.”

How many years has it that Sylus had long for such affection? To be treated gently and not as a lesser animal? Now, all of those wishes, his yearning for love that he thought he will never have, were slowly fulfilled unknowingly by you and he closed his eyes, rubbing his horns back to you.

“And I can’t wait to try out more ribbons for you, sweetie.”

“I hope Mr. Sylus will like what I made as much as you do, Skye.”

He may have stayed longer than usual today, especially when you ask him to only leave when the rain stopped. The sound of the downpour, the soft conversation between the two of you, and the sewing machine humming filled the room and even when evening fell, he watched you still push through, making your patterns, until you accidentally dozed off mid-conversation.

Little deer always forgets she is in the company of a beast.

He gently tucked your hair behind your ear, his hand lightly grazing the fur from the base until the tip, fleeting, not enough for you to even stir and the red gemstone that adorn your hairpin twinkled for a moment, like a wink.

Sylus left Mephisto with you, who almost looked like a plushie with you curled up against his companion and he set the gift he had brought for you near your hand holding the pencil.

Perhaps this is the start of another small game. A back and forth. A gift from him in exchange for a little trinket from you this time but Sylus will have to see.

He tied the red ribbon you said to give to ‘Mr. Sylus’ upon his return around the leather strap of his watch before he left your studio.

A small smile formed in Sylus’ lips when he took one glimpse of you before leaving.

If you opened your eyes, you will see that your Mr. Sylus is already more than pleased.

────────────────────

It was such a relief to see the boss returned to the base all too pleased with himself.

Luke and Kieran never found out what actually ticked him off last time he had visited you and their little investigation never arrived on a conclusion because you just looked at them confused when they tried to ask you if you and the boss had a little misunderstanding.

“Do you think he got upset because I asked for a piece of his lemon tart?”

They decided not to press on further, not wanting to upset you (Also because you offered to share the box of macarons they stole given to them begrudgingly by that cute, feisty sheep hybrid.)

They welcomed him in the base as routine but mostly because they are excited to see their father boss once again and he is usually more forgiving with their little antics every time he sees you, their tails wagging in excitement.

(Not that they blew up something again. They have been good while he is away for once. This whole sewing hobby is really taking up their free time.)

Yet, when Sylus went past the double doors of the base, they caught a scent quite strong that clung on him.

The scent of cotton and wildflowers.

Luke and Kieran looked at each other, a flicker of understanding. Is that why the boss is happier today?

“Boss, why do you smell like Miss Deer-”, Luke was about to ask but let out a yelp when Kieran stepped on his toes yet even then, the question had already made its way into his ears.

“What are you two on about?”, he asked, a small smirk tugging on his lips. He knows these two wolf cubs had a superior sense of smell, an already inherent trait for wolf hybrids amplified by whatever the humans did to them before arriving here in the N109 zone.

That little gesture of yours where you rubbed your antlers against his horns is supposed to be an affectionate one, fairly common among deer hybrids who are known for being very friendly to those they like.

He is still wearing the little ribbons you made for him which he had not removed until now but he is more than aware you have unknowingly left your scent on him.

Not that he minds, anyways, especially when he had also left his on yours as well.

He had to give these two points for asking him bluntly unlike your father who had given him an odd look when he exited your shop but he is sure you will be able to clear everything up. 

You are not one for lying after all.

But these wolf cubs have no sense of subtlety. So nosy.

“Did you and Miss Deer had-”, Luke let out another yelp when Kieran stepped on his toes again, “Can you stop that, Kieran?”

“I am not giving you allowance for you both to sniff on my clothes,” Sylus said dryly.

The two looked at each other, their tails wagging harder. They wouldn’t dare do that knowing full enough the boss retaliates during their sparring sessions and it wasn’t their fault when their noses can smell up to miles.

“Come on, boss,” Kieran said, the two walking with him deeper into the base, “We aren’t animals.”

“Actually, it is pretty much stronger around your horns,” Luke piped and his eyes widened slightly, noticing the ribbon fastened on the base of his horn and another one in his watch.

The twins looked at each other, their eyes studying the neck scarves you have gifted them.

The boss had finally received a gift from you just like they did.

“You both are acting like animals.”

But the little scratch he gave them on the back of their pointed ears betrayed his words.

.

.

.

Little gremlins.

────────────────────

Author's Note: Yes, I borrowed Louis from Beastars. He is absolutely necessary in the world building of this story even if he will appear here just ONCE. What did Louis left at Miss Deer's table? What is Sylus' gift? These will all be revealed in due time.

Will there be a side story with the twins? Maybe, maybe. We will see how the stars will align in the coming months.

Anyways, this is so fun to write. I try to write in between my free time and sometimes I just woke up at 2am because the ideas JUST HAD TO COME AT THAT TIME.

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10 / Side A / Side B

[wittymumbledon]

With how much gravity falls stuff I’ve been working on lately it’s taken me a while to get around to finishing this (long enough for me to nearly finish reading over the first “season” for the third time in a row) but here it is!! A double-page spread dedicated to @ckret2’s golden-haired menace, because I wanted NEEDED to show my appreciation for this fucking amazing AU ✨

Figuring out how to translate Goldie into my style was really fun--I tried to stay true to the original, but kinda subconsciously also added elements from my own Bill which I think is neat (namely the angular smile and triangular brows). I dunno why I gave him That One Curl (TM) but once I noticed it I tried to carry it through all the pics--the hair as a whole was really fun, especially messing around with the textures when it was--well, say, messy.

I redrew some of my fav frames/story moments (plus a couple extras: the cleaning one is inspired by when i was cleaning irl, and realized that Goldie made me feel a lot less dysphoric about wearing leggings and tank tops 'round the house. Thus - in tribute to the irony - Bill gets my leggings fdfhjdfhdf)

but that barely even scratches the surface of just the pure, gloriously hilarious chaos that this beast has to offer-- not to mention the simple fact that it is just. REALLY well written: the attention to details from the books, the comics, and the show itself; the way each character is visibly flawed in some way, be it with their morals, or their actions, or the soundness of their morals; the way each chapter healthily mixes random show-like chaos with genuinely useful info that later BEAUTIFULLY Chekov Gun's itself right back into the culmination of each saga -- it all feels so aware and true to canon and so, so, SO beautifully ALIVE. Dare I say it is one of my absolute favourite fanworks that I've ever read.

Speaking of which - if you’ll excuse me - I have some chapters to catch up on. Like I said - I’ve specifically held off reading the latest ones so that i’d finish the fanart faster and so that i’d have an excuse to make more. looking at you - bill’s abomikini /hj

If you've made it through my lil essay there I appreciate it so much <3

Bonus: I wove a lil bracelet inspired by the one Mabel made for Bill✨

Didn’t have the right colours of embroidery thread on hand so I used yarn instead, but that actually ended up working perfectly with the beads I had (just plain ol' blue ones, cause I wasn’t sure if using nazar beads would have been culturally insensitive or not - nor did I have any nazar beads that I could have used in the first place - but hey! these ones are nice and shiny and the colour works well imo)

[prettylilyanime]

Blooming Hearts ♡ DRABBLE 01

˚✿˖ Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x fem reader

˚✿˖ Synopsis: In which Bakugou not only taught you how to use the public transportation system, but also the wonders of a 7/11 (A continuation from chapter 5 / deleted scene from chapter 6)

˚✿˖ tags/warnings: 18+, smut in the later chapters, reader is spoiled, shy reader, they're all third years at UA, Fluff, strangers? to lovers trope, not really strangers, miscommunication, drama, y/n just wants to make friends, reader is canonically pretty, reader is a hero in training, whipped bakugou, she falls first but he falls harder

˚✿˖ Authors note: This Drabble is a continuation of this chapter!

˚✿˖ Masterlist

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The train ride had been… an experience.

Between Bakugou’s attitude (which you’re learning is incredibly sassy) your near-death encounter with inertia and stiletto boots, and the fact that his hand had been on your waist for far longer than necessary, you were convinced your heart had been put through an endurance test.

Aizawa and his crazy assignments could never get this level of heart pounding anxiety from you.

But somehow, miraculously, you made it to your stop without combusting!

Which led you here.

A 7-Eleven.

The sushi spot you had been craving had been sadly temporarily closed for renovations, and this store had been right around the corner.

“Wow, this is incredible! I’ve never been in one of these before!” you gasp, eyes sparkling as you take in the rows of cheap candies, brightly colored cup ramen, and an ungodly amount of processed snacks.

So many different flavors to choose from!!

Behind you, a deep, unimpressed voice deadpans, “It’s literally just a 7-Eleven.”

You, of course, blatantly ignore him. Instead, you grab a small shopping basket—its handle slightly wobbly, the paint chipping at the edges—and immediately start filling it with snacks like a kid let loose in a candy store.

“This might just be my new favorite store!!” you announce, practically vibrating with excitement as you move toward the freezer section.

You scan the ice cream selection with growing delight, marveling at the sheer variety of brands and flavors—all for a shockingly low price.

This so beats the organic, gluten-free, sugar-free, fun-free supermarkets your mom usually had her staff shop at on your behalf.

Bakugou, who has been trailing behind you like an exhausted babysitter, watches as you pluck a pink tub of strawberry swirl ice cream from the fridge. Your face lights up at the cute graphics on the packaging.

is that a strawberry cow?! Eeek!

“I’ll get this one too,” you hum, hugging the tub to your chest like a prized possession.

Bakugou nearly rolls his eyes into another dimension. “Taught ya how to take the damn train to become a better hero, and now you’re gonna kill it all with this shitty food.”

You gasp, clutching the ice cream closer like it’s your firstborn child.

“Are you joking?!” you exclaim. “This ice cream is gonna make me feel better before I go to sleep! This is incredible!”

Bakugou snorts as you absentmindedly go to adjust your glasses—except, oh, wait.

You’re not wearing them.

Your fingers meet empty air, your contacts having replaced your usual frames for the night.

A slow, knowing smirk stretches across Bakugou’s face.

Your ears heat up. Hastily, you shove your ice cream into the basket he’s—when did that happen?!—holding and mumble, “Shut up. It’s a habit.”

He doesn’t even bother with a comeback.

He doesn’t have to.

The glint of amusement in his sharp, crimson eyes says everything.

In just one day—somehow spent mostly by your side—Bakugou has come to one solid, undeniable conclusion:

You’re just like the rest of his idiot friends.

Just blessed with a far better face than shitty hairs or dunce face.

Honestly, before today, he half-wondered if you were mute. That theory shattered the moment you started rambling in the middle of the station, your excited outbursts completely at odds with the cool, composed image you gave off.

The new you in front of him was almost jarring.

Not that he’d ever really paid much attention to you before.

You were just quiet. Unusually so. You didn’t hover around the usual class friend groups, never really stuck with the girls of 1-A. He would’ve noticed—he’s been dragged to enough forced social outings by Kirishima to be painfully aware of the class dynamics.

Yet somehow, three years into your degree, he was only just now hearing what your voice actually sounded like.

Not that you were forgettable—far from it. Your face was one of the first he recognized when he stepped into class 1-A on his first day of freshman year.

And your last name? Impossible to ignore.

Bakugou never really gave a shit either way.

But one thing had caught his attention—the way people wouldn’t shut up about you when it came to the Big Three. It was no surprise when he, Deku, and Todoroki solidified their spots. That was a given. But you?

He remembers his brows raising when he first heard your name being thrown around in the conversation. He wasn’t necessarily threatened, just... intrigued.

The media adored you. Your social accounts had more followers than any other student at U.A., and magazines were already fighting for the chance to put you on their covers.

All the while, you could barely mutter a full sentence to anyone in class.

Now, watching you stand in the middle of a 7-Eleven, holding two cans of soda in your perfectly manicured hands, he can’t help but snort to himself. You carefully scan the sugar content on the labels like it actually matters—only to immediately toss both cans into the basket without hesitation.

Figures.

“Y’know, if you’re just gonna buy both, why waste time lookin’ at the numbers?” he asks, shifting the basket to one hand as he watches your little decision-making process unfold.

You huff, completely unbothered. “It’s about making an informed choice.”

“Bullshit. You just wanted both.”

You shoot him a look but don’t bother denying it, instead grabbing a pack of Pocky and tossing that into the basket too.

You’re already fixated on the next aisle, eyes practically sparkling at the ridiculous variety of instant noodles. He’s never seen someone get this excited over convenience store food in his life.

And somehow, he finds himself following along, weirdly unbothered by all of your little quirks that would have had him rolling his eyes and snapping at all the other idiots in his life.

Bakugou clicks his tongue, annoyed at his own thoughts.

Comparing you to the extras he’s been stuck with for years? What kind of bullshit was that?

Yet, as he watches you crouch down to examine the instant ramen selection like it’s some kind of treasure hoard, he realizes—against his better judgment—that it doesn’t piss him off the way it should.

You hum thoughtfully, manicured fingers tracing over different flavors, your brows furrowing in deep concentration. “How am I supposed to choose just one?” you mumble, more to yourself than to him.

He snorts. “You’re not. You’re gonna throw at least three in the basket and pretend like you struggled to decide.”

You gasp, turning to glare at him, scandalized. “You think you know me so well, huh?”

“I know an indecisive dumbass when I see one.”

And just as he predicted, you grab three different flavors and plop them into the basket without another word.

Bakugou exhales through his nose, shaking his head. Somehow, despite himself, he follows as you dart to yet another shelf, eyes alight with childlike wonder.

He should be annoyed. Should be telling you to hurry the hell up so you can both get out of here, but instead, he just watches as you get distracted by a random keychain display near the register, fiddling with a tiny All Might figure that probably wouldn’t even fit on your fancy designer bag.

“This is so cute,” you murmur, flipping it over in your hands before glancing at the other characters on the rack. A tiny Bakugou keychain dangles right in front of you, and before he can react, you’re holding it up with a smirk.

“Oooh, look, it’s you,” you tease, shaking it so the little chibi version of him bobs wildly.

Bakugou scowls. “Put that shit back.”

You only laugh, placing it back on the hook (but in a better spot, front and center, because you think it’s actually pretty adorable).

By the time you finally reach the register, your basket is overflowing. Bakugou just stares at it, unimpressed. “Y’gonna eat all this tonight or somethin’?”

You shake your head, grinning. “No, well maybe the icecream, yes.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, As the cashier hands you the bag, you beam like you’ve just won the lottery.

And for some reason, as the two of you step back into the cool night air, Bakugou finds himself shaking his head with something that—if he didn’t know better—almost feels like amusement.

What the hell was he getting himself into?

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[chimcess]

⮞ Chapter Five: Captain Disco's Last Stand Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Convict!Jungkook, Escaped Prisoner!Jungkook, Piolet!Reader, Captain!Reader, Holyman!Namjoon, Boss!Yoongi, Commander!Jimin, Astronaut!Jimin, Doctor!Hoseok, Astronaut!Hoseok Genre: Sci-Fi, Action, Adventure, Thriller, Suspense, Strangers to Enemies to ???, Slow Burn, LOTS of Angst, Light Fluff, Eventual Smut, Third Person POV, 18+ Only Word Count: 16k+ Summary: When a deep space transporter crash-lands on a barren planet illuminated by three relentless suns, survival becomes the only priority for the stranded passengers, including resourceful pilot Y/N Y/L/N, mystic Namjoon Kim, lawman Taemin Lee, and enigmatic convict Jungkook Jeon. As they scour the hostile terrain for supplies and a way to escape, Y/N uncovers a terrifying truth: every 22 years, the planet is plunged into total darkness during an eclipse, awakening swarms of ravenous, flesh-eating creatures. Forced into a fragile alliance, the survivors must face not only the deadly predators but also their own mistrust and secrets. For Y/N, the growing tension with Jungkook—both a threat and a reluctant ally—raises the stakes even higher, as the battle to escape becomes one for survival against the darkness both around them and within themselves. Warnings: Strong Language, Blood, Trauma, Graphic Injury scenes, Jaded Characters, Smart Character Choices, This is all angst and action and that's pretty much it, Reader is a bad ass, Survivor Woman is back baby, gardening, terraforming, some mental health issues, survivor's guilt, lots of talking to herself, and recording it, because she'll lose her mind otherwise, fixing things, intergalatical politics, new characters, depression, body image issues, scars, hate for Disco music, morally grey people, will this make us look bad as an organization?, questionable character choices as well, strong female characters are everywhere, cynical humor, bad science language, honestly all of this has probably had the worst science and basis ever, I researched a lot I promise, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: This was so much fun to write. Give me some good lore and characters and I'll eat that shit up. Sorry for the lack of good romance so far, but hopefully you guys will think the wait was worth it.

prev || masterlist || next

Aguerra Prime hung in the void like a mirage—too beautiful to trust. From orbit, it looked almost like Earth on a particularly clear day: swirls of deep ocean green wrapped in cloud-white, kissed by sunlit blues that shimmered as the planet slowly turned. But the illusion unraveled the moment you touched ground. The air had weight to it, a faint chemical tang that clung to the back of your throat, even after filtration. The oceans stretched endlessly across the surface, glistening with promise, but anyone with half a brain knew better than to get too close. The water was alive and teemed with native microbes and corrosive compounds that could dissolve human skin in minutes. Rainfall could be fatal without proper shielding. Even the soil, rich and dark in places, had to be treated before anything could grow.

Still, people adapted. They always did. Within a few short decades, colonies had pushed back against the wild terrain. Engineers built water purification towers along the cliffs. Bio-domes and coral crete cities rose along the coastal ridges, each one a careful balance of technology and caution. Life took root—hard-earned, and always on the edge—but it took root all the same. They called it New Oslo, this particular stretch of civilization: a sleek, functional city curved against the curve of a jagged coastline, looking out toward a horizon that always seemed a little too still.

And it was here, on the outskirts, that the cemetery lay.

Jemas National Cemetery sat on a plateau just above the mist-line, where the sea was visible only as a silver suggestion beyond the hills. The wind moved constantly, sweeping over rows of white stone markers in gentle, unhurried waves. The markers were all the same shape—rectangular, unadorned except for names and ranks and dates—but each one told a story that someone, somewhere, still carried.

The sky that morning was a low sheet of gray, the kind of cloud cover that blurred the light and made everything feel quieter. The ground was damp from a night of cold rain, and the air had that heavy stillness that comes after weather—when nature pauses to catch its breath.

A small crowd had gathered. No more than thirty people stood near the front rows, dressed in dark coats and muted colors, hands tucked into pockets or clasped together in front of them. No one spoke. Even the children, if there were any, kept quiet. It wasn’t the kind of silence that demanded reverence—it was the kind that happened naturally, when grief was fresh and shared.

At the center, just beneath the main flagpole where the banner of the New Oslo Coalition fluttered at half-mast, a wooden podium had been set up.

Yoongi stepped up to it with a practiced stillness. He didn’t glance at his notes—didn’t need to. His eyes moved over the crowd, not looking for anyone in particular, but acknowledging each of them all the same. He took special care not to lock eyes with her uncle, or anyone else on that side of the field.

“She was twenty-nine,” he began. His voice was clear but soft, carrying without force. “Bright. Focused. Asked too many questions. Always wanted to know why before she said yes. The kind of mind you build missions around.”

Some people nodded. Someone near the back exhaled sharply but didn’t speak.

“Y/N was one of our best crewmates. When the Hunter-Gratzner was greenlit, she was one of the first to volunteer. Not because she wanted the recognition—but because she believed in the work. In exploration. In reaching farther.”

He paused, the wind nudging the edges of his coat.

“When the ship went down on M6-117,” he said, “we lost more than a vessel. We lost a crew. We lost civilians. We lost her. And no speech will ever make that okay. It shouldn’t. This isn’t closure. It’s a marker—a place to say we remember.”

Behind him, the flag caught the wind again, the fabric snapping softly.

“But we continue,” he said. “New Oslo grows. The program moves forward. And we carry them with us. Not just in memory, but in mission. In the work we keep doing, because it still matters. Because they believed it did.”

He looked down for a moment, then stepped away without another word.

There was no music. No twenty-one gun salute. Just the sound of the wind moving through the grass, and the occasional shuffle of feet as the mourners broke apart slowly, each of them retreating at their own pace. Some walked past the headstone and placed small tokens—stones, flowers, folded notes—on the cold white marble. Others stood for a moment longer, eyes closed, lips moving in silent conversation with someone who was no longer there.

And then, gradually, the crowd thinned, until only the marker remained, fresh in the ground, surrounded by the soft hush of wind.

The Gabril Space Center was a monument to ambition—New Oslo’s gleaming centerpiece. All glass and chrome, it stood out against the overcast sky like something conjured, too sleek for a world still fighting to call itself home. Inside, the vast atrium echoed with quiet movement: engineers pacing between briefings, analysts buried in screens, the ever-present hum of filtered air and low voices carrying through the open space.

Mateo Gomez moved with purpose, his steps measured across the polished black floor. The heels of his boots tapped softly, the sound swallowed quickly by the high ceilings. Security nodded as he passed, not out of obligation, but recognition. He was someone here. Not at the top—but close enough to knock on the door.

To his left, a news feed looped silently across a wall screen. The headline crawled in red across the bottom: President Speaks at Hunter-Gratzner Memorial. Above it, the feed cut between slow-motion clips—Y/N laughing as she tumbled weightlessly through a shuttle bay, sunlight catching in her hair, then Yoongi shaking hands with the president in front of a somber crowd. Mateo didn’t look twice. The footage had been everywhere for days. You couldn’t walk a corridor without catching her face, mid-laugh, frozen in time. Grief, he was realizing, had become ambient noise in this building. No one talked about it directly, but it was in the way people walked, in the silence that lingered between conversations, in the exhaustion behind their eyes.

Yoongi’s office was at the end of the administrative wing—glass walls, high windows, and a sweeping view of the southern launch pads. The sky beyond was dull and featureless, just layers of gray pressing down over the concrete runways. He was alone when Mateo entered, seated with his back half-turned, watching the muted broadcast play across the mounted screen behind his desk.

Mateo stepped inside without ceremony and held out a slim folder.

“I thought the speech was good,” he said.

Yoongi didn’t turn right away. His hand reached back, taking the folder without looking. He flipped it open, scanning quickly.

“I need authorization for satellite time,” Mateo added.

Yoongi’s voice came without hesitation. “Not happening.”

Mateo’s jaw tensed. He wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t make it easier. “We’re funded for five Nexus missions. I can get Parliament behind a sixth—if we make Y/N’s recovery part of it.”

Yoongi turned a page, barely reacting. “No.”

“We’re getting hammered out there,” Mateo said, stepping forward. “Protests at the gates. Parliament’s dragging their feet on the new appropriations package. The Starfire crew’s threatening to walk unless they get better answers from us, and Cruz—Valencia Cruz—is done playing nice. She’s been fielding calls from half the Intercolonial press.”

“We don’t need a PR stunt,” Yoongi said, still not looking up. “We need results. Nexus II is targeting the Sundermere Basin. We’ve picked up energy signatures—unexplained. Possibly artificial. That’s where the focus is.”

“We can do both,” Mateo said. “Two objectives, one launch. All I’m asking for is eyes on the crash site. A few hours of satellite sweep. It won’t interfere.”

Yoongi finally looked up, pinning him with a sharp glance. “It’s not about interference.”

“Then what?”

Yoongi leaned back slowly in his chair, arms folded across his chest. He didn’t speak right away.

“If we so much as point a satellite at that wreck,” he said finally, “we’re rolling the dice on a media firestorm. If the images get out—and they always do—and if she’s... visible? Intact, partially intact, anything remotely identifiable? That’s headline footage from here to Earth. And we lose control of the story the second that happens.”

Mateo didn’t flinch.

His voice dropped to something low and steady, but the heat behind it was unmistakable. “So that’s it? We just look the other way? Let her rot on a dead planet because it's easier for NOSA’s public relations team?”

Yoongi’s response came hard, like a reflex. “She’s not rotting, Mateo.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, gaze sharp but tired. “You know the sand on M6-117 acts like a thermal buffer. Once she’s under, the surface temperature plummets. Radiation drops. Wind scours the top layer clean. She’s probably preserved better than anything we’ve ever brought back in a sample container. But that’s not the point.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling through his nose.

“If someone gets footage—anything, even grainy—of what’s left of her... charred, exposed, half-eaten—do you understand what happens next? That becomes the image. Not her work, not her dedication. That.” He tapped the desk once, firm. “And then it won’t just be about Y/N anymore. They’ll turn on us. They’ll ask why we greenlit a civilian-led mission without making sure access to Shields wasn’t shut off sooner. Why the automated course correction failed. Why NOSA sent their golden girl into what’s now being called an ‘unmapped danger zone’ by half the media outlets out of EarthGov.”

He stood abruptly and walked to the window, voice flattening as he looked out.

“They’re already lining up hearings in the Science Oversight Committee. NOSA’s funding is getting picked apart by three subcommittees. The EU bloc wants our Sundermere data classified until they’ve ‘evaluated its economic potential,’ which is code for: 'we want a piece of it.’”

Mateo’s mouth tightened. He’d heard some of that too—leaks coming from the Earth-side delegation, whisper campaigns starting in defense circles. Even the South American Consortium, which usually stood by NOSA, had gone quiet.

Yoongi kept going. “We release one image of that crash site, and the narrative shifts. It stops being about science. It becomes a political mess. Parliament will freeze funding. The Americans will yank their comms array support. And don’t think for a second the Lunar Coalition won’t swoop in to take the Sundermere Basin off our hands.”

He turned back, face lined with the weight of too many choices. “We don’t just lose Y/N. We lose everything.”

Mateo didn’t speak for a long time. His jaw was tight, his breath uneven like he was trying to wrestle something down inside himself before it came out the wrong way.

Finally, he said, quietly, “She was everything.”

Yoongi didn’t respond. He stared out past the desk, past the room, past everything. Mateo kept going, his voice lower now. The heat had drained out of it, leaving something heavier—guilt, maybe, or shame.

“She wasn’t just a solid astronaut. She was the astronaut. Everyone wanted her on their crew. She stayed late to double-check other people’s numbers because she didn’t want anyone getting hurt. When the Gratzner protocols started falling apart mid-flight during test flights, she didn’t panic—she rewrote them in real time, while the rest of the crew was trying not to pass out from pressure drops.”

He shook his head once, eyes distant. “She was the best botanist we had. Not just because she could ID a plant by sight—on three different planets—but because she remembered every soil variant, every gas pocket, every light-cycle condition that might screw up a grow. And then on top of that, she took flight training so she could back up a pilot in an emergency. Who does that?”

Yoongi said nothing, his jaw working like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite get it out.

Mateo watched him. “She respected you. You trained her. You went to bat for her when she got passed over the first time. And when the Gratzner crew got shuffled last-minute, she didn’t hesitate—she switched assignments with you. So you could stay back and stabilize Nexus scheduling. She did that for you.”

Yoongi’s shoulders tensed slightly, barely perceptible—but it was there. Outside the office windows, the fog hadn’t lifted. It moved in slow currents over the landing field, softening the harsh outlines of the launch towers. Launch Pad 4 stood at the far end, silent, skeletal, waiting.

Mateo’s voice dropped further, now close to a whisper.

“She’s still up there. No body. No grave. No closure. Just a name on a rotating wall display and a headline that gets smaller every week. People walk past that screen like it’s just background noise. Like she’s already fading out.”

Mateo let out a quiet breath and gave a small, lopsided smile—one of those half-formed expressions that came with memory.

“You remember French Fry?”

Yoongi blinked, caught off guard. He turned slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. “The support drone? The one Dr. Nguyen built to assist with nutritional diagnostics?”

Mateo nodded. “Yeah. The one that kept trying to back itself into the convection oven.”

Yoongi let out a low, almost reluctant chuckle. “Right. Quinn said it was fitting. Said she named it after Y/N because it was brave and always in the wrong place.”

Mateo smiled a little wider. “She wrote that letter to engineering—pretending to be French Fry’s lawyer. Filed a fake complaint against the entire culinary systems team. ‘Negligent appliance zoning resulting in repeated suicide attempts.’ She even cited precedent. You laughed so hard you snorted coffee all over your tablet.”

Yoongi looked down and gave a small shake of his head. “I made her rewrite it three times. Just so we’d have copies.”

A flicker of something softened his face—nostalgia, grief, maybe both—but it faded almost as quickly as it appeared.

“She’s not forgotten,” he said, voice tight at the edges.

Mateo studied him. “Then stop acting like she is.”

Yoongi turned back to the window, arms folded tightly over his chest. The fog outside had thickened, curling around the perimeter lights like smoke. The towers stood still and sharp in the distance, black shapes against a washed-out sky.

Yoongi’s shoulders shifted—barely—but Mateo caught it. He knew the signs. Something had landed.

“She was my friend too,” Yoongi said, finally. His voice was quiet, but there was no doubt in it. “I watched her go from a kid who couldn’t even lock her pressure collar without double-checking the diagram, to a mission lead who had half the command wing checking their math twice because she was just that fast. That sharp.”

He paused, looking down at the floor like the memory was playing out there in front of him.

“She wasn’t just ahead of the curve. She was right. Consistently. The scary kind of right, where people stop arguing even when she’s the youngest one in the room. Not because they’re giving up—but because they know she already figured it out.”

He looked up again, met Mateo’s eyes—really met them—for the first time in a long while.

“And yeah,” he said. “I owe her. I didn’t ask her to take my place. I told everyone I was going, locked the schedule myself. But she knew. She always knew when I was lying, even when I thought I wasn’t.”

He let out a dry breath, more exhale than laugh.

“Somehow, she talked that stone-faced bastard Osei into signing off on the reassignment behind my back. I didn’t even know until I found the note in my locker. All it said was, ‘I trust my crew more than you trust yours. I’ve got this. You’ve got work to do here.’”

A flicker of something passed across his face—pride, maybe, or just the hollow ache of being known too well by someone who was now gone.

“That was her,” Yoongi said, voice quieter. “Always a step ahead. Always taking the harder hit if it meant sparing the rest of us.”

Mateo started to say something, but Yoongi held up a hand—not to cut him off, but just to finish his thought.

“I’m not being cold,” Yoongi said. “I’m being realistic.”

He exhaled, rubbing his palms together like he was trying to keep them from shaking. “Nexus II is barely holding. EarthGov’s budget committee is sharpening knives. Half the Parliament’s ready to gut interplanetary funding if it means buying more leverage back home. We’ve got maybe one window left. One shot at Sundermere before the politics close in.”

He gestured toward the fog-draped launch field outside, where the towers sat dark and skeletal.

“That crater isn’t like the rest of the planet. Wind systems don’t match surrounding patterns. The thermal shifts, the power readings—we’ve never seen anything like it. Eastern ridge is lighting up magnetically. We’re seeing what could be frozen permafrost below the crust—something wet down there. And the biosigns from the last probe? If those weren’t just sensor ghosts, we could be sitting on proof of subsurface life.”

He turned back to Mateo, the weight in his voice unmistakable now. “You know what that means. Terraforming viability. Real colonization. Not domes. Not provisional crews hoping the bioraptors don’t punch through the fences at night. Actual reclamation.”

He looked tired. Not the kind of tired that came from long nights, but the kind that came from too many decisions like this one. “We can’t afford to screw this up. We lose this shot, and M6-117 goes dark. For good. No follow-up. No second wave. Just another failed world buried under bureaucracy.”

Mateo didn’t move. He didn’t argue. He just spoke, calm and deliberate.

“I’m not asking you to risk the mission, Min.”

He stepped closer, closing the gap between them—not confrontational, just steady.

“I’m asking you to write her in. Quietly. Secondary objective, folded into the atmospheric sweep. No flags. No fanfare. Just one pass over the Gratzner wreck. If we get nothing? Fine. But if we see anything—something clear, something dignified—then maybe we give her family more than a looping photo and a footnote in the archives.”

He let the silence hang for a beat, then added, gently, “We’re not chasing ghosts. We’re just trying to finish the story. Close the chapter that never got an ending.”

Yoongi sat back down slowly. The motion looked deliberate, like every joint had to agree to move.

He tapped the armrest once, then stilled.

The quiet that followed wasn’t tense. It was thick. Heavy with memory. The kind of silence that only came after too many years spent carrying too many names.

Mateo didn’t press. He’d known Yoongi long enough to understand his rhythms. He didn’t rush decisions. He let them settle. Let the silence test their weight.

Outside, the fog pressed harder against the windows, thick and unrelenting. The field lights cut through it in faint, useless beams—small cones of visibility swallowed by the gray. The launch towers sat still in the distance, silhouettes fading at the edges like ghosts.

Inside, the soft flicker of the memorial screen lit up the far corner of Yoongi’s office. The same reel, still looping.

Y/N drifted across the frame, weightless, laughing—caught mid-spin inside the Gratzner’s jump bay. Her hair floated around her like silk in water, her limbs relaxed, fluid, untethered. She looked effortless. At ease. Like she belonged up there. Like space had always been hers.

For a second, Mateo forgot where he was. She didn’t look like someone they’d lost. She didn’t look like a name carved into polished stone. She looked like the version of her that used to barrel into early-morning briefings, still half-wired on caffeine and a new theory about bioreactive algae in thin atmospheres. Tablet in one hand, no fewer than four open windows of data stacked across it. Half the time, she was already arguing the point before anyone else had sat down.

She never waited to be asked. She never needed permission.

She just moved—with purpose, with momentum—and dared the rest of the room to catch up.

Then the image on the screen blinked away.

Her official portrait replaced it: eyes forward, hair pulled back, lips in a neutral line. The uniform was crisp. The Coalition flag blurred in the background like a watercolor made of shadow.

Remembering the Crew of the Hunter-Gratzner.

Mateo stared at it. The screen. The text. The way it tried to tidy her into something easy to mourn.

It felt false. Not a lie—but not the whole truth either. Too polished. Too clean.

He could still hear her voice, and not in a nostalgic, far-off way. It was clear. Immediate. Frustrated and full of fire.

He imagined if it had been Jimin Park left on that wreck, or Armin Zimmermann. Y/N wouldn’t be standing in an office, tiptoeing around politics. She’d already be halfway down to satellite ops with a backdoor login and a hard case full of signal boosters.

She’d have that look—mischievous, sure, but dangerous too. Like she knew exactly how many rules she was about to break, and had already decided they weren’t worth following.

And she’d smile, that crooked, knowing smile, just before she said it:

“Fuck bureaucracy.”

Mateo exhaled a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. He didn’t mean to smile, but it came anyway. It was small, worn at the edges, but it was real.

Because that was her. All of her.

And the truth was, she wouldn’t have just gone after the data—she’d have dragged him along with her, even if it meant putting both their jobs on the line. And he would’ve gone. Without hesitation.

Because she would’ve done the same for him.

And that, Mateo thought, was the point. That was why this mattered.

Behind him, the silence stretched a few seconds longer—until Yoongi finally spoke.

His voice was quiet. A little rough. But steady.

“Go for it.”

Mateo turned, not sure he’d heard him right.

Yoongi didn’t look away from the window, but he nodded once.

“Have April Borne take a look. She’s smart. Discreet. Doesn’t scare easy.”

He paused.

“Get the orbital pass scheduled. Quietly. If there’s a clean window, I want her running the image enhancement—no chatter, no metadata tags. I want to know what condition Y/N’s in before we even think about next steps.”

Mateo nodded. Slowly. He didn’t say thank you. That wasn’t how they worked.

Yoongi leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath, the kind that had been sitting in his chest for hours. Maybe days.

Mateo turned toward the door, ready to move. But he stopped just before stepping out, his hand hovering near the panel.

“Min,” he said quietly, glancing over his shoulder, “this doesn’t change anything about Sundermere. We do the work. We follow through.”

Yoongi looked up, met his eyes.

“I know,” he said. “But we don’t leave her behind if we don’t have to.”

Mateo gave a small nod, then walked out.

Behind him, the door slid shut with a soft hiss. The memorial reel began again—Y/N caught mid-laugh.

April Borne leaned back in her chair, the tension in her shoulders barely easing as she stretched. It was late—closer to early morning, really—but the satellite ops floor was still lit, still humming with quiet, steady life. The room was mostly empty now. Just her, two unmanned desks, and the soft thrum of servers overhead.

She turned her attention back to her screen.

A new work order had come in. That wasn’t unusual. NOSA’s satellite grid ran constant, and last-minute data requests came through all the time—environmental sweeps, storm modeling, orbital drift corrections. But this one was flagged priority access, and the requestor name gave her pause.

Gomez, Mateo.

Her brows pulled together.

It wasn’t that unusual to see an exec’s name on a late pull—especially someone with Mateo’s clearance—but something about it felt… off. Not wrong, exactly. Just heavier than usual.

She scanned the attached coordinates.

Virelia Planitia.

April Borne leaned forward, eyes steady on the screen as she keyed in the coordinates. She spoke the name aloud without thinking—softly, to herself.

“Virelia Planitia.”

Her voice barely rose above the background hum of the satellite control center. The name settled uneasily in her chest. It tugged at something. Familiar, but not quite present. Like a dream half-remembered or the tail end of a story you weren’t supposed to hear.

She frowned, tapped a few commands into the interface, and dragged the scan window to cover the last ten hours. High-res sweep. Shadow filters on. Wind distortion compensation running. She hit ‘execute’ and waited.

The feed loaded slowly—one frame at a time, each one rendered from hundreds of kilometers above the surface. The first image came into view.

April straightened a little in her seat.

The terrain was flat, dry, and empty. That harsh, burnt-red shade she’d come to associate with M6-117. At first glance, it looked like a thousand other scans she'd run. But then the structure emerged—off-center, slanted slightly, one edge half-swallowed by windblown grit.

She leaned in.

The main habitat shell was still there. Warped, battered, but intact. One of the secondary units had collapsed entirely—just a heap of buckled alloy. The solar arrays were bent at sharp angles. Two were missing. The comms rig looked fried—its base blackened and skeletal.

But even from this distance, something about it looked wrong.

April’s fingers hovered over the keyboard as she stared.

And then it clicked.

She knew this place.

Not personally, but in the way everyone at NOSA knew it—through internal reports, redacted footage, and that cautious silence that always settled in when the Gratzner was mentioned. The crash site. Y/N’s mission. The one they stopped talking about once the press coverage turned invasive.

Why the hell was Gomez pulling visuals on it now?

She adjusted the contrast, enhanced the light angles, and let the AI sharpen through the wind smear. More images filtered in. No movement. No heat signatures. No visible wreckage outside of what she’d already seen.

And no body.

No gear. No emergency markers. No personal effects scattered on the sand. Just the cold outline of a structure long abandoned.

April checked the coordinates again. Ran a depth overlay. The sand patterns showed recent shift, but nothing major. A few centimeters of coverage at most. Enough to bury light debris, maybe, but not a person. Not if they were still out in the open.

She felt a slow chill settle in her chest. There was nothing here.

No proof of life.

But also… no proof of death.

She saved the clearest frames, tagged the metadata, then paused—hovering over the folder name before clicking ‘Secure Archive.’ Just clean, time-stamped data. No notes. No assumptions.

Then something stopped her.

April blinked. Sat back slightly. Let the frame reload.

She rewound the sweep by ten seconds, held her breath, and froze the feed at the right angle. One image, high-altitude, but clear enough. She zoomed in—slowly, carefully—until the detail sharpened.

Solar panels?

She frowned. That wasn’t unusual by itself, not on a planet littered with old equipment and failed expeditions. But these… they were intact. Fully mounted. Angled just right to catch the light. And clean.

Not just visible through the dust—clean. Polished. Reflective.

Her stomach tightened. That didn’t track.

M6-117 was one of the worst environments NOSA had ever sent people into. The storms didn’t come in seasons; they came constantly. Fine red grit moved like static electricity, clinging to everything. Even low-orbit observation satellites picked it up as visual noise. Nothing stayed clean there.

But these panels—wherever they came from—weren’t just clean. They were in good condition. Better than good. Better than possible.

She leaned in again, squinting at the feed.

No scorch marks. No structural collapse. No wind shear damage. No burn-off. And most of all, no way in hell they should be anywhere near the Gratzner wreck.

The geology teams had placed their equipment miles to the west, near the old settlement edge. These were nowhere near that. These were close—too close—to the coordinates of the crash site.

She checked the registry again. No update. No new deployments logged. No ops schedules submitted. No teams down there. Nothing on file.

Her hand hovered over the mouse. The air felt suddenly too thick in her lungs.

It didn’t make sense.

Not unless…

A cold sensation moved across the back of her neck. Not fear, exactly. But a kind of awareness. The sharp-edged kind that told you, with absolute certainty, that you’d just stumbled into something no one meant for you to see.

“Oh God,” she whispered.

The words left her before she’d even registered saying them.

Her hand went for the phone. She knocked it off the cradle in her hurry, caught it before it hit the floor, then slammed it back onto the desk and jabbed in the code for internal routing. Her fingers felt clumsy. Cold.

The line clicked.

“Security,” came the voice on the other end, flat and bored.

“April Borne,” she said quickly, her breath not quite under control. “Satellite Control. I need Dr. Mateo Gomez’s emergency contact. Right now.”

There was a pause. The kind where someone checks credentials before pushing the big red button.

“Yes,” she snapped, “him. It’s urgent.”

As the operator responded, April barely heard the words. Her eyes were still locked on the image. On those panels. On the sunlight reflecting off metal that should’ve been buried beneath half a meter of dust by now.

She didn’t know what she was seeing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

And whatever it was… it hadn’t happened by accident.

The line crackled once, then went quiet.

April stared at the monitor as the call transferred. Her knee bounced beneath the desk. She didn’t even realize she was doing it.

There was a pause—three rings, four—then a tired voice answered, low and groggy.

“This is Gomez.”

April straightened in her seat automatically. “Uh—Dr. Gomez? This is April Borne, I’m in Satellite Control. Sorry. I know it’s late.”

There was a beat of silence. She could hear the shift in his breathing, that sudden tension that hits when someone wakes up mid-sentence and knows something’s wrong before you say it.

“You’re calling from SatCon?” he asked, voice already sharpening. “What’s happened?”

April swallowed. “You… you requested a sweep over Virelia Planitia. I pulled the footage. I was just running it through standard filters, but something came up.”

He was fully awake now. She could hear movement—sheets, maybe. The dull thud of feet hitting the floor.

“What kind of something?”

She hesitated—not because she didn’t know how to explain it, but because part of her still wasn’t sure she believed what she’d seen. “There’s solar paneling near the crash site. New-looking. Clean. Fully intact. Reflective enough to bounce a glare off the satellite lens. That’s not standard equipment for that zone. I double-checked against our infrastructure maps—there’s nothing logged for that sector, and the geology team didn’t build that close to the wreck.”

“Any activity?” he asked. “Movement? Heat signatures?”

“No. Everything looks dead. But the panels are positioned perfectly. They’ve been adjusted. Recently. They’re too clean for anything natural to explain it.”

The line went quiet again for half a beat.

Then: “You didn’t tag the data?”

“No. Just stored three clean frames to a secure archive. No labels. No flags.”

“Good,” Mateo said. “Stay there. I’m going to call the director. We’ll loop you back in once we’ve figured out next steps.”

He hung up before she could respond.

Mateo was already halfway into a clean shirt, one hand pressing his phone to his ear as he paced across the narrow strip of carpet in his quarters.

Yoongi picked up on the second ring.

“It’s me,” Mateo said. “Wake up. We’ve got movement at the Gratzner site.”

There was a pause on the other end. A sigh, maybe. But not confusion. Not disbelief. Just that heavy exhale Yoongi gave when he knew a night was about to get longer.

“I’m listening,” Yoongi said.

“She caught something on the last sweep—clean solar arrays, set up near the wreck. They’re in active orientation and fully intact. Way too clean to be left over from the crash.”

There was a short silence, then: “You sure it’s not leftover equipment from geology?”

“Already checked. Placement’s wrong. Too close. And it doesn’t line up with the last terrain integrity scans. She’s good, too—didn’t tag the frames. Kept it quiet.”

Yoongi was quiet for another second.

Then: “Loop her in. I want a direct line. No chatter. No routing through the board.”

“I’m already on it.”

Mateo hung up, grabbed his tablet, and keyed in the SatCon line again.

April answered on the first ring, breath caught somewhere between relief and panic.

“Dr. Gomez?”

“April. I just got off with the director. You’re cleared to send the frames. Full-resolution, no compression. Direct to me, then back it up on an external drive—don’t touch the servers again until I give you the go. Understood?”

“Understood,” she said quickly.

“I know this is probably not what you expected when you signed on,” he added, voice a touch softer now. “But you handled this the right way. We don’t get a lot of clean threads in situations like this. You just gave us one.”

There was a pause on her end. “Do you think she’s still alive out there?”

Mateo didn’t answer immediately.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.

Thirty minutes later, Mateo Gomez stood in the center of NOSA’s mission control floor, surrounded by quiet urgency. The room was dim but alive—screens flickering, feeds updating in real-time, the soft clicks of keyboards like rainfall on glass. A satellite image of M6-117 glowed across the central display, the barren red landscape stretching outward around a single, unmistakable structure: the Hunter-Gratzner’s crash site.

Alice Saxe, Director of Media Relations, stood just behind him, arms folded, heels echoing as she paced.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” she muttered. “Please. Tell me I’m looking at an old sweep or some kind of glitch.”

Mateo didn’t respond right away. He just turned back toward the monitor, pointing.

“Panels have been cleaned. Adjusted for sunlight. This isn’t weather. You know that.”

“Dust storms on M6-117 don't clean—they scour,” Alice said. “If the wind had hit those arrays, they'd be torn to shreds or buried. Not gleaming.”

Yoongi Min stepped closer, still in his travel jacket, his face unreadable. He hadn’t spoken since entering the room, but his silence was the kind that pulled everyone’s attention without asking for it.

“How certain are we?” he asked finally, voice low and steady.

“Ninety-nine percent,” Mateo said. “We cross-checked the coordinates. The battery Y/N removed from the Gratzner on Sol 17 was logged dead, but this panel—this entire array—has been relocated and is drawing ambient current.”

Yoongi stared at the display wall, eyes locked on the satellite footage. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak. Not yet.

Mateo stepped forward and tapped the screen again, bringing up the enhanced overlay. “Look at this,” he said. “This isn’t erosion. This is structure modification. The H-G’s been partially disassembled. You can see where the supports were moved. That’s not decay. That’s work.”

Alice, standing just behind them, stopped pacing. Her heels had been a steady rhythm of tension, but now she went still.

“Someone’s there,” she said, voice quiet.

“Or was,” Mateo replied. “But whatever this is—it’s recent. That site’s not dead. It’s active. Or it was, at least, in the last seventy-two hours.”

Yoongi’s brow furrowed. “That old cargo hull from New Mecca—the one that dropped signal last year. Could she have found it?”

“We thought about that,” Mateo said. “And maybe she did. But if she’s using it, it’s not for communication. There’s no distress signal, no coded pulse, nothing on open channels. Our guess? She stripped it for power. Kept what she needed to survive and stayed dark. She’s rationing.”

Yoongi’s mouth opened slightly—he was about to say something—but Alice beat him to it.

“If she’s alive,” she said, stepping forward, her voice low but urgent, “if Y/N is actually alive out there, someone on Nexus II needs to know. Her cousin’s on that ship, Yoongi. You know that.”

Yoongi turned to her, his tone calm, but threaded with steel. “We’re not telling them.”

Alice stared at him, eyebrows raised. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious,” he said. “We keep this contained.”

“For how long?” she asked, incredulous. “Until she runs out of food? Until someone leaks the satellite footage and the public gets there first?”

“They’re eight months out from New Mecca,” Yoongi said. “Ten from reentry. We hit them with this now—with this? We don’t know what that does to the crew. To him.”

“They already buried her,” Mateo said quietly from across the room. “Held a private vigil in the observation deck. And now we’re going to rip that away from them—with no rescue window? No extraction plan?”

He looked up, meeting Alice’s eyes. “Jimin Park’s been holding that crew together since day one. He’s not just her friend, Alice. Her uncle adopted him after she brought him home. They’re practically siblings at this point. You think he won’t try to reroute the mission himself?”

Alice looked between the two men, then back at the screen where the crash site stood frozen in grainy satellite stills. Her arms slowly folded across her chest.

“So we just let them believe she’s dead? Again.”

Mateo didn’t answer, but his silence said enough. Yoongi took a breath.

“We hold the line,” he said. “Until we know she’s stable. Until we know this isn’t a glitch. A mistake. Or worse—something we can’t fix.”

This time, Alice didn’t argue. Not because she agreed, but because the logic—cold and cruel as it was—held.

She rubbed at her temple and nodded once. “Parliament’s going to eat us alive. I spoke to Oversight this morning. Image data clears internal review in twenty-three hours. Once it does, it’s public record.”

“Then we get ahead of it,” Yoongi said. “We don’t let this leak through the back door. We put out a statement. Brief, clear, controlled.”

Alice looked at him flatly. “Right. Something like: ‘Dear people of Aguerra, you know that young pilot we gave a state funeral? Turns out she’s alive and living on protein paste in a desert crater. Oops. Love, New Oslo.’”

Mateo didn’t laugh. Neither did Yoongi.

The tension in the room didn’t allow it.

Mateo’s eyes were fixed on the satellite feed again. The structure sat quietly in the frame, unchanged and unmoving—just a tiny silhouette against endless red. A single, skeletal lifeline in an ocean of dust.

“This wasn’t supposed to be possible,” he murmured. “We reviewed every survival scenario. Every thermal failure point. Ration shelf-life. Physical trauma after impact. We mapped it all. And still…”

Still, she was alive.

Yoongi moved toward the chair by the wall, where he’d dropped his jacket earlier, and slid his arms into the sleeves.

“I’m going to Helion Five.”

Mateo looked over, confused. “Why?”

“She has family there,” Yoongi said. “Her aunt and uncle emailed me last night saying they were going to see them. They’re hosting a memorial tomorrow—small, just close relatives. They don’t know what we found. I’m not letting them hear about this from a newsfeed. When they get back here they need to be prepared to face the news.”

Alice’s tone softened. “If she’s alive, they’ll be relieved.”

Yoongi paused at the doorway. His voice was lower now, almost flat. “Relief depends on what we find next. All we’ve got are images—no movement, no signal, no confirmation. If she is alive, then we’ve got six weeks of rations left to work with. Maybe less. And that’s not accounting for muscle atrophy, radiation, psych strain. A year in M6-117’s gravity at surface level... even if she’s standing, she’s not strong.”

Nobody responded.

The weight of it pressed into the room.

The monitors kept humming. Soft alerts blinked on screen—routine, irrelevant. And yet the atmosphere felt anything but ordinary.

Mateo finally broke the silence. His voice wasn’t loud, but there was something in it—something fragile and steady at the same time.

“Can you even imagine what she’s been through?” he asked. “What it’s like waking up to that sky every day. Knowing no one’s coming. Hearing your own breathing and nothing else. Watching the light change and wondering if that’s your last sunrise.”

Alice didn’t respond. She just stared at the image, arms still crossed. Her jaw was clenched tight.

Yoongi followed Mateo’s gaze back to the screen. He didn’t speak right away. When he finally did, his voice was quieter than either of them had ever heard it.

“She thinks we gave up,” he said. “She thinks everyone walked away.”

He didn’t look at them when he said it. He just stared at the image—at the wreck, the clean panels, the threadbare hope they’d uncovered far too late.

“And she’s probably right.”

No one corrected him.

No one even moved.

The planet’s surface shimmered through the thick, dust-streaked viewport like a mirage, a fluid illusion of red and gold under the hard light of three suns. M6-117 had never just been a planet—it was a crucible. A punishing, relentless force that didn’t care about the limits of human endurance. It didn’t roar. It didn’t lash out. It just endured, and made you suffer for trying to do the same.

The wind outside never really stopped. It howled sometimes, hummed at others, but it was always there—scraping sand against the Hab walls like claws against a coffin lid.

Inside, things weren’t much better.

The air recyclers wheezed rhythmically in the corner, fighting a losing battle against the heat and the grit. Everything smelled faintly of copper, sweat, and the unmistakable tang of fried wiring. Every square inch of the Hab was claimed by something—wires, taped-together filters, stripped-down equipment, makeshift solar controllers, and the skeletal remains of old repairs that had failed just long enough ago for her to stop cursing them daily.

And cutting through all of it, like some absurd joke the universe refused to stop telling, was Vicki Sue Robinson.

“Turn the Beat Around” blared cheerfully from the corner speaker. The volume had long since stopped being adjustable—another casualty of the power surge two weeks ago. The computer, apparently, had decided that disco was essential for morale.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by the chaos. Dirt smudged her cheeks and collarbone. Her jumpsuit, once standard-issue and crisp, had been patched so many times it looked like a quilt. Her hair was pulled back into a crooked, low bun, strands slicked to her forehead with sweat. She was pale beneath the grime, hollow-eyed and hollow-cheeked, but awake. Alert. Still breathing.

The camera was on, its tiny red light a familiar companion. She looked directly into it, her face unreadable for a long moment.

Then she spoke.

"I'm gonna die up here."

The words were delivered flatly—no drama, no fear. Just fact. A statement she'd repeated enough times to wear smooth.

She paused, then gestured vaguely toward the speaker, where the disco beat continued its unforgiving march.

“…if I have to listen to any more goddamn disco.”

Her voice cracked slightly, and for a second it was hard to tell if she was about to laugh or lose it. She went with sarcasm.

“Jesus, Captain Marshall,” she muttered, leaning back against the wall and closing her eyes briefly. “You couldn’t have packed one playlist from this century? It’s like being trapped inside a time capsule designed by someone’s dad during a midlife crisis.”

She opened her eyes again and tilted her head toward the camera. Her mouth curled into something that could’ve been a smile, if not for how tired her eyes looked.

“I’m not turning the beat around,” she said dryly. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

The music played on, oblivious to her suffering. And for a while, she let it. Just sat there, letting the thumping bass fill the silence she no longer had the energy to fight.

Her gaze drifted around the Hab. The exposed wiring. The jury-rigged cooling coils. The last two nutrient packs, stashed carefully in a corner and rationed down to sips and guesses. Everything here was improvised, fragile, a monument to survival one piece of duct tape away from collapse.

Her tone shifted when she looked back at the camera again. Softer now.

“You know,” she said, brushing a dirty hand across her forehead, “I used to hate noise. Back on Helion Five, I thought silence was peace. I'd take long walks just to get away from everything. Loved the stillness—the wind across the glass domes, the sound of my own footsteps. It felt clean. Safe.”

She exhaled through her nose. It wasn’t a laugh exactly, but something close.

“Now I’d give anything for a little chaos. A toddler screaming at the top of their lungs. Some teenager blasting synthpop out of a cracked speaker on the transit line. My Aunt Rose laughing way too loud at one of Uncle Sean’s awful cooking puns. Jimin calling me just to argue about who’s faster in a sim run. I’d take any of it.”

Her eyes glistened slightly, but she didn’t blink. She wasn’t going to cry. Not today. Not yet.

“But no,” she added with a half-hearted shrug. “Instead, I get this. Captain Disco’s Last Stand.”

She waved toward the speaker, now cycling into another painfully upbeat track. It might’ve been Bee Gees. She honestly couldn’t tell anymore. It all blurred together.

“Thanks for that, Cap,” she said, voice cracking just enough to be heard.

For a while, she didn’t move.

Y/N just sat there, her arms draped loosely over her knees, fingers slack, her body sagging under the weight of heat and fatigue. The music played on in the background, cheerful and relentless, as if completely unaware it was serenading a graveyard.

Her face hovered somewhere between disbelief and resignation—eyelids heavy, mouth drawn tight, eyes glassy but dry. Like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scream, and had settled instead on stillness.

Eventually, she exhaled through her nose. A slow, weary breath. The kind that didn’t relieve anything but bought her one more second of not falling apart.

She straightened a little, not with purpose, but out of habit. Pushed her shoulders back. Wiped at her face with the back of one dirty sleeve. Sniffed. Brushed a clump of red dust off her jumpsuit—pointless, really, but it made her feel slightly more like a person.

Still not crying.

“Anyway,” she murmured, her voice rough but steady. She cleared her throat. “Guess I should get back to it.”

She glanced to the small diagnostics tablet lying on the crate beside her. One of the few pieces of equipment still fully functional, thanks to two days of rewiring and one desperate bargain with a soldering gun.

“Filters are holding at sixty-three percent. And the east panel’s… yeah, losing charge again. It dips below thirty, I lose the A/C circuit. Which means no airflow. And considering it’s been climbing ten degrees at dusk every cycle—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.

She looked up at the camera again, her gaze settling on it like she was seeing through it, not just into it.

For once, she wasn’t performing. She wasn’t trying to document for science, or for protocol, or even for the off chance some bureaucrat in a clean uniform might review the footage someday. She was talking like the way people do in the dark, to themselves, when they need to say something out loud just to believe it.

“I know no one’s watching this live. Not anymore. I stopped pinging outgoing signals after the relay failed on Sol 117. Probably should’ve done it sooner. No point wasting power on a message no one’s receiving.”

Her voice caught, just a little, but she pushed through it.

“I know it’s all getting logged somewhere. Maybe. If the system hasn’t corrupted yet. Maybe it’s already lost. Maybe this is just talking into the void.”

She shrugged faintly, the gesture brittle.

“But if you’re watching this someday... if you’re here, and you found this place—first off, congrats. You made it farther than anyone ever expected.”

She hesitated. Her gaze drifted toward the speaker again, where the music was cycling into another track—something fast, with horns, absurdly upbeat.

“And second... turn the music off. Please.” Her smile was thin, cracked at the corners. “Do that one thing for me.”

She didn’t laugh. It was too dry for that. But something about the absurdity, about the sheer persistence of disco as a background to slow starvation, made her eyes crease with irony.

“Seriously,” she said. “You survive a crash. A storm. A breach. You figure out how to repurpose three dead batteries and a solar sled with two legs and a dream. And your reward? Is nonstop seventies dance hits and a broken coffee machine. Just... poetic.”

The camera light continued to blink, silent and impassive.

Y/N leaned forward slightly, fingers brushing the panel beside the lens. Her expression didn’t shift much, but her eyes lingered.

“I don’t want to die here,” she said finally, her voice low. Steady. “But if I do... just let it mean something. Let it matter. Not in the reports. Not in the mission logs. Just... to someone.”

She hovered there a moment longer. Like part of her still thought maybe—maybe—someone was out there watching. That someone might say something back.

No voice answered.

She reached out and tapped the switch.

The camera blinked off.

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. Not total, not complete—disco still played, faint and fuzzy through the corner speaker. But it no longer had anything to talk over.

Outside, the wind moved across the open plain, dry and sharp, dragging the planet’s endless red dust in slow waves across the wreckage.

Inside, Y/N pulled herself to her feet with a small grunt. She cracked her neck, wiped her palms on her thighs, and moved toward the power grid diagnostics. Her fingers worked on autopilot, adjusting output thresholds, checking the panel logs, splicing a broken wire.

The work was hard. The air was thin. The gravity pulled harder every day.

But she did it anyway, because surviving wasn’t something you did all at once. It was something you did a little at a time.

And that was exactly what she did.

Y/N sat hunched over the workstation, elbows braced, head bowed, the soft mechanical hum of the Hab wrapping around her like a half-remembered song. It was the kind of ambient noise you stopped noticing after the first few days—until it changed. And then, you couldn’t unnotice it. Every now and then, a subtle click or muted groan would echo through the walls. Nothing critical, according to the diagnostics, just thermal shifts or aging components settling in their housings. Still, every sound tightened her chest for half a second, her eyes darting upward, ears straining. Alone out here, you learned to take every anomaly personally.

Outside the small viewport, M6-117 lay still and inhospitable. Just more of the same: a rust-colored expanse, baked flat and cracked like old pottery, broken only by distant ridgelines that shimmered faintly in the perpetual twilight. The sun didn’t really set on this planet—it dimmed, sulked low, and hovered just below the edge of the horizon in a long, bruised dusk. The sky was always the color of dried blood.

She rubbed the side of her head, trying to ease the throb pulsing just behind her right eye. The recycled air was running too dry again. She could taste it—metallic, sand-scrubbed, stale. The CO₂ scrubber was overdue for recalibration, but she didn’t have the right calibration beacon anymore. It had corroded, probably during the last atmospheric pressure swing. So instead, she rationed deeper breaths and kept going.

On the desk before her, a battered old map lay flat beneath two metal clips. She'd found it weeks ago, buried in the remains of a modular crate in the collapsed outpost 11.3 kilometers south. Miraculously intact. The paper was faded and fragile—yellowed along the folds, edges torn like old lace—but the lines were still there, hand-drawn in black ink: contour lines, elevation notations, faint topographic notes in a steady, meticulous script. Whoever made it had cared. Had known this land in a way she still couldn’t.

Her fingertip traced a route from her current position—just north of the crater shelf—toward the ridge to the east. The terrain didn’t look too bad on paper. But out here, paper didn’t always mean much. The ground was deceptive. Soil crusts looked solid until they weren’t. The wind could strip visibility to nothing in seconds.

Her other hand flipped open the small, leather-bound notebook she carried with her everywhere. The pages were crammed with field data: raw numbers, scribbled gear checks, half-legible sketches of terrain and stars, and messy calculations that had been corrected and overwritten a dozen times. It looked more like the workings of a mind unspooling than a logbook. Her handwriting, once neat and looping, had degraded into tight, utilitarian scratches.

She found a blank page and murmured under her breath, “Let’s try this again.”

The sound of her own voice startled her a little. It had been hours—maybe a day—since she’d spoken aloud. It was easier not to. Words hung around in empty rooms too long when no one was there to catch them.

“If I head east,” she said, pencil moving across the page, “should reach the base of the ridge in seven hours. Eight if the dust is soft again. Nine if I hit another sink pocket. Oxygen reserves—”

She did the math aloud, letting the numbers ground her.

“One tank, plus a quarter from the spare. No margin for a second night, not without overclocking the cooler again. Battery’s still inconsistent. Can’t trust the sled.”

She paused, glancing at the solar charging sled leaning half-dismantled against the wall. It had started losing efficiency after a microburst sandstorm two weeks ago, and she hadn’t yet figured out whether the issue was solar array degradation or a faulty power regulator. She’d tried bypassing the controller last night, but the patchwork wiring sparked too easily.

She scratched out a quick packing list on the edge of the page: oxygen tank, regulator, ration pouches, the repaired water canister, signal flares, analog compass, a pair of makeshift coolant bands she’d fashioned out of gel packs and copper wiring, and—if she could get it working—the sled.

Planning helped. It gave the hours shape, gave her something to press her thoughts into. Numbers didn’t lie. They didn’t shift when you weren’t looking, or twist on you like memory did. If the numbers worked, you had a chance. If not, you didn’t. Simple as that.

She leaned back, rubbing at the back of her neck. The collar of her undersuit itched with salt and static from the Hab’s dry air. She hadn't bothered to look in the mirror above the tiny sink station in days. She knew what she'd see—skin dulled by stress and recycled air, hair matted and wild, eyes too bright from too little sleep. Vanity was the first thing this planet had taken from her. She didn’t miss it.

Her gaze drifted back to the map. Near the bottom, half-obscured by age and sun-bleached discoloration, a name had been scrawled in faded ink: Rexlin Crest.

She whispered it out loud, just to hear it. “Rexlin Crest.”

It sounded like something out of an old explorer’s journal. Solid. Permanent. Like it had been here long before she arrived and would remain long after she was gone.

Her thumb brushed the paper’s brittle corner.

“Whoever you were,” she said softly, to the unseen hand that had drawn the lines before her, “you got to know this place. Maybe even beat it, for a while.”

She imagined someone else sitting here, maybe in the very same fold-out chair. Same hum of the air system. Same relentless sun through the viewport. Were they alone, too? Did they make it back? Or had the sandstorms swallowed them whole?

“I wish you’d left instructions,” she added, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

She leaned forward and began jotting again—exposure zones, possible shelter along the ridge, estimated elevation gain, minimum safe battery levels. It was half engineering, half superstition. But it filled the hours. And hours were the only thing left she could control.

Outside, the dimming sky dipped another half shade. Inside, the Hab’s shadows lengthened, stretching like tired limbs across the metal floor. This was always the hardest part of the day—the shift between false day and false night, when the silence didn’t just fill the room, but seemed to press against it.

She drew in a deep breath, held it, then slowly exhaled. One more note, small, in the bottom corner of the map:

Leave before the light shifts.

She closed the notebook carefully, fingertips lingering on the weathered cover. Then she folded the map along its deep creases, treating it like something sacred, and laid it down next to her gear. The fabric of the Hab rustled faintly as she moved. The cooling unit kicked into a new cycle behind her with a tired groan.

She stood, joints stiff, shoulders tight. Reached for her toolkit. Time to check the panel. The ridge wasn’t going anywhere—but if she wanted a shot at reaching it, she had to be ready when the light changed.

Outside, the landscape remained as it always was—still, brutal, and indifferent. M6-117 stretched outward in all directions like the surface of an open wound, cracked and scorched beneath the punishing glare of three pale suns. No clouds. No movement. Just an endless sprawl of rust-colored dust, broken occasionally by fractured stone or the bleached bones of abandoned equipment. The air shimmered faintly at the horizon where heat rose in silent waves, distorting the already-barren view into something dreamlike and unstable.

There was no wind today. Just heat. Dead heat—the kind that didn’t blow or shift or give you something to brace against. It simply was, sitting on the world like a weight, pressing down into your chest until breathing felt like work. The kind of heat that crawled under your skin and stayed there, baking you slowly from the inside out.

She stepped out into it anyway, ducking around the side of the habitat module with practiced caution. Her boots crunched over sun-baked soil, each step kicking up a faint puff of red dust that drifted lazily before settling again. Even that small motion was enough to start sweat rolling down her back, sticking her shirt to her spine. Her limbs felt heavy. Gravity here wasn’t much higher than Earth’s, just enough to matter. Enough to remind her that everything—every task, every movement, every breath—took a little more than it used to.

She made her way toward the east solar panel, squinting against the glare as she approached. It wasn’t broken—if it had been, she’d already be dead—but it was underperforming. Again. Dust built up too quickly. Static charge in the atmosphere made it cling like ash. She brushed it away with slow, circular strokes of a microfiber rag, then crouched to check the diagnostic panel. Her fingers hesitated a moment above the interface before she keyed in the recalibration code. The converter was still lagging on transfer rates. Not much. But enough to matter over time. Everything out here was a slow bleed—energy, oxygen, patience.

When she was done, she stood slowly, wiping the sweat from her brow with the crook of her arm. Her sleeves were crusted with salt. She paused for a moment, letting her eyes sweep the horizon. Still no movement. Still no sound, except for the occasional creak of thermal expansion from the Hab behind her. M6-117 wasn’t hostile, exactly. It didn’t try to kill you. That would imply intent. The truth was worse—it simply didn’t care. You could live, die, scream into the dust until your voice broke. The planet would stay exactly as it was. Unchanged. Unbothered.

Back inside, she sealed the hatch and let the air cycle through the filters. Not that it helped much. The interior of the Hab was hot and stale, thick with the scent of sun-baked plastics, dried sweat, and decaying soil packs long past viability. She shrugged off her jacket and dropped it over the back of the chair before sinking into it, the old cushion wheezing faintly under her weight. Her body ached in that deep, marrow-level way that came from living on a world that didn’t want her.

The map was still open on the desk, just where she’d left it. Paper warped slightly from the ambient humidity, corners curling upward like they were trying to peel away from the surface. Her gaze drifted across the hand-drawn contours, finally settling on a single label: Sundermere Basin.

A crater. Large. Deep. Possibly ancient. It was one of the few locations flagged for potential hydrological activity back before the surveys were abandoned. Some even believed it once held standing water—maybe briefly, maybe seasonally. She didn’t know. No one ever finished the scans. Budget cuts, changing priorities. Then silence.

She leaned back, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to push away the growing pressure behind them. It didn’t help. Nothing helped anymore. She rolled her head, neck cracking, and turned slowly toward the small camera perched above the workstation. The red light was still on, but she had no way of knowing if it meant anything—if the logs were storing, if the system was even linked to a satellite that still functioned. If the storage drive had corrupted two weeks ago, she could be speaking into a void.

Didn’t matter. Speaking helped.

She cleared her throat, voice rough and low from disuse. “Alright,” she said. “Time to start thinking long-term.”

She looked back at the map, her finger tracing slowly across the crumpled surface to a point just past the eastern ridge. Her touch was deliberate, like she needed the tactile sensation to make it real.

“Next NOSA pass is Helion Nexus. It’s scheduled to run a survey arc through this sector on its way to Taurus One.” She tapped the crater. “This is the basin. It’s thirty-two hundred kilometers away. Give or take.”

The number hung there. It wasn’t just a measurement. It was a judgment. A reminder of the scale of her isolation. Of the odds.

“Presupply missions are already underway,” she continued. “Which means a Sandcat unit should be there by now. Sitting tight. Synthesizing fuel. That’s the pattern—establish the route, prep the surface, load the caches before the main ship swings through. If it all goes well, they’ll start feasibility studies for a permanent outpost.”

She went quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on the crater.

“That’s my shot.”

Her voice dropped.

“If I can get there—if I can leave a signal, something visible, big enough to catch on orbital imaging... maybe they’ll realize someone’s still alive down here. Maybe they’ll come back.”

Her finger hovered above the basin on the map—just a moment longer—then pulled back. No decision was ever final out here, not until you started walking. She rolled her shoulder with a quiet wince and pushed up from the desk, joints stiff from hours of stillness.

In the far corner of the Hab, under a tarp stiff with dust, Speculor 1 lay half-buried in red grit. Its frame had caved slightly on one side after the last seismic tremor—a subtle one, barely noticeable at the time, but enough to shift the drone’s weight off its stabilizers. Now it sagged like a carcass, picked over and hollow. She’d stripped it weeks ago for parts—rotor assembly, drive stabilizer, the nav panel wiring—but she’d left the battery.

Because batteries were a pain in the ass to pull, and she hadn’t needed it. Until now.

She crouched beside it, letting her knees pop. Her legs protested the bend. The casing had expanded from heat cycles, and the bolts had gone stiff with corrosion. She ran her hand along the edge, feeling for weak points. The metal was hot, even in shadow, and rough with pitted oxidation. She grabbed the wrench from her belt, tested a bolt. It didn’t move.

“Of course,” she muttered.

She braced her foot against the frame and pulled. The bolt twitched—maybe a millimeter—but didn’t give. She exhaled, lips tight, and tried again.

It took her almost forty minutes. Not because the work was complicated, but because her hands kept slipping, blisters reopening under old calluses. Sweat dripped into her eyes, stung her skin, soaked the back of her shirt until the fabric clung like wet gauze. She didn’t yell. Didn’t swear loudly. Just let out the occasional breathy grunt of frustration. Anger took too much energy, and there was no one here to hear it.

When the battery finally came free, it did so with a groan of metal and a jolt that nearly knocked her off balance. She sat back on her heels, panting, the heavy unit cradled in her arms. Still warm from residual charge. Intact. She turned it gently, checking the leads.

Not ideal. But salvageable.

She stayed there for a minute, elbows resting on her knees, catching her breath. Her hands trembled slightly from exertion. Not fear—just tired nerves and low electrolytes. The battery was heavier than she remembered. Or maybe she was just weaker than she wanted to admit.

She looked over at Speculor 2—the only other drone with wheels still turning. It sat near the maintenance bench, hooked up to a cracked solar panel, the whole machine leaning slightly to the left like it had given up on holding itself level. But it powered on. Most days.

“Where the hell am I gonna fit this?” she muttered, dragging the battery toward it.

The movement kicked up a cloud of red dust that clung to her pants and got into the creases of her skin, even through the fabric. She coughed once, throat dry, and wiped her face with the inside of her sleeve. The battery landed with a dull thud beside the chassis of Speculor 2. She’d figure out the wiring tomorrow.

By the time the third sun dropped below the horizon, the sky had cooled from a harsh white to a dull bronze, then to gray. But the heat didn’t leave. Not really. It just shifted, pressing in lower, heavier. Like the planet was exhaling slowly, watching to see what she’d do next.

Inside, the Hab was quiet—only the low hum of the systems cycling and the faint rasp of dust against the outer hull. She sat again at the workstation, flipping a stained towel over her shoulders before leaning into the console. Her skin was raw from salt and grit. Her back ached. Her eyes burned.

She pressed record on the feed. The red light blinked to life. It was muscle memory now, not protocol. She hadn’t logged a formal report in days. Maybe longer. She didn’t even know if the feed was transmitting. Could be filling corrupted drive space, could be echoing out into dead silence.

Didn’t matter. Talking helped.

“Alright,” she said. Her voice came out scratchy, lower than usual. She cleared her throat, tried again. “Time for a reality check.”

She pointed to the map, where the basin was still circled in smudged graphite.

“Problem A: both Speculors were built for short-range runs. Recon missions. Surface scouting. Thirty-five kilometers max before recharge. Maybe thirty-seven if the slope’s good and the wind isn’t punching me in the teeth.”

She raised one finger.

“Problem B.” Another finger. “The basin’s just over thirty-two hundred klicks away. That’s... fifty days, give or take, assuming nothing breaks and I don’t drop dead in the middle of nowhere. I’ll be living in the Speculor. Eating, sleeping, breathing in something the size of a food truck. Life support in that thing is a joke. Maybe twelve hours of clean air if I run it lean. One day if I’m lucky.”

She paused, then gave a dry laugh. It barely registered in the room.

“Problem C...” She held up a third finger. “If I don’t re-establish contact with NOSA, none of this matters. I could hike all the way there, build the biggest damn signal tower on the planet, and no one will even know to look. They’ll fly right past. Too high. Too fast. And I’ll be just another piece of debris down here.”

She dropped her hand, rubbing her eyes. Her vision swam briefly—fatigue or dehydration or both. The light from the screen painted the side of her face in a sterile blue glow. It made her skin look thinner than it used to.

“So,” she said finally. “Overwhelming odds. Minimal gear. Rations running low. Life support at half-capacity. No comms. No backup. And I’ve got one ride held together with salvaged screws and electrical tape.”

She stared at the screen. Her reflection hovered faintly there—sunburned, sharp-jawed, eyes sunken from sleep deprivation. Hair tied back in a rough knot, wild at the edges. She didn’t look like a hero. She looked like someone surviving one day at a time.

She smiled—barely—and it cracked her lip.

“I’m gonna have to figure this out,” she said, voice quiet now. “No one’s coming to save me. So I’m gonna have to save myself.”

She hesitated, then nodded once to herself.

“Let’s hope Helion Prime’s tuition wasn’t a waste.”

She reached forward and ended the feed. The screen went black. The silence filled the room again—settling in the corners, humming through the walls. Out here, even silence had weight.

The next day unfolded in fragments—sweat-slicked hours, bruised knuckles, half-coherent muttering. A blur of motion stitched together by urgency and the dull ache of too little sleep. She moved on autopilot, her thoughts always two steps behind her hands, like her brain was being dragged along by the sheer momentum of necessity.

The first sun hadn’t fully cleared the jagged horizon when she was already outside, kneeling beside Speculor-2. The rover's shadow stretched long across the cracked dirt of Virelia Planitia, thin and sharp in the early light. Her fingers were stiff from the cold night, trembling faintly as she tightened the final brace holding the new power core in place.

The rig was a mess. A Frankenstein hybrid of salvaged components and wishful thinking. The battery from Speculor-1—ripped from its corroded chassis the day before—had taken nearly all her strength to move. She’d hoisted it onto the frame with gritted teeth and every ounce of leverage she could muster, her arms shaking from the effort. The thing wasn't designed for this kind of integration. It sat like a tumor on the side of the rover, cables sprawling out like veins, half of them stripped and re-soldered under poor lighting with tools that had started to wear down months ago.

She’d fashioned a harness to hold it in place—carbonfiber strapping from the remains of a collapsible cargo rack, lengths of shock cord cut from an old deployable tent, and a few tension hooks she’d yanked from her spare EVA gear. It wasn’t pretty. The whole thing groaned and flexed when the rover shifted even slightly, like it resented being alive.

“Stay put,” she muttered, adjusting one of the final tension straps. Her voice was hoarse, not from emotion, just disuse and dust. “Seriously, just... stay.”

She pressed a knee to the rover’s side to brace herself as she pulled the strap tight, fingers slipping against grit-caked metal. The battery shifted again. She swore under her breath, louder this time, a raw edge sneaking into her tone.

The wind was picking up—dry, abrasive, and sharp at the edges. It rolled across the plain without mercy, lifting trails of dust that swirled around her boots and vanished before they went far. The air here had no moisture, no softness. It scoured.

By late afternoon, her knuckles were scraped raw, and the sun had climbed to its punishing apex—one of three that would cross overhead before the sky dimmed. Heat radiated off the rover in shimmering waves. Her shirt clung to her back, soaked through, and her lips were cracked from breathing through her mouth too long. But she kept going. Adjust. Recheck. Re-secure.

When she finally cinched the last strap into place, the sun had already begun its slow descent toward the western ridge, and the second sun’s orange glare had started to stretch the shadows thin again. Her fingers twitched with fatigue as she stepped back, watching the way the harness held. The load sagged a little on the left side. One of the bolts bowed slightly under pressure.

Not ideal. Not even close. But it was holding.

“For now,” she murmured.

She reached out and patted the side of the rover—more instinct than comfort—and let her hand drop to her thigh with a sigh. “Ugly little bastard. But you better run.”

The cabin was hot when she climbed in. Heat trapped inside all day had turned the interior into an oven. She sank into the pilot seat, the worn padding creaking beneath her, and braced her forearm on the side console as she powered it up. There was a long, silent beat where nothing happened—then the interface flickered to life, dim and uneven. The main screen coughed out a few lines of static before stabilizing. A soft mechanical hum kicked in. The motors weren’t exactly happy, but they were responding.

“Come on,” she whispered, coaxing the throttle forward.

Speculor-2 jerked like it had been startled awake, lurching forward with a sudden, uneven groan. The wheels rolled—then caught, then rolled again. One of the rear stabilizers squealed in protest. The entire chassis shuddered under the added weight of the rigged battery. But it moved.

It moved.

She clenched the steering grip, steadying the throttle as the rover crept forward across the flat plain, carving a slow path through the red dust. Every jolt sent a new symphony of rattles through the hull—loose bolts, worn bearings, stress fractures singing in metallic protest. She listened closely, eyes narrowed, memorizing each sound. Anything unfamiliar could be a warning.

But the battery held. The patched-in solar array, still streaked with fine dust despite two cleanings, managed to feed just enough power to keep the system balanced. The charge monitor bounced around like it couldn’t make up its mind, but it didn’t dip below the red.

No grace. No stability. But forward was forward.

A thin smile ghosted across her lips. Not triumph—there was nothing glorious about barely functioning equipment and jury-rigged systems—but it was momentum. And in a place like this, that was as good as hope.

Later that evening, after she'd parked the Speculor under its tarp and run another systems check just to be sure, Y/N walked the half-kilometer out to the crash site.

The wreckage had settled into the dirt like it belonged there now—like the planet had accepted it as part of the terrain. The ship’s hull, once white, was sun-bleached to a dull bone color, panels curled back like torn paper. Most of it had been stripped, either by her own hands or the wind. Scorch marks painted the ground around it, long since faded into rust-stained soil.

She didn’t go there often anymore. Not because it was dangerous. Just because it meant something—and meaning was heavier to carry than tools.

Still, some days, when the horizon felt too wide and the Hab walls too close, she came out here. Not to mourn. Just to remember what it felt like to have been someone else.

She sat on a slanted piece of hull that still had a little give under her weight. The heat from the metal bled through her pants. Her boots scraped at the dirt, and for a while she just watched the sky deepen from orange to a bruised violet, then finally into that strange navy-black that came before the second and third suns disappeared completely.

Once it was dim enough, she pulled the laptop from her pack and propped it against the bent edge of the hull. The screen flickered to life—slowly, with a faint whine from the boot-up cycle. She'd almost cried the first time she got it running again, weeks ago. Maybe she had. It had been dead weight until she repaired the charge ports, using copper wire and a tweezed fragment of circuit board from a defunct comms unit.

The power came from a cluster of solar panels she’d scavenged from the abandoned settlement ten kilometers south. Hauling them back had taken three full days. Fixing them had taken ten more. Half the cells were cracked or warped, the regulators burned out, the housing warped from heat exposure. She wasn't even sure how she’d managed to make it work. Some of it had been trial-and-error. A lot of cursing. A few sparks. But it held charge now, enough to trickle into the battery bank and bring dead things back to life.

Like this.

She tapped through a few folders, fingers moving carefully over the half-working keyboard, until she found the show she'd been watching in scattered fragments—Star Trek: Voyager. She pressed play.

The familiar theme filled the air through tinny speakers, the orchestral swell strange against the wind-hiss of M6-117. The sound wasn’t great, but it was enough. She leaned back against the wreckage, pulling her knees up, and watched Captain Janeway lead her crew toward another impossible decision.

“Try commanding a starship on four hours of sleep and a protein bar, lady,” Y/N muttered, half-amused. Her voice cracked dryly at the edges, and she swallowed, reaching into her pack.

Dinner was half a ration pack—lukewarm reconstituted noodles and synthetic soy crumble that smelled vaguely like salt and old rubber. The texture was off, as always. Too soft in places, too dry in others, like someone had tried to guess what food was supposed to feel like and missed by a few critical steps. She forced herself to take slow, mechanical bites, chewing each one longer than she needed to.

Her stomach wasn’t making this easy anymore. It had started pushing back over the last few weeks—tighter, more volatile. There were mornings when even water sat wrong, heavy like ballast. She didn't have a fever, and the diagnostics hadn't flagged anything catastrophic. But she could feel the change. Fewer calories going in. Less energy coming out.

She could see it in her body now, too. The way her suit gaped slightly at the hips, where the seal used to be snug. The hollowness in her face when she caught an accidental glimpse of herself in the corner of a screen. Not thin in the graceful, movie-star way. Just diminished. Like something carved down over time.

She set the food aside, half-finished, and pulled up her shirt, squinting down at her side in the low light. The scar was still there—prominent and angry-looking even now, though the skin had flattened some. It curved beneath her ribcage, a long, uneven slash she’d stitched herself in a feverish haze after a jagged piece of support strut caught her during the initial crash. It wasn’t pretty. The lines weren’t straight. The knots were uneven. But it had held. No infection. No rupture. The skin had taken to itself again.

She ran two fingers over the edge of it. The flesh was still tender in the cold, the nerves tingling oddly when she pressed too hard.

“That’s healing,” she said to no one, voice low and scratchy. “Kind of.”

She let the shirt fall back down and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, palms running slowly through what was left of her hair.

It wasn’t much.

She’d tried to salvage it in the early days after the explosion. Most of her eyebrows had vanished in the flash. So had a palm-sized patch of scalp near the crown of her head, and the smell of burning hair had haunted the Hab for weeks after. She’d used her utility scissors to cut away the worst of it—everything charred or melted or singed down to the root. What remained was jagged, uneven, and brutally short. It didn’t lie flat. It didn’t style. It just existed. A mess of stubborn strands over pink skin, some of which she wasn’t sure would ever grow back.

She hated it. She looked like a scarecrow.

She scratched absently at her thigh, grimacing as coarse body hair caught against her nails.

“What genius decided razors were against regs?” she muttered, mostly out of habit.

Her legs were a thicket now. Her arms too. Every inch of her seemed to have sprouted an extra layer of insulation in protest of her hygiene situation. She felt like a mossy rock.

She sighed, rubbing her eyes. “I’m one inch away from full Sasquatch.”

It made her think of Aunt Rose, who used to offer to wax her legs in the kitchen while they watched cooking shows. And Uncle Sean, who’d just laugh and ruffle her hair and say, “Body hair’s normal, French Fry. You want to look like a seal, that’s your business, but you don’t have to.”

They were good to her. Always had been. Steady. Quietly dependable in the way that mattered.

She hadn’t thought about them much in the first month. There’d been no room for it—every second had been triage, assessment, raw survival. But now that the routine had calcified into something functional, their faces came back more often. Sometimes sharp. Sometimes like shadows through frosted glass. She wondered what they thought. If they still hoped. Or if she was just a ghost to them now—an old photograph with a candle beside it.

She picked up the food pack again, poked at the congealed noodles, then sealed it up and shoved it back into the storage bin. Her appetite had already checked out.

The episode of Voyager finished in the background. She didn’t look up as the credits rolled. She just sat there in the fading light, the glow from her laptop screen painting faint blue lines across the jagged piece of ship hull she’d made into a bench.

Above her, the stars were starting to break through the dark, scattering wide across the planet’s quiet sky. Most of them were unfamiliar, sharp and small and cold. But one or two... maybe. Maybe they were part of the same sky she used to look at from her aunt’s back porch, drinking tea with her feet up on the rail, the dogs barking at shadows.

She hadn’t cried in weeks. Maybe longer. There came a point where your body conserved water the same way it conserved power. You just stopped trying to let anything out unless it was essential.

But she felt the ache behind her ribs anyway. The shape of a feeling too big to hold and too vague to name.

Eventually, she shut the laptop, packed it carefully back into its sleeve, and stood. Her knees cracked as she straightened, and her lower back screamed in quiet protest. She adjusted the scarf around her head—not out of vanity, just to keep the dust from settling in the still-healing patches—and started the slow walk back to the Hab.

Each step left a deep print in the soil behind her, but the wind would smooth those out by morning. Nothing lasted out here. Not even footprints.

Inside the Hab, it was quiet—the kind of quiet that wasn’t really silence but the low, constant hum of life support systems doing their best to impersonate normalcy. Fans cycled air through tired filters. The waste processor made a dull clicking sound every thirty seconds. Somewhere behind the walls, a motor groaned softly as it adjusted temperature output for the night. It was familiar, if not exactly comforting.

Y/N moved slowly, her boots whispering across the metal floor. The overhead lights were set to 20%—just enough to see by, not enough to strain the system. Her muscles ached with that heavy, systemic fatigue that never fully left anymore. It lived in her bones now. She paused to stretch her lower back before settling into the chair at the workstation.

The console screen flickered to life under her fingers, casting a cool blue light across her face. The reflection that looked back at her from the glass was... hard to recognize. Her cheeks were hollowed out, skin raw in places from sun exposure. The bridge of her nose and both temples had started peeling again, the result of another week spent outside under UV levels that would’ve made Earth’s OSHA teams scream. The synthetic lotion in the medkit was nearly gone. She was rationing that, too.

She leaned back in the chair, staring at the blinking red light on the camera.

Routine. Just another status update. She told herself it mattered. Maybe not to anyone watching—if anyone was watching—but to her. Keeping the habit meant something. It created shape in the otherwise formless days.

She adjusted her posture, cleared her throat, and pressed the record button.

For a few seconds, she didn’t speak. She just sat there, fingers laced in her lap, jaw tight. Then, quietly, she muttered, “You’re still talking to yourself, Fry. Not exactly the behavior of someone thriving.”

Her mouth curved, almost involuntarily—a crooked smile that looked more like memory than mirth. It didn’t last long.

She exhaled slowly and glanced down at the table, collecting her thoughts before bringing her gaze back up to the camera.

“Status update. Night 87. I think.” Her voice was hoarse, dry at the edges, but steady. “I’ve managed to extend the Speculor-2 battery duration by about 65 percent by wiring in the power cell from Speculor-1. It wasn’t clean. None of the mounts matched, the leads were corroded, and the charge regulator had to be… mostly invented. But it’s holding.”

She paused, running the back of her hand across her mouth, then winced when it scraped against cracked lips.

“Downside is the thermal exchange. Running the internal cooler now drains half the extra power I gained. Every cycle.” She looked away, toward the corner where the cooler’s fan ticked unevenly. “If I use it, the system runs hot but safe. If I don’t… the cabin gets hot enough to start soft-cooking me by hour thirteen.”

A beat passed.

“I mean, it's not an immediate problem. I won’t roast in my sleep or anything. But it’s going to get ugly if we’re dealing with consecutive heat days and I’m trying to recharge at the same time.”

Her tone had flattened, practical now. She was just stating facts. That’s what this had become—an endless balancing act of systems management, each choice eroding something else.

“Speculor-1’s gone,” she added, more softly. “I stripped the last viable parts this morning. I left the frame propped against the comms array, like a monument to engineering failure.”

She gave a weak snort, then coughed again, one hand bracing against the table as she waited for the tightness in her chest to ease. Her breathing had been getting shallower. Not dangerously so, just... noticeable.

She reached for her water ration without thinking but stopped halfway, hand hovering over the canister.

Too soon.

She let it drop back to her lap.

“Saving that for tomorrow. If the panels charge well enough overnight, I’ll allow myself a full sip. Maybe even warm it. Celebration-style.”

Her lips twisted in something like a smile, but it never reached her eyes.

She sat still for a long time after the log ended, her hands folded loosely in her lap, eyes unfocused. The hum of the Hab filled the silence around her—a low, rhythmic pulse of recycled air, processor clicks, the faint ticking of heat exchange coils trying to keep everything within the margins of survivability. Background noise, constant and impersonal, like the slow breathing of a machine too tired to do much else.

There was always grit on her skin now. A fine layer of dust that got into everything no matter how careful she was. It settled into the folds of her elbows, clung behind her ears, made her scalp itch even under the scarf. She’d stopped trying to scrub it off completely—there wasn’t enough water for that kind of luxury. She just managed it. Like everything else.

She leaned forward, elbows on the edge of the desk, and stared into the dead console screen. Her own faint reflection looked back—blurred, colorless, a sketch of a face half-swallowed by the glass.

And, not for the log, not for the record, just quietly, like saying it aloud made it feel more real, she said, “I miss hot water.”

She closed her eyes briefly, picturing it—steam rising from a shower stall, the sting of water too hot on cold skin, the way your shoulders drop when it hits just right.

“And cold fruit,” she added, her voice barely more than a breath. “Like, right-out-of-the-fridge cold. Cherries. Grapes. That sound they make when you bite down.”

Her throat tightened for a moment, unexpected.

“And I miss showers where your skin doesn’t come off with the towel,” she finished, trying to laugh but not quite making it. It came out as a rough sound, not bitter exactly, just dry.

There was a long pause. Then, quieter still:

“I miss people who answer back.”

She let that hang there. Not dramatic. Just true.

Her hand hovered over the stop button, thumb resting against the worn edge of the key. She hesitated, then pressed it.

The little red light blinked out, and the screen dimmed.

For a moment, she stayed where she was. The seat creaked as she shifted her weight, the movement small and deliberate, like even gravity had become something to negotiate. Finally, she pushed back from the workstation and stood, careful not to knock into the table or clip her hip against the nearby crate. Everything in the Hab had its place. Every inch was accounted for. You learned quickly not to waste space—or motion.

She made her way toward the back, her steps slow, the floor groaning faintly under her boots. The cot was wedged between the emergency stores and the last of the sealed rations. The mattress was thin, uneven, and smelled faintly of rubber and something sour she couldn’t identify anymore. But it was where she slept. Where she rested, anyway.

Sleep was a loose term these days. There were hours when her body shut down, yes, but real sleep—the kind that left you rested, unaware of time passing—that had become rare. Now it was more like dipping in and out of a shallow tide. Just enough to stop the worst of the fraying.

She sat on the edge of the cot and pulled off her boots with slow, practiced movements. Her socks were stiff with sweat and dust. She peeled them away and flexed her toes, wincing as the skin pulled against cracked patches along her heels.

When she finally lay back, it was with a low groan, her spine clicking against the pad as she shifted to find the least uncomfortable position. One arm rested across her stomach, her fingers drifting automatically to the line of the scar that curved beneath her ribs. The skin there was firm but raised, the texture different from the rest of her. She rubbed it absently with her thumb.

Another part of her patched together with whatever was on hand.

She stared up at the ceiling, where she’d memorized the path of every exposed wire and panel line weeks ago. Her eyes traced them now, one by one, like a bedtime ritual. It gave her something to follow. Something that stayed the same when everything else was falling apart.

Outside, the wind started to pick up, a soft scrape of dust brushing against the outer shell of the Hab. It sounded like fingertips across the hull. Like something just barely there.

She didn’t close her eyes for a long time.

When she finally did, it wasn’t sleep that took her—at least not at first. Just stillness. Just a pause between one breath and the next.

And eventually—after five hours of turning, thinking, listening—her body gave in.

And she slept. 

The next morning, she drove.

The speculor's suspension jolted her in waves, the frame creaking with each dip and shift across the uneven terrain. The windscreen was streaked with red dust and micro-abrasions that caught the light, scattering it in soft bursts of glare that made her squint. She blinked behind scratched goggles, trying to keep her eyes on the faint path she’d plotted three days earlier.

The red plains of Virelia stretched out in all directions, an endless, cracked expanse of oxidized clay and powdered iron. Everything was sun-bleached and raw. The land had a scabbed-over look, like it had once been wounded, and then just… never healed. Every kilometer looked like the last. Monotony baked under three suns, broken only by the slow crawl of the rover and the faint, rhythmic thrum of its motor.

Speculor-2 groaned and bucked over a rocky patch. One of the stabilizers complained—a metal-on-metal screech that made her wince—but the system recovered. She tapped the console gently, like soothing a skittish animal.

“Easy,” she said, voice raspy with dust and disuse. “One piece at a time.”

The only other sounds were the distant pop of heat-stressed metal and the occasional whisper of wind dragging itself across the dry ground. It wasn’t silence, not quite. Just the kind of quiet that made every small noise feel bigger.

She’d been driving since before first light, watching the stars fade out one by one until the sky turned that strange pale gold that passed for morning here. Now, sometime before local noon, with the second sun beginning to crest, she spotted something.

A flicker. A flash of color on the ridge ahead.

She blinked and sat forward, eyes narrowing. At first, she thought it might be a trick of the light. A lens flare. But the shape held as she got closer—sharp-edged and irregular against the clean lines of the hill. Not natural.

She stopped the rover at the base of the rise, letting the engine idle as she stepped out, boots landing in the soft dirt with a puff of dust. Her knees cracked when she stretched. Every joint in her body reminded her how little rest she’d had, how little fuel she’d been feeding it. She ignored it.

The shovel came off the gear mount with a soft click, slung over one shoulder like second nature. The climb wasn’t far, maybe twenty meters of loose gravel and packed sand, but by the time she reached the top her thighs were burning, her breath coming in short, dry pulls.

There it was.

A flag.

Faded almost to gray, the edges torn and flapping weakly in the breeze. It was anchored into a low mound of hardened earth. Not part of any official outpost, at least not one she recognized. But unmistakably human. Fabric didn’t just appear out here.

Her chest tightened—not in fear, but something adjacent. Something closer to proof. She hadn’t seen a sign of another person in over three weeks. Not since she left the crater rim and started moving inland. She knelt beside the mound and reached into the pouch on her belt, pulling out the small, battered cam recorder and clicking it on.

“Recording,” she said, more for the log than for herself.

The camera’s indicator light blinked green, steady.

She turned the lens to face her, sweat glistening on her brow, dust streaked across her scarf and cheeks.

“Good news,” she said, voice rough but lightened with something close to wry humor. “I may have found a solution to the cabin heat issue. It’ll require mild radiation exposure, one highly questionable engineering decision, and—if I’m remembering my protocols correctly—a violation of at least six interagency regulations.”

She turned the camera toward the flag and the mound it was planted in. Just below the surface, partially embedded in the soil, was a weather-sealed data tag.

She wiped it clean.

RTG: DO NOT EXHUME.

Her smile faded a little. That part wasn’t a surprise. She’d guessed it before she even climbed the hill.

Radioisotope Thermoelectric Generator. An old-style power source. Still warm. Still dangerous. Still working.

“I know, I know,” she muttered under her breath as she gripped the shovel with both hands. “‘Don’t dig up the big box of plutonium, Frenchie.’”

She hadn’t thought about that line in years.

It had come from her old heat systems instructor back during training, a no-nonsense ex-NASA engineer with a voice like gravel and no patience for theatrics. The man had stood at the front of the lecture hall with one hand on a scorched titanium shell and told the entire room, “You crack one of these open, you don’t get second chances. So unless you want your great-grandkids glowing in the dark, you leave it buried. Say it with me: Don’t. Dig. Up. The. Box.”

They’d laughed at the time.

Now, crouched on this godforsaken hill under a sun that never quite knew how to set, she wasn’t laughing.

She drove the blade of the shovel into the ground. The soil fought her. Hard-packed, sun-baked—more like concrete than dirt. She worked in a rhythm, short and precise, trying not to waste energy. But even with the right technique, it was brutal.

The first strike jarred up her arms. By the third, her shoulders burned. By the fifth, her elbows throbbed like she’d been lifting freight by hand. She ignored it. Kept digging. Sweat trickled down her spine beneath the base layer of her suit, pooling in the small of her back, sticky and irritating. Her hands ached inside the gloves. She was breathing hard now, each pull of air dry and metallic in her throat.

On the seventh strike, she heard it.

A dull, unmistakable thunk.

Her body stilled, shovel frozen in place. She crouched quickly, heart pounding in her ears, and set the tool aside. Carefully, deliberately, she brushed away the remaining dirt with both hands. The loose grit clung to her gloves, sticking in layers, but eventually a smooth surface came into view.

There it was.

Compact. Cylindrical. Still intact.

The casing of the RTG was streaked with heat scoring, but otherwise unblemished—no cracks, no corrosion, no obvious compromise. It looked almost new, like it had just been placed there yesterday instead of god knows how many years ago. The outer shell had a faint metallic sheen, broken only by tiny vents and the faint lettering along one edge, still visible through the dust.

It looked like the nose of a missile. Sleek. Purposeful. Designed for function, not comfort.

She crouched beside it, one hand resting on her knee, the other hovering inches from the surface. Her chest rose and fell in steady, shallow breaths. She didn’t touch it.

“RTGs,” she said quietly, more to herself than the camera now tucked into her chest rig, “are great for spacecraft. Reliable power, no moving parts. Efficient thermal conversion. And if they stay sealed, they’ll run for decades.”

She paused.

“But if they crack…”

She didn’t need to say the rest.

There was a reason they buried these things when missions went sideways. A reason they marked them with durable warning tags and logged the coordinates in deep-storage government databases.

Radiation leaks. Long-term exposure risk. Inhalation vectors. Cancer clusters. Soil contamination that lasts longer than recorded history.

She sat back on her heels, just looking at it.

“That’s probably why they marked it,” she murmured. “So some other unlucky asshole wouldn’t stumble across it and decide it looked useful.”

A short, dry laugh escaped her lips. It was closer to a cough than anything resembling amusement.

“So naturally,” she said, shaking her head, “here I am.”

She took a long breath, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. The silence stretched. The wind picked up slightly, just enough to stir the edges of the flag still fluttering weakly behind her.

“As long as I don’t break it,” she started to say, but then stopped herself. Her expression twisted. She looked down at the generator again.

She shook her head, muttering, “I was about to say, ‘everything will be fine.’ Jesus.”

The words sounded ridiculous even to her.

Fine had left the conversation weeks ago.

With one last breath, she leaned in, testing the RTG’s weight with both hands. It didn’t budge at first. The casing was half-set in packed dirt and clay, and whatever mounting system had once held it had partially fused with the soil. She braced her boots, adjusted her stance, and heaved.

It shifted—slightly.

Then more.

She worked at it in short bursts, alternating between shoveling out more earth and trying to lever the generator upward without putting too much strain on the shell. Every motion was deliberate, her eyes flicking constantly to the casing for signs of damage—any hairline crack, any hiss of escaping gas. Nothing. Just the soft scrape of metal against dirt and the strain of her own breath echoing inside her helmet.

When the RTG finally came loose from the earth, it shifted without warning.

She stumbled backward, almost losing her grip as the full weight of it landed in her arms. Forty kilos, maybe more. Compact, deceptively heavy—built that way on purpose. Layers of shielding, composite housing, enough thermal insulation to keep the core from turning a useful tool into a long-term death sentence.

Her boots slid slightly in the loose grit at the top of the hill. She bent her knees, catching the shift just in time, and steadied herself with a soft grunt. The muscles in her arms screamed in protest. Her lower back joined the chorus a few seconds later. She sucked in a breath and readjusted her grip, fingers aching through the gloves.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t curse. Didn’t make a joke.

There wasn’t enough energy for that anymore.

Step by step, she started the descent.

The hill was steeper than she’d thought. Not a lot, but enough. The weight threw off her balance, every movement a negotiation between gravity and her own diminishing stamina. Her boots punched into the clay with each step, dust puffing up around her knees. The sun—two of the three now overhead—glared down with white intensity, stripping shadows, bleaching the world into dull, washed-out tones. The third sun was still climbing, pale and distant, but it would join the others soon enough.

Her breath rasped in her throat, shallow and fast. The heat inside the suit was building. Sweat pooled in the bend of her elbows, the back of her neck. Her cooling band had long since given up trying to regulate anything. She could feel the flush in her cheeks, the dizziness sitting just behind her eyes.

Don’t drop it.

She kept repeating that in her head.

Don’t drop it. Don’t trip. Don’t set it down too hard. Don’t jostle it. Don’t crack the casing. Don’t end your life in the middle of nowhere with your name on a future cautionary PowerPoint slide.

By the time she reached the base of the hill, her legs felt like rebar. Her hands were shaking. She staggered the last few meters to the rover and let the RTG down as gently as her body would allow, placing it on the reinforced cradle she’d rigged earlier—originally designed to hold water tanks, now hastily reinforced with struts, clamps, and a frankly insulting amount of duct tape.

She took a knee, head down, catching her breath. Her chest heaved. Her arms hung limp at her sides. A strand of hair, wet with sweat, stuck to her mouth and she blew it away, eyes closed.

When she finally climbed back into the driver’s seat, the heat inside the cabin hit her like a wall. She groaned softly and pushed the door closed behind her, sealing the oven shut.

The temperature inside was pushing into the red. The insulation helped, but not enough. Her shirt was gone—discarded somewhere on the rear bench an hour ago. Her undersuit clung to her in damp patches, soaked through. Her hair was plastered to her head in stringy clumps. Every breath she took tasted like metal, stale air, and dust. Her ribs ached from carrying the weight. Her hands were trembling again.

She sat behind the controls for a long moment, staring ahead through the sun-drenched windshield. The landscape beyond wavered in the heat—red plains shimmering, horizon pulsing faintly like the planet itself was breathing.

Her expression didn’t change.

Then, finally, she reached up and wiped her brow, flicking sweat off her fingers with a motion that was more ritual than relief.

“I’m still hot as hell,” she said, voice rough, barely louder than a whisper. “And yes… technically, I’m warmer now because I’ve just strapped a decaying radioactive isotope to my power cradle.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the cargo bay, at the shadowed outline of the RTG now secured in place.

“But honestly?” she said, facing forward again. “I’ve got bigger problems.”

She leaned toward the dashboard, opened the glovebox, and pulled out a small black data stick—Captain Marshall’s personal drive. The one she’d told herself she wouldn’t touch. Not unless things got really bad. Not unless she needed something—anything—to take the edge off the silence.

She slotted it into the console port with a faint click.

“I’ve gone through every file,” she muttered. “Scans. Reports. Debrief footage. Personal logs.”

She scrolled quickly, flicking past folder after folder.

“And this…”

She tapped on a music folder. Her brow furrowed.

“…is officially the least disco song he owns.”

She pressed play.

A moment later, the opening beats of Hot Stuff by Donna Summer burst through the cabin speakers—bright, bouncing, unapologetically alive.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh. Her expression didn’t move at all. She just put both hands on the controls and started the rover forward, the electric whine of the motors joining the steady thump of bass.

Outside, the Hab shrank behind her, its white frame slowly swallowed by heat shimmer and distance, until it was just another shape in the desert.

The camera on the dash was still rolling, recording without commentary.

It caught her face, lit in flickering fragments—sunlight, dust, and 1979 optimism bouncing off the console.

She didn’t say another word.

She just kept going.

The satellite images scrolled slowly across the wide display at the front of the press room—high-resolution feeds pulled from a string of polar-orbiting relays. On screen, M6-117 stretched out in every direction, a vast red wasteland under three pale suns. In the middle of that emptiness, one small machine—Speculor-2—crawled forward, dragging a faint trail through the brittle dust behind it. The vehicle looked impossibly small. Fragile, even. But it moved with purpose.

In the rows of press seating, reporters leaned forward in their chairs. Some were scribbling notes, others just watching—expressions caught somewhere between fascination and dread. The silence was tense, broken only by the occasional click of a camera shutter or the low hum of tablet microphones still recording.

“Where exactly is she going?” someone finally asked—a woman near the front, eyes sharp behind rectangular glasses. Her voice carried the brittle edge of disbelief. “She’s… alone. That’s not protocol.”

Up on the small stage, Mateo sat behind a long table, facing the media. His posture was tight, both hands clasped together like he was bracing for impact. His suit, once crisp, now bore the signs of long nights—creases at the cuffs, tie knotted slightly off-center, dark shadows under his eyes. Behind him, a small display showed the current rover position and its trajectory plotted across the planet’s digital terrain.

Alice stood just off to the side, arms folded across a slim tablet, her stare fixed on Mateo with a kind of practiced intensity. He could feel her watching—waiting to jump in if he veered too far off-message.

Mateo cleared his throat. “We believe she’s conducting a series of long-range mobility tests,” he said. “She’s been extending the duration of each excursion, likely to assess rover endurance under load. We think she’s preparing for something longer.”

“To what end?” another reporter asked. “Why leave the habitat at all, if it’s functioning?”

Mateo exhaled slowly. “To re-establish contact. That’s our current assessment. We believe she’s aiming for the Helion Nexus pre-supply site—roughly 3,000 kilometers from her current location. That location would’ve had a reinforced communications relay. If she found the right maps in the nearby settlement... it makes sense.”

A pause followed. Then: “She’d risk her life to send a message?” The voice came from a CNN correspondent in the front row, skeptical and direct.

Mateo nodded. “That’s the problem she’s facing. She’s entirely alone. No signal. No uplink. From her perspective, we’re gone. Making contact isn’t just important—it might be the only way she survives.”

“But what would you tell her—if you could?” another reporter asked. “Keep going?”

Mateo hesitated, eyes flicking to Alice. She didn’t say anything. Just held his gaze for a moment. His voice was quieter when he answered.

“If we could talk to her, we’d tell her to stay put. We’d tell her help is coming. She just has to hold on.”

He paused again. Then added, “We’re doing everything in our power to bring her home alive.”

The room murmured. Pens scratched across paper. Someone whispered into a phone. Alice’s jaw clenched.

As soon as the cameras cut and the lights shifted, she was already moving—her heels sharp on the tile as she caught up with Venkat in the corridor outside the press room. Her voice was low, fast, and tight.

“Don’t say ‘bring her home alive,’” she hissed, eyes darting toward the passing cameras. “You’re reminding the world that she might die. That’s the opposite of what we’re trying to do.”

Venkat didn’t even slow down. “You think people forgot?”

“I think they didn’t need it underlined,” she snapped. “You asked me for notes, and I’m giving them to you. Mateo was… fine. ‘Meh,’ if I’m being honest. And yes, I am trying to make the world forget that there’s a very real chance Y/N Y/L/N is going to die alone on a dead rock. That’s my job.”

Venkat gave her a sideways glance. “A lot of conviction for a PR position.”

Alice rolled her eyes. “I’ve got two ex-husbands, both of whom I’m still paying alimony to, and neither of whom could hold down a job if it were duct-taped to their chests. Conviction is all I’ve got right now.”

“Hard to believe you walked away from either of them,” Venkat offered lightly.

She cut him a look sharp enough to leave a mark. “I left both of them. Don’t test me.”

They walked into the executive briefing room together. The mood inside was quiet but strained. Several department heads had already gathered—some flipping through reports, others just sitting, staring at the large monitor on the wall that still showed Y/N’s rover inching across the Martian plain.

Yoongi looked up from the head of the table as they entered. His face was unreadable, his posture relaxed but not at ease. He tapped a stylus against the table once, then again.

“Don’t say ‘bring her home alive,’” he said, voice dry. “Not helpful.”

Mateo dropped into the seat beside him with a sigh. “I know, I know. But I’m not a news anchor. You shove a mic in my face and expect precision, you’re gonna get a few stumbles.”

“No more Mateo on television,” Alice said from the doorway, making a quick note on her tablet. “Duly noted.”

Mateo opened his mouth to protest, but whatever he was about to say vanished when April entered, flanked by a junior aide and carrying a stack of printed briefings, slightly curled at the edges. She moved fast, a little out of breath, and started distributing the documents down the table.

“She’s seventy-six kilometers out,” Yoongi said, already flipping through the first page. “Tell me that’s a typo.”

April shook her head. “No, sir. It’s accurate. She drove out from the Hab in a straight line for almost two hours. Then stopped for an EVA—likely a battery change or cooling swap—and then kept going.”

“Seventy-six kilometers?” Creed said from the back of the room, chuckling. “Are we doing a father-daughter update now? Where’s the SatCon lead?”

“She is the lead,” Mateo replied, sharper than necessary. “April’s the one who found the first visual confirmation Y/N was alive. She’s running point on this.”

Alice shot Creed a glare that could've stripped paint.

“Just asking,” Creed muttered, holding up a hand.

Yoongi didn’t look up. “April. Is this another systems test?”

April hesitated, flipping through her own notes. “Possibly. But if something goes wrong that far out… she won’t make it back.”

The room went quiet.

Yoongi rubbed his eyes, jaw tight. “Did she load the Depressurizer? Or the Reclaimer?”

April shook her head slowly. “We… didn’t see that. Not in the window we had.”

Yoongi’s head snapped up. “What do you mean, you didn’t see it?”

“There’s a recurring satellite gap,” she explained quickly. “Every forty-one hours, we lose visual for seventeen minutes. It’s orbital. We’re adjusting for it, but that’s what we had.”

“Unacceptable,” Yoongi said flatly. “I want that gap down to four minutes. Less, if possible. Use every tool we have. Trajectory, relay orbit, blindspot hopping—whatever it takes.”

April blinked, surprised. “Uh—yes, sir. I’ll—yeah. I’ll get it done.”

Yoongi flipped another page in the brief, the paper whispering under his fingers. The room was quiet—oppressively so. The only background noise came from the low hum of the ceiling projector and the occasional creak of someone shifting in their chair.

Across the table, Alice stared at her notes but wasn’t reading them. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her pen unmoving above the page. No one had spoken in over a minute.

On the wall, the satellite feed continued its slow, deliberate loop—Speculor-2 creeping across the surface of M6-117, a single tire track the only sign it had ever passed through.

Yoongi leaned back slightly in his chair, arms folded, eyes still fixed on the screen. He didn’t speak right away. When he did, his voice was quiet, almost conversational.

“Let’s assume she didn’t load the Depressurizer or the Reclaimer.”

A beat passed.

“She’s not headed to Helion Nexus yet. But she’s thinking about it. She knows that’s the only place with a shot at communication. Probably found the old nav data in the settlement ruins. She’s working up to it. Probing range. Testing reliability.”

He turned toward the far end of the table.

“Marco, what’s the earliest we could land a presupply package at the Nexus site?”

Marco Moneaux looked up slowly. The Jet Propulsion Lab director looked like hell—collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, eyes glassy from lack of sleep and too much caffeine. He ran a hand through his graying hair before answering.

“With current planetary alignment, launch windows are limited,” he said, voice raw. “Best-case, we’re looking at two years. That’s if everything goes right and we start building now. And construction alone would take at least twelve months.”

“Six,” Yoongi said, flatly.

Marco blinked. “That’s not how orbital mechanics work.”

“Six,” Yoongi repeated. “You’re going to tell me that’s impossible, and then I’m going to give you a stirring speech about the ingenuity of JPL and how lucky we are to have the best minds in the solar system. And then you’ll sit down with your team and start doing the math.”

Marco let out a slow breath, the kind that came from years of losing arguments that turned out to be winnable after all. “The overtime budget’s going to be a bloodbath.”

“I’ll find the money,” Yoongi said. “We just need the schedule.”

Across the room, Creed shifted, his arms crossed, jaw set tight. His usual smirk was gone.

“It’s time to tell the crew,” he said.

Mateo looked up sharply. “We agreed—”

“No,” Creed cut in. “You agreed. You talked, Alice nodded, and I didn’t have time to get a word in. But I’m telling you now: this is bullshit. One of them has a sister out there, and she’s alive and fighting, and they don’t know. That’s a hell of a thing to ask a crew to live with.”

“Her cousin needs to stay focused,” Mateo said carefully. “They all do. They’re still in descent planning. We tell them now, it’ll fracture everything.”

“They’re not robots,” Creed said, voice rising just slightly. “They’re not going to fold if we’re honest with them.”

“We’re not there yet,” Yoongi said, quiet but firm. “We tell them when we have something real. A trajectory. A payload manifest. A launch date. Until then, it’s just a burden.”

Creed leaned back in his chair, arms still folded. He didn’t look satisfied, but he didn’t argue again. Not yet.

At the head of the table, Yoongi turned back to Marco. “Six months.”

Marco gave a slow, resigned nod. “We’ll do our best.”

Yoongi didn’t look away. “Y/N dies if you don’t.”

No one spoke after that.

The Hab had started to feel more like a jungle than a research station.

Potatoes grew in every corner now—lined in shallow bins, sprouting from hacked-together troughs, wedged into plastic storage drawers with holes drilled in the sides for airflow. They clung to the walls in hanging bags of soil and insulation wrap, their leaves stretched greedily toward the panels of grow lights overhead. A dozen different containers buzzed with tiny pumps and improvised irrigation systems, everything patched together with old tubing, leftover fasteners, and a prayer.

It smelled like damp earth and warm plastic. Not unpleasant. Just persistent. Like the place had stopped pretending to be sterile.

Y/N knelt in the middle of the chaos, a serrated knife in one gloved hand, gently pulling a plant from its bin. She worked slowly, methodically, fingers careful not to damage the roots. Once it was free, she used the blade to slice through the clumped soil, separating the plant’s young potatoes from the main stem. Some were no bigger than a thumb. Others had grown fat and knobby, streaked with red dust and tangled with hair-thin roots.

She set the largest ones aside and began cutting the rest into seed pieces, each chunk still bearing one or two pale eyes. They’d go back into the soil in a few hours, restarted for another cycle.

She moved with practiced rhythm—precise, calm, almost ritualistic. These plants were the only reason she was still alive. There wasn’t room for mistakes anymore.

Across the room, the camera sat perched on its usual shelf, its red indicator light blinking patiently. She’d left it on standby for the last few days, waiting for something worth recording.

Wiping the back of her hand across her cheek, leaving a streak of dirt behind, Y/N stood, walked to the table, and hit the record button.

She perched on the edge of the workbench, still holding one of the potatoes in her hand. It was lumpy, coated in clingy soil, but she turned it slowly for the camera like it was something rare. Something fragile.

“It’s been about eighty sols since I started this mess,” she said. Her voice was steady but low, worn around the edges like fabric left out in the sun too long. “These guys were the first thing I planted once I stabilized the water filtration. They weren’t supposed to work this well.”

She gestured toward the rows of bins and hanging planters.

“I’ve got over four hundred healthy potato plants now. Not bad for emergency rations, right?”

A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“The smaller ones go back into the soil,” she continued, holding up one of the cut seed pieces. “The bigger ones? That’s dinner. Or breakfast. Or lunch. Depends on when I remember to eat.”

She held up the full potato again, this time more like a toast. “Locally grown. All-natural. Organic, Hexundecian potatoes. Can’t say that every day.”

She let the potato drop gently onto the pile beside her, her expression sobering.

“But…”

Her voice trailed off, the weight behind the word doing most of the work. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped loosely in front of her.

“None of this matters,” she said finally, “if I can’t make contact with NOSA.”

The sentence landed like a dropped tool—loud in the quiet room.

She stared at the lens for another beat, then clicked the feed off.

Turning back to the table, she swept the dirt aside with her forearm and unfurled one of the maps she’d been revisiting every day for the last week. The surface was creased and frayed, the ink faded in places, but the terrain lines were still visible, along with the handwritten notations she’d scrawled in the margins over the last few weeks.

The map wasn’t paper. It was synthetic weave, coated in resin. Durable. Meant to last.

She spread it out like a gambler laying down cards in the final round of a bad hand. She'd traced this same route twenty times. Calculated elevation gains. Wind direction. Potential shelter zones. Solar charge patterns.

None of it added up.

“Come on,” she muttered, fingers tapping the edge of the map. “There’s something I’m missing.”

She scanned the familiar routes, her eyes jumping between landmarks—Sundermere Basin, Ridgefall Bluff, the old survey trench near Solvent Crater. Her handwriting wove through the terrain like a nervous heartbeat.

And then she saw it.

Two small words, printed in faded ink near the bottom corner: Thessala Planitia.

She froze.

Her eyes locked onto the name, her whole body still for a moment as if afraid she might break the spell by breathing too loud. Then, slowly, she leaned in, her hand brushing across the label like she needed to confirm it was real.

“Thessala Planitia…”

The name echoed in her head.

Buried in one of the briefing files—early mission studies, pre-expansion data. There’d been a fallback relay planned there. A testbed for the old drone network. If anything was still intact…

She straightened, dragging the map closer, scanning the terrain for possible access routes. The soil there had been flat. Storms had hit it, sure, but the area was geologically stable. The signal loss might’ve just been a relay failure.

Her breath caught.

“I know what I’m gonna do,” she whispered, her voice sharper now—not confident, but charged with urgency.

She pushed off the table and grabbed the nearest notepad, sketching out a quick overlay. Her fingers moved fast, scrawling numbers, plotting arcs, connecting points across solar window charts and terrain profiles.

The plan wasn’t clean. It wasn’t safe. And it sure as hell wasn’t official.

But it was something.

And that was more than she’d had an hour ago.

She moved across the Hab in a blur, checking charge levels, opening storage crates, reviewing consumables. Her hands were shaking, but her movements were quick, practiced. The kind of urgency born from too many days of waiting for a sign and finally, finally getting one.

In the corner, the camera blinked back on, recording her again.

She didn’t notice.

She was already halfway to the rover.

April leaned forward over her console, elbows digging into the edge of the desk, her eyes fixed on the satellite feed streaming across her screen. A soft pulse of red sand flickered in the top corner—M6-117’s weather signature. Below it, the rover moved.

A tiny dot on a huge, empty map.

Speculor-2 crept along the surface like it was tracing the memory of a path no one else could see. The feed lagged every few frames—just enough to remind her how far out the signal had to travel. But the movement was steady. Deliberate. She watched it update, frame by frame.

“She’s moving again,” April called over her shoulder, her voice tight. Not alarmed. Just tense, like a violin string pulled one notch too far.

Mateo was already halfway across the floor by the time the words finished leaving her mouth. He didn’t bother with the usual preamble—just leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the data. His tie was askew again, and there was a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Sleep clearly hadn’t made the cut last night.

“Where the hell is she going?” he muttered, dragging a knuckle along the edge of the screen as if that would help clarify things. “She hasn’t deviated from her heading in almost two weeks. No course changes, no sign of instability… And now she just shifts south?”

April tapped in a few quick commands, the camera feed adjusting. The map zoomed out, giving them a wider view of the rover’s path—long, straight, precise. Until now.

“Maybe she’s rerouting around something,” April offered. “An obstruction, maybe? Subsurface instability?”

Mateo shook his head, eyes narrowing. “Out there? That whole stretch is Virelia Planitia. It’s flat as hell. No rock ridges, no sand traps, no canyon shelves. We scouted it top to bottom back in the ‘42 survey.”

He fell quiet mid-thought, his brow furrowing. Something flickered behind his eyes.

Then—without a word—he straightened.

“I need a map,” he said suddenly, already turning toward the door.

“What?” April stood quickly. “Wait—what kind of map?”

“A big one,” he called over his shoulder. “Topographical. Uncropped. Now.”

April followed, catching up as they exited the SatCon control room and made a sharp turn down the hallway. They pushed through the breakroom doors, startling a junior technician in the middle of stirring instant coffee. He blinked as they barreled past him.

On the wall behind the vending machines hung a poster-sized map of M6-117—glossy, tourist-style, with color-coded regions and labeled basins. A leftover from a team-building event. No one took it seriously.

Until now.

Mateo strode straight to it, yanked it off the hooks in one sharp motion, and laid it flat across the nearest table. The tech made a protesting noise behind them.

“I’ll replace it,” Mateo said distractedly. “Promise.”

He pulled a pen from his pocket—a half-dried Sharpie with a frayed tip—and clicked it with one hand while holding the map with the other.

April was already beside him. “Hab’s at thirty-one point two north, twenty-eight point five west.”

Mateo made a small black X on the map with a practiced flick. Then he traced a line with the side of the pen, dragging it along the same route they’d seen on the satellite feed—first the original heading, then the sudden veer south.

He paused. His hand stopped.

The pen hovered just above a name printed in small, faded text.

Thessala Planitia.

His expression changed.

He looked down at it for a moment, then stepped back from the table like it had spoken to him.

“I know where she’s going,” he said, and now there was a flicker of life in his voice—sharp, focused, like adrenaline had finally replaced exhaustion.

April leaned in, frowning. “Why there? It’s barely mentioned in the archives. Wasn’t that one of the early relay fields?”

Mateo was already walking again, muttering to himself.

“She found something,” he said. “Or she remembered something we forgot.”

“Mateo,” April called after him, “where are you going?”

“To requisition a vessel,” he said without looking back.

“Requisition a what?” she blinked.

But he was gone, disappearing through the far doors.

April stayed behind, staring down at the map on the table. The line he’d drawn still shimmered faintly with fresh ink, curving down toward the unexplored southern edge of the old communication corridor. For a moment, she just stood there, trying to piece it together.

Behind her, the technician finally spoke, still holding his coffee cup like he didn’t know whether to drink it or set it down.

“Who was he talking to?”

April didn’t look away from the map.

“I honestly don’t think he knows,” she said.

The suns were relentless.

All three of them hung high in the sky, casting the landscape in a harsh, overlapping glare that bleached the colors from everything and made the horizon shimmer like liquid glass. Heat rolled off the planet’s surface in thick, invisible waves, distorting the air above the red-gold earth. M6-117 didn’t just radiate warmth—it seethed with it, pulsing beneath the cracked crust like something alive and indifferent.

Speculor-2 crested a ridge slowly, its patched-together suspension groaning in protest with every dip and jolt. The frame rattled, bolts ticking against their housings, panels humming with vibration. A warning light flickered on the console and died again—just long enough to remind her that nothing in this machine was built to last this long, or go this far, under this kind of heat.

Y/N kept both hands tight on the wheel, thumbs hooked around the inner grips. Her fingers were sunburned despite the gloves she wore inside the cabin—dry, peeling, red at the knuckles from weeks of constant exposure. The inside of her suit felt like a second skin now, stiff with dried sweat and dust. Every movement was deliberate. Careful. Muscle memory guided more than thought at this point.

She squinted through the scratched visor of her helmet, adjusting the glare shield with a flick of her wrist. The hill dropped steeply in front of her, and beyond it—partially buried in the sand—something metallic caught the sunlight.

A glint. Small. Angular. Manmade.

Her breath caught, just for a second.

She eased off the brake and nudged the accelerator, coaxing the rover down the slope. Loose gravel crunched beneath the tires, kicking up fine red dust that clung to the undercarriage like ash. The descent wasn’t smooth, but the rover held. She kept her eyes locked on the object ahead, refusing to blink, as if it might vanish if she looked away.

A glint in the sand didn’t mean anything. Not necessarily. The desert was full of wreckage. Half-buried relay towers, crumpled drones, abandoned survey rigs—all slowly dissolving into the landscape. Most of them were long dead. A few had power cells that could be salvaged. None had been what she needed.

But this one—this thing—was different. It had shape. Intent. Angles that didn’t come from natural erosion or careless debris drops.

Her pulse thudded in her throat as she approached.

If it was what she thought it was—if the signal booster inside was even half-functional—then maybe, just maybe, she could finally reach someone. Send a ping. Even a basic carrier wave. Something.

And if it wasn’t…

Then she would’ve spent the last three sols pushing this machine farther than its power specs could tolerate, rationing food she barely had, gambling what was left of her energy reserves on a hope stitched together from half-legible maps and half-forgotten notes.

The rover bumped to a stop at the base of the hill, its shadow long and flickering on the cracked ground. She sat still for a second, one hand resting against the center of the wheel, her other already reaching for the suit’s outer seals.

She didn’t let herself think about what came next. Not yet.

She just sat there, the heat pressing in from every side, watching the metal shape glint quietly in the sand.

Then, slowly, she opened the hatch.

Mateo pushed through the double glass doors of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory facility on Aguerra Prime, his steps quick and clipped, boots echoing off the polished tile floor. The lobby was sleek—steel beams arched overhead in clean, geometric symmetry, and the walls glowed faintly with soft-panel lighting that pulsed in rhythm with the environmental systems. The air smelled like ionized metal and coffee. People moved with purpose, heads bowed over tablets, quiet conversations unfolding in pockets of motion.

Marco Moneaux was already waiting near the reception hub, leaning slightly against a rail, one foot bouncing with contained urgency. His white lab coat was creased around the elbows, and his badge hung slightly askew from his lanyard. When he spotted Mateo, he straightened immediately, crossing the floor in three brisk steps.

“Mateo,” he said, extending a hand. His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn’t spoken in hours—or had been speaking for far too many.

Mateo took it firmly, giving a nod instead of wasting breath on greetings. Both men knew the situation was too tight for small talk.

They fell into step without instruction, heading down a wide hallway flanked by tall windows. Outside, the manicured edges of the campus gave way to open, sloping fields. Beyond that, rows of solar arrays shimmered under Aguerra’s twin moons. Herds of deer grazed in the distance—engineered wildlife released to test the long-term viability of the terraformed perimeter.

Neither man looked out the windows.

Inside, they passed knots of engineers and research assistants moving between labs—some glancing up briefly, most too focused on the screens or equipment in their hands to notice the urgency that trailed them like heat.

As they turned a corner, Mateo asked the question that had been eating at him since he left orbit.

“What are the odds Y/N can get it working again?”

Marco didn’t answer right away. He exhaled through his nose, scrubbing a hand through his graying hair as they walked.

“Hard to say,” he admitted finally. “We lost reliable telemetry in ’97. Battery degradation, most likely. Last signal showed grid instability in the comms array. And it took a beating during the eclipse event. Radiation, dust storms. You remember—that wiped out the prototype colony near Terminus Ridge.”

Mateo nodded. “Barely.”

Marco glanced sideways at him. “Just for the record, it lasted three times longer than any of our best-case simulations. Not that I’m defensive.”

Mateo gave a dry, humorless smirk. “Nobody’s pointing fingers, Marco. If Y/N found it and it still has a frame to stand on, that’s a win. I just need everything you’ve got. Every record. Every system map. And I want to talk to everyone who was working the array back then.”

“They’re already here,” Marco said, tapping the badge on his wrist. “As soon as we got confirmation of the rover’s course change, I put out the call. Took some favors, but we pulled a few out of retirement. Not all of them are thrilled to be back.”

“Doesn’t matter if they’re thrilled,” Mateo muttered. “They’re here.”

Marco didn’t argue.

They reached a reinforced service door at the end of the corridor. It slid open with a hiss, revealing the garage—more a hybrid workshop and restoration bay than a storage area. Industrial lights hung low from the ceiling. Tables were littered with open toolkits, diagnostic gear, spare parts. A team of engineers in cleanroom gear moved among the equipment, focused and tight-lipped.

In the center of the room, covered by a heavy fire-retardant sheet, stood something massive.

Mateo slowed as he approached.

“This the replica?” he asked, eyeing the draped silhouette. The outline was unmistakable—angled, precise, deeply familiar.

Marco nodded once. “Built from the original schematics. All internal systems match phase one spec. Obviously we couldn’t rebuild the quantum banks without violating half a dozen containment laws, but we ran full diagnostic simulations on the rest. Guidance. Thermal. Comms. Power draw. It all holds.”

He stepped forward and pulled the cover back in one motion, revealing the spacecraft beneath.

Prometheus.

It gleamed under the harsh lights, a mosaic of matte plating, reinforced glass, and composite shielding. Its two primary sections—the large lander and the smaller Pioneer-class speculor—were connected by an exposed conduit spine that had once bristled with telemetry dishes and stabilizers.

The moment the sheet hit the ground, the room seemed to go quieter.

Mateo stepped closer, his expression unreadable. For a long time, he just looked. Not at the tech, or the wiring, or the damage estimates. He looked at the shape of the thing. The idea behind it.

Prometheus wasn’t just a machine. It was a symbol—of intent, of failure, of hope held a little too long in too many hands.

He exhaled, the weight in his chest shifting as he reached out and let his fingers brush the cold edge of the hull.

“Prometheus,” he said, almost under his breath. The name sat heavy between them.

Marco didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Around them, the engineers watched silently. No one moved to interrupt.

Mateo stepped back, his mind already running again—calculating transmission lag, estimating power loads, cross-referencing timestamps from the satellite data.

“She’s betting everything on this,” he said. “And I think she’s right to.”

Marco gave a slight nod. “Then so are we.”

Mateo turned to him, jaw set.

“Get your people ready. I want diagnostics running on every subsystem we can simulate by the hour. If there’s even a flicker of life left in that array—if there’s anything Y/N can wake up—we’re going to meet her halfway.”

The sand on M6-117 wasn’t like sand on Aguerra Prime. It didn’t shift or drift like ocean-dunes or kick up in satisfying clouds when you stepped through it. It behaved more like talcum powder laced with metal filings—dry, clingy, corrosive. It coated everything. Her boots were already buried up to the ankles, the fine red dust swallowing the seams and grinding into the joints like it was trying to unmake her gear piece by piece.

Y/N stood still for a moment, catching her breath, feeling the wind rasp against her suit. It wasn’t a howl, not like Earth storms. It was subtler—more like static moving across bare skin. Just enough pressure to sting, just enough to remind her that if she stood still too long, she’d vanish beneath it.

The grit had worked its way into the folds of her gloves. Her hands were dark with oil and dust, the fabric ground smooth in places from overuse. Every finger flex sent a tug of pain down her forearms. Muscle fatigue had long since crossed the threshold of discomfort and settled into something quieter—something meaner. Constant, background. A presence she’d stopped trying to fight days ago.

The rover, Speculor-2, sat parked near the base of the rise—its chassis darkened by days of exposure, its rear wheels half-embedded in a shallow depression. It hadn’t been able to handle the slope. Even with reinforced tread plates and the bolted-on stabilizers she’d installed from salvaged struts, the incline was too sharp, the gravel too loose. It had choked out a few meters from the base before sliding back down in a slow, deliberate shrug of failure.

So she went the rest of the way on foot.

The shovel clanked dully against rock as she hauled it behind her. It dragged a long, narrow trench through the red powder—like a second shadow. She was too tired to carry it properly. It didn’t matter. She just needed it there.

The object she’d seen from the ridge—barely more than a glint through the glare of the triple suns—had pulled her in like gravity. At first, she thought it was another old relay node or maybe one of the early colony drop-capsules, the kind that had scattered debris across the southern hemisphere during the first failed expansion push. There were plenty of those. Too many, honestly. Ghosts of optimism gone stale.

But as she dug, the shape began to shift.

Not a cylinder. No external dish arrays. Not a capsule either. The angles were wrong—too square, too deliberate. Her breath caught when her shovel struck something beneath the dust: a sharp clang, metal on metal, followed by a hollow thunk that seemed to echo in the silence far louder than it should have.

She froze, hands tightening on the shaft.

Then she dropped to her knees and started clearing it by hand, pushing sand aside in fast, desperate sweeps. Her gloves caught on the edges of heat-scarred plating. The metal was warm to the touch, even through insulation. A low panel came into view, then a section of grating, a stabilizer fin warped out of alignment. The hull was charred in places, a mosaic of soot and impact scoring.

And then—partially hidden beneath a layer of red grime and sun-bleached streaks—she saw it. The outline of a nameplate. The letters were too faded to read clearly, most of them worn smooth by wind and time. But the shape, the placement, the size—she didn’t need to read it.

She knew.

“Please,” she murmured, voice cracking through the filtered mic. Her lips were dry. She didn’t notice. “Please let this be it.”

She sat back in the dust, resting her hands on her thighs, heart thudding hard enough to shake her vision. A sharp exhale left her lungs like a pressure valve had opened. She didn’t smile. Not yet. But she didn’t cry either, and that felt like progress.

The shape of the lander was mostly intact beneath the sand. Time had tried to bury it, but it hadn’t finished the job. She traced a line down the edge of the hull, checking for structural faults—any sign that it might collapse the moment she tried to move it.

So far, it looked solid. Scarred, yes. But solid.

She stood, her joints protesting. Everything ached. Her back. Her legs. Even her ribs. She pulled the tether rig from her back harness—a bundle of couplers, salvaged webbing, and what remained of Speculor-1’s rear axle assembly. It was barely a system, but it was hers. It had worked before. It would have to work again.

She dug around the base of the lander, loosening the packed soil just enough to wedge in the rig’s anchors. Sweat dripped down her spine beneath the inner lining of her suit. She ignored it. Her fingers worked quickly but carefully, avoiding the weakest points of the frame. One wrong move could shear the tether. Or worse—destabilize the whole thing and trap it again, just out of reach.

When the last hook snapped into place, she gave the line a slow, deliberate pull. It groaned. Everything groaned these days.

But it held.

She exhaled.

The second sun was just beginning to dip, its wide arc casting long shadows across the ridge behind her. The third—smaller, colder—peeked over the distant horizon, turning the dust into glinting embers. Her suit’s internal temperature had spiked past safe thresholds at least an hour ago, and her visor had started fogging despite the airflow unit. She’d wiped it clear three times already. Her gloves left streaks across the inside of the glass.

She climbed into the rover one limb at a time, slow and deliberate, like someone recovering from surgery. Her muscles didn’t respond so much as comply, reluctant and stiff from exertion and exposure. Her gloves trembled slightly as she gripped the hatch rail, shoulders aching beneath the strain of low oxygen and long hours in thin gravity.

No sudden movements. No unnecessary ones, either.

There were rules for exhaustion like this. You moved like everything was made of glass. Because if you dropped yourself now—if you fell, if you slipped, if you overextended—you might not get back up.

Inside the cockpit, the air smelled like hot plastic and sweat. Her breath fogged the inner edge of her visor for the fourth time that hour. She twisted her head slightly to wipe it with the back of her glove, but the smudge only smeared. Visibility was good enough. It would have to be.

The rover’s engine groaned to life on the third ignition cycle. It coughed, stuttered, then caught—a low, wheezing hum beneath her boots. She exhaled shakily. Part relief. Part preparation.

Her hand moved to the throttle.

As she eased it forward, she felt the slack in the tether vanish—then tension. The custom rig stretched and flexed, cables pulling taut with an audible snap. For a second, nothing happened. Just the sound of the engine and the wind scratching at the hull like dry fingers.

Then the rover lurched, tires clawing at loose sand. The rear axle let out a groan like a dying animal.

Behind her, the lander moved.

Not much—just a few centimeters—but she saw the shadow shift in her rearview, saw the line of red sand behind her deepen as the metal hull began to drag through it. A gouge formed, long and deliberate, the weight of the spacecraft carving its own slow scar into the Martian plain.

It followed her like a reluctant pet. Heavy. Damaged. But willing.

She didn’t look back. Not yet. She couldn’t afford to see how far there was to go.

Her eyes stayed on the way forward—on the faded twin tracks she'd made on the way up, etched into the dust with the same dogged desperation that had brought her here in the first place. They weren’t perfect lines. They wobbled, meandered slightly, climbed and dropped with the terrain. But they were hers.

And they led home.

She pressed her gloved palm against the control panel. The warmth of the rover’s systems buzzed faintly through the material, a small pulse of life she clung to like a heartbeat. Her own pulse echoed back—too fast, too shallow. Her suit pinged her vitals. She muted the alert.

The suns were shifting overhead. The largest of the three had already begun to dip low, casting wide, ochre shadows across the plain. The second sun lingered higher, still burning cold white through the thinning sky. The smallest—the one that barely deserved to be called a sun—hung at the edge of the atmosphere like a memory.

She didn’t sleep that night. She didn’t log any journal entries, didn’t record a status update, didn’t talk to the onboard assistant. There wasn’t anything left to say. Not yet.

She just drove.

One hand on the wheel. The other bracing the tether release, just in case.

The land was mostly flat, but the surface shifted more than it looked. The rover bucked now and then, hitting shallow ridges or spots where the ground gave under the weight of two machines. Each time the suspension rocked, she reached up to steady the makeshift coupling. It creaked. She listened closely for the sound of failure.

When the power dipped below twenty percent, she stopped. Set the panels out. Killed every nonessential system—cabin lights, redundant sensors, everything except the nav core and the battery buffer. Then she climbed out, boots crunching over grit, and walked the length of the tether.

The rig was holding. Barely. The rear axle—originally not meant to support any load at all—was beginning to warp under the repeated strain. A hairline fracture had formed near the secondary bolt plate. She tightened what she could. Reinforced with spare composite tape. It would get her to the ridge. After that, she’d be on hope and inertia.

Back in the cockpit, she stared at the charge percentage while chewing a protein tab she couldn’t taste. Every tick upward felt like watching rain fill a cup—too slow, too fragile. She closed her eyes. Let her breathing slow. Didn’t fall asleep, but drifted somewhere soft and blank, just long enough to make the next stretch survivable.

When the panels hit 31%, she powered up and moved again.

The last five kilometers were the worst.

The terrain turned patchy—intermittent shelf rock and shallow drainage troughs that the rover’s nav AI kept flagging as hazards. She ignored the warnings. Manually overrode the terrain bias. This far in, the rover trusted her more than it trusted itself. She appreciated that. But only barely.

The Hab finally came into view after a slow crest over the last ridge—a pale dome against rust-red nothing, distant and still and strange. It looked smaller than she remembered. Fragile. Like someone had left a plastic toy in the middle of a battlefield.

She exhaled.

Behind her, the lander rattled as it shifted slightly, the tow rig flexing under a final jolt. It was still there. Still dragging its way home like the last survivor of a war.

By the time the Hab came into view—just a pale, sunburned dome on the horizon—the rover was running hot. The dash had been lit with a persistent yellow warning for the last twenty minutes: Thermal Load Approaching Limit – Power Efficiency Reduced. Not critical. Not yet. But close enough that the hum of the cabin fan had taken on a wheeze, and the heat exchanger sounded like it was breathing through a straw.

She guided the rover up the final slope with the same deliberate care she’d used for every kilometer since dragging the lander loose. The rig held, barely. A shudder ran through the chassis each time the terrain shifted beneath the load. She could feel it in the pedals, in the wheel, in her wrists.

At the perimeter, she stopped. Just outside the airlock’s sensor field, far enough to keep the lander’s mass from triggering the external motion alerts. The rover hissed softly as it idled, then fell quiet as she powered down.

Engine. Vents. Cabin systems.

Silence.

Not the peaceful kind. The kind that screamed in your ears after too many hours of mechanical noise. A silence that made her feel like the air itself was pressing inward. Heavy. Expectant.

She didn’t move. Not at first. Her hands stayed on the wheel, knuckles pale where the gloves stretched over them. Her visor was fogged again—smudged from the inside where she’d wiped it too many times. She stared through the distortion at the blur of the Hab’s outline, heart thudding a little too fast in her chest.

Everything in her body was buzzing: overworked muscles, caffeine-depleted nerves, the dull throb in her knees from sitting too long and the low-level dehydration she hadn’t had time to address. Her fingers tingled. Not from cold. From the sheer effort of not falling apart.

Eventually, she forced herself to move.

She braced a hand on the seat frame and pushed up. Her knees didn’t want to cooperate. They locked, then gave in stages, like gears trying to find their teeth. She stepped out into the heat with a grunt, boots landing in the loose sand with a dry crunch. The air hit her like opening an oven door.

The sun was high—well, one of them was. The second hung lower, casting odd twin shadows across the ridge. The third hadn’t risen yet. It would soon.

She turned, slowly, to look at what she’d dragged home.

The lander sat half-sunk in the dust behind the rover, its hull streaked with soot and oxidized grime. Decades of wind had scraped the paint to near-nothing. The serial markings were mostly gone. Its panels were warped, its undercarriage twisted from the pull of the terrain. But it was intact. Whole, in the way things that shouldn’t still exist sometimes are.

She stepped closer and rested one gloved hand against the side of the frame. The metal was hot through the suit, radiating heat back at her like it still remembered the stars it once launched through.

It was real. It was here.

She stood like that for a moment—long enough for her breathing to even out, long enough for the noise in her mind to slow. She didn’t cry. She was too dry for that. But there was something in her chest that uncoiled a little, just enough to make room for relief.

Then she turned, eyes narrowing against the light, and headed for the Hab.

The outer airlock hissed as she stepped inside. Cooling systems kicked in, the rapid shift from Martian heat to artificial climate control leaving a faint sheen of condensation on the inside of her visor. She stripped out of the suit by habit—one latch at a time, slow, steady—and hung it on the pressurized rack. Her undershirt clung to her spine. Her hair was matted. Skin cracked at the corners of her mouth.

She didn’t stop to wash. Not yet.

Instead, she grabbed the roll-out solar blankets from storage—folded, dust-sealed, stored under a bench where no one had expected them to ever be used—and carried them back out through the lock.

Outside again, she worked quickly. The sun had shifted and the temperature was climbing. She moved in a circle around the lander, unfurling the metallic sheets like a protective cocoon. They were reflective on one side, dull on the other—meant to deflect excess thermal load and redirect radiant heat away from sensitive equipment.

Here, they would buy her time. Time before the old machine started cooking from the inside.

She staked them down using stripped rebar, hammering the rods into the soil with the butt of her shovel. Dust clung to her sweat, turned sticky at her collar, itched under her sleeves. Her arms burned from the repetitive motion. Her breathing was shallow again.

But she didn’t stop until the job was done.

Then—and only then—did she step back, strip off her gloves, and sit down hard in the dirt beside the rover. She tipped her head back, eyes closed behind squinting lids. Her lungs filled with hot, dry air. Her limbs felt too heavy to move. Her heart beat slow and hard in her chest.

The real work hadn’t started yet.

She’d have to inspect the RTG housing. Set up containment protocols. Verify the generator’s thermal output, make sure it hadn’t been compromised during burial or the tow. If she ruptured it, there wouldn’t be time to run.

She’d need shielding. Power routing. Cabling. Isolation foam. Diagnostics.

She’d need her hands to stop shaking.

But for now, for just a few minutes, she sat in the red sand beside the machine she had unearthed from half a lifetime of dust, and listened to the wind roll across the plains of M6-117.

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

[burntheedges]

Pas de Deux Chapter 5

Din Djarin x f!reader | 2.9k | fic masterlist | main masterlist | ao3

chapter summary: It's time for the first mixed program of the spring schedule, and so it's finally time to see Din perform.

a/n: Thank you everyone for your lovely comments on the last chapter. Everything still feels pretty shitty but being part of this community does not! See my notes at the end and on the masterlist about reader in this fic and ballet in general. Thank you @katareyoudrilling for being the best beta, as always!!

chapter tags/warnings: gen, ballet terms (see end notes and the masterlist for definitions and videos), a bit more angst (sorry), but we also have fluff

Chapter 5

In stark contrast to that disaster of a rehearsal, your performance in the January program went well. The first night had its usual jitters, but even so, you felt proud of the performance you and the others put on. And Jee had been excited and full of praise, with only a couple of notes about the choreography, which made you more excited for the next performance.

On Friday, though, you had a small costume malfunction, and so you were busy getting stuck with pins and missed Din’s solo. You heard the music from La Bayadère start and cursed — you knew you wouldn’t be back in time.

On Saturday, you saw it. You saw him.

You were standing in the wings, huddled with Adrian and a small group of dancers when Din’s music began. Everyone backstage quieted as soon as the orchestra began. He was wearing a sort-of doublet and white tights that screamed classical ballet. He started in the wings just in front of you and you watched the line of his neck and back as he walked calmly onto the stage.

You knew Talia had chosen three of Solor’s variations from different versions of the ballet. She had Din moving off stage and back on to continue with the three solos that usually appeared at different moments throughout the long performance. Three demanding solos, all in a row.

The music swelled and Din swept his arm upward and, from his first movement, he stole your breath away. Your eyes followed the sheer height of his jumps, the beautiful lines of his extensions. You couldn’t help but marvel at the perfection of his technique, the absolute ease of his movements. You watched the flex of his muscles and wondered at his strength. He made everything look effortless. He had such control, but none of that showed — his face was calm, expression serene. 

You tightened your hold on Adrian’s hand.

Din dipped into the wings and back out for the second variation, and you felt someone next to you suck in a sharp breath when Din launched himself into the air into a double saut de basque in attitude followed by a revoltade. How did he look so weightless?

Talia had been right — this was the perfect way to showcase the absolute phenomenon that was Din Djarin. His strength, his precision, his control, his power, his grace: all of it was on display. 

In the third variation, you assumed he must have been tired. But he soared through multiple double assemblé turns with such ease, it looked like he was floating. 

When he fell into his final pose, the audience lost their minds.

You looked at Adrian, and he looked at you, eyebrows high. 

“That was insane,” Adrian whispered, and you nodded. “I knew he was good, but oh my god.”

You agreed. And you couldn’t help but start to worry, again, about the pas de deux. How were you supposed to partner someone who danced like that? 

…

You worried over that question so much over the next few days that the words started to feel meaningless in your mind. You found yourself waking up too early, too anxious to sleep. It was only a matter of time before that started to show in your dancing. 

In class you didn’t look at Din. You knew you were letting this grow into something in your mind that it probably wasn’t, but you couldn’t get a handle on it. You’d been through this before — moments where all you could see were your own flaws — but none of the tricks you’d learned over the years to claw your way out of it were working this time.

By Thursday, you were so anxious about the entire thing that it must have shown on your face, or in your body. Adrian took one look at you after morning class and pulled you into the smaller, sad break room (with the couch everyone hated) to make you breathe with him until you calmed down.

“Look at me,” he said after you’d taken several deep breaths in unison, squeezing your hand. “You can do this. One practice isn’t enough to make or break anything, you know that. You’ve been there before.”

You nodded, closing your eyes and clutching his hand with both of yours. 

“He’s good, we’ve all seen it. But so are you.” Adrian’s voice was firm and you tried to believe it, too. “And you know Kuiil picked you for a reason. Think about it — Din Djarin has never danced anything remotely like this choreography. On Saturday he was doing what he’s best at, and of course it was freaking amazing. But you’re better at this.”

He was right. You let that truth of it settle somewhere in your chest. You felt at home in more contemporary ballet choreography, and to your knowledge Din had never so much as tried it. Concordia would never even consider it, that much was definitely true.

“You can do both, you know? I bet that was part of it. Casting someone who could show him how to let go of what he knows. He isn’t going to be the only person in that room who’s an expert on something.”

You took a deep breath and opened your eyes. When you met Adrian’s gaze, he smiled. “There you are. You ready?”

You nodded. “I can do this.” You couldn’t let yourself get in your head like that. You knew better.

“Hell yeah, you can. Come on.” He stood and tugged you to your feet, and then grabbed your shoulders. “Go fucking blow him away, ok? I know you can.” He shook you a little, and you laughed.

“Ok! Ok. I can do this.”

…

You tried to let that run through your mind like a mantra as you stepped into the small rehearsal studio. You can do this. 

Kuiil and Din were standing by the sound equipment again. As always, Din was wearing black tights, black sweats cut off at the knees, and a tight, long-sleeve black shirt. You pointedly did not let your eyes linger on the line of his shoulders.

“Come in, my dear. We are going to start with something different today.”

You tried not to wince as Kuiil beckoned you forward, remembering the disaster of the week before.

“Today I will give each of you part of your solo pieces for the start, and I would like you to watch each other as you learn and begin to practice them.” He looked at each of you in turn as you nodded. “I want you to pay attention to each other. How do your bodies move as you learn? How do you come to inhabit the movement? How do you each make it your own?” He gestured between you. “As you know, after these moments, you will encounter each other on stage for the first time. Think about what that would feel like, as you watch each other today.”

You nodded again, frowning a little as you tried to work out what he wanted from you. To watch, to observe? To notice something new? To watch as if you’d never seen before? You supposed you could only watch and try and see what you found. 

“Let us begin.”

He started with you. It was only a few counts of 8, a few moments following the wandering path of the violin in the music. What he gave you was very bare bones — you knew, from working with him in the past, that he sometimes wanted you to find your own way to connect things together. Kuiil always wanted his dancers to put themselves into his choreography.

You realized, after he had shown you everything he wanted to, that you hadn’t even looked or spared a thought for Din as you focused on the steps and the music. You were feeling better, more confident, focusing on choreography that played to your own strengths as a dancer.

“Good. Now, give it a try with the music a couple of times, and then I will show Din how he will begin. Do not be afraid to try different things as you let the movements settle.”

You nodded and took up the first position he’d shown you, arms extended a bit behind you. He started the music and you moved, finding your way through the moments Kuiil wanted in this brief part of the first movement. You let yourself sink into the music and the choreography, trying to feel it more than think about it. You whipped through turns and flicked your leg, almost smiling when your développé was timed perfectly to the music. There were moments that felt more awkward, moments you knew you’d need to work on, but overall you felt the weight in your chest lighten as you danced. You can do this.

Kuiil stopped the music just after you found the final position, and you sucked in a deep breath as you relaxed out of it and turned to look at him. 

“Very well done, my dear. I can see the shape of it forming. One more time, and then we will switch. Try to smooth out that transition into the turn.” You nodded, but your curiosity got the better of you and you darted a glance to Din.

He was watching you intently, which you supposed was only following Kuiil’s directions. But for once his face wasn’t expressionless.

Din was smiling. It was a small thing, barely there, but it took your breath away.

…

Adrian was waiting for you after your rehearsal, and for once you were out the door and down the hall before Din.

“So?” He raised his eyebrows at you as he tucked his arm through yours, leading you down the hall to your rehearsal for the February mixed program. You were both in the same piece, for once, a collaboration between Jee and Vince. “How did it go?”

You told him all about it, about the way Kuiil had split the time between you. “Maybe he realized we need to get used to each other first? But we didn’t really do a lot of that, we didn’t even talk to each other much.”

“But you look like you feel better about it.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I mean, I got to do what I’m good at.”

“Hmm.” Adrian looked thoughtful. “I think that makes sense, though. Letting you learn about each other’s style.”

You shrugged. “Well, maybe. I guess we’ll see next time. But Adrian… he smiled at me.”

“Who, Kuiil?”

“No,” you almost whispered, glancing around the hall. “Din.”

Adrian’s jaw dropped as you led him through the door for your second rehearsal. “What,” he hissed, but there wasn’t time for him to ask you for more details. You put it out of your mind. You had to focus on the dance in front of you, anyway.

You took that motivation forward through your weekend and the next week of rehearsals. You had so many performances coming up — the February mixed program, Midsummer, and then after that, Swan Lake. And another mixed program in April. And Cinderella. You usually didn’t let yourself think that far ahead — you had so many rehearsals, and so much physical therapy, that you tried to focus on the next performance and maybe the one after. The ones that were right in front of you.

But it was a helpful distraction, for once, thinking through the rest of your season. 

You knew Din had joined the Balanchine ballet for the February mixed program, and you knew those rehearsals were heating up. So you barely saw him outside of morning classes, and you’d been trying not to watch him as much. You wondered, a bit, if you should try to talk to him again, but you weren’t sure what you’d say. Hey, let’s get to know each other so we can actually dance together? 

That one smile aside, he was still so closed off you weren’t sure how to bring yourself to try.

…

The Thursday of your third rehearsal with Kuiil arrived, and you moved quickly down the hallway, almost running — your rehearsal for Midsummer had gone long and you didn’t want to be late.

You turned the corner, moving quickly, and let out an “oomph” as you almost slammed into someone. You felt strong hands come up to steady you and once again blinked up to find Din looking down at you. His large hands were warm where they rested on your waist. 

“Shit,” you cursed. “Din, sorry, I was —” you took a deep breath. “Sorry. I was running late. Obviously.” 

His face was, of course, expressionless once more, but you could have sworn you saw the tiniest lift in the corner of his mouth as he looked at you. “It’s ok. I’m late, too.”

You smiled at him, hesitant, hoping to find that bit of ease you’d briefly had together before your rehearsals started. “Balanchine?”

He nodded. “Balanchine.”

You stepped back a bit and ignored the way it felt when his hands slid from your waist and brushed over your hips before falling by his sides. “How’s it going?”

Din fell into step beside you as you started to walk towards the small rehearsal studio where Kuiil would be waiting for you. “Good. They hadn’t rehearsed much when I started, so it was easier to step in and join one of the pairs.”

“Who have they paired you with?” Symphony in C featured four principal couples, and many of them had danced together for years at this point.

He nodded, seeming to understand your question. “Yuna. They hadn’t finalized that pairing yet, so it was easy to step in. And we didn’t do a ton of Balanchine at CBC, but I’ve danced the first before.”

That made sense. Yuna had just made principal this year, and had yet to form a strong connection with any of the others. You couldn’t imagine them breaking up the pairing of Mira and Diego, for example, or giving Din the adagio in the second movement, when he barely knew anyone yet. And that role, the pair featured in the first movement, was tough. It was perfect for him.

“Yuna’s great. She’s so good at partnering, too.” You could almost see Talia’s vision for them, in your mind — she and Din would dance beautifully together.

You’d arrived at your studio, but before you could step inside, Din said, “she said the same thing about you.”

You froze as Din moved past you into the studio. He had talked about you? With someone else? You stepped inside, in a bit of a daze, as you tried not to wonder what they’d talked about.

Later, during rehearsal, you clung to that positive moment in your mind, because it felt like the first rehearsal all over again. Kuill had you both run through the sections he’d shown you the week before and then returned to the moment you met on stage for the first time. But you could tell from the start that it hadn’t gotten better.

Somehow, it had gotten worse.

You’d lost count of how many times you’d tried it so far, but you took a deep breath as the music started. You started your pass across the floor, leaping into an attitude before rolling out of it. You were supposed to stand and find Din in front of you, except he wasn’t where you expected him to be, so it didn’t quite work. And then the moment passed. 

No matter how hard you tried, you and Din couldn’t seem to find each other at all, throughout the rehearsal. You had no idea why you couldn’t seem to connect with him. Were you feeling the music differently? He felt so distant from you, even standing only a few feet away. Your movements felt separate, like you were on two separate stages, rather than sharing one space together. 

You could feel the frustration begin to build from the base of your spine. You didn’t understand how you could have such an easy conversation with him in the hall and then hit this wall inside the studio, where it should have been easier to connect with him. It had never been this difficult for you to get to know another dancer before.

“Alright.” Kuiil stopped the music and you tried not to read into his tone. “That is enough for today. I know you have the mixed program this weekend. Focus on that, clear your minds, and next week we begin again.”

As you started to leave, feeling defeated, Kuiil called you back. You turned and saw Din hurry out the door in the mirror. You caught a glimpse of his expression as he did and realized he was frowning. Your own mouth turned down in response. 

“My dear, I can see that you are frustrated.” You nodded. As he’d said before, your body couldn’t lie. “I want you to think about something before our next practice. How did you learn to connect with other dancers on stage?”

You thought about it for a moment. “Through movement, I suppose. And interpreting the choreography together.”

Kuiil nodded. “How is it different, when you are performing different styles?”

You blinked. You suddenly understood where he was leading you. “In classical pieces, it’s more pre-defined. It’s constrained. The connection, I mean. And how we are able to express it.”

He nodded again. “Think about that, as you rehearse this week. And we will try again.”

…

prev | next

a/n: so 👀 how do you think the next one will go 👀🩰

Solor - this is a very difficult, technical role in a famous classical ballet, La Bayadère! Here’s a really long video of an almost complete performance by Sergei Polunin. The exact number of variations/solos that Solor has can vary by production but there could be as many as three, one per act, and I decided to make Din do all of them. Here’s one, two (and another one, and another, and another), and three with the double assembles. You may have noticed that the second variation can have a lot of different jumps in it – I stole the idea for the double saut de basque and revoltades (and another) from a couple places. I know I saw someone doing the double saut de basque in attitude where most of these men are doing a double saut de basque en dedans (both are in that video) but now I can’t find it.

Symphony in C - a very NYC Ballet piece choreographed by George Balanchine. It’s basically 100% focused on technique and it’s hard!! There are four principal couples featured in four movements. Din joins the first couple. Reader also mentioned the third. This is the sort of performance CBC would have been less likely to do, but it’s so technical and classical they would have added it to their repertoire to broaden it without moving from their classical stance. Here’s a recording of the whole thing from 1973.

Classical ballet - I’ve mentioned this before, but now I’ll say that not everyone would interpret classical ballet the same way. Din’s previous company was on the more strict end of the spectrum. We’ll learn more soon!

I know I've mentioned attitude before, but this time we also see a développé!

tag list coming in a reblog!

[itsuki-minamy]

"K - LOST SMALL WORLD" (Novel)

PERIOD 1: 12 YEARS OLD (MISSION 1)

Translation: Naru-kun Chapter guide: HERE

The mop handle held the rag core in place perfectly. The damp rag was just the right weight and formed a layer that passed through the classroom door and stuck to the hallway window.

"Yessss! The fourth batter, pitcher Yata, hits the ball through the gap between third base and shortstop, down the left field line..."

Yata loudly commented on the situation and raised the mop in his hand.

"Hit!"

In the quiet atmosphere of the classroom, only his excited voice emerged, and with a smile still on his face, he quietly put down the mop. The classmates who had been watching with cold expressions began to look away, lowering their eyes to their PDAs or returning to chatting with their friends.

"What? That's not very friendly."

Yata was breathing heavily as he carried the mop over his shoulders.

"Team Yata, play defense. If there are four of us, we can make a triangular base."

He called out to three boys who were gathered at a desk looking at their respective PDAs. The three looked at each other, shrugged, and then turned to him.

"What's a triangular base?"

It was a response that was hard to believe.

"Don't you know what a triangular base is?! What the hell have you been doing while growing up to the first year of middle school?!"

"What are you asking me to do?"

"Isn't Yata-kun the one who's the least developed...?"

One of them whispered, while the other two burst into laughter.

"Did you say something?"

He yelled, and the three quickly stopped laughing.

"Well, I guess I'll give you a lecture, so listen up. Remember, a triangle base is when the defensive team is the pitcher and two basemen, which is why it's called a triangle..."

As he explained, they heard a message ding, and the three of them said "Ah!" in unison and looked down at their respective PDAs.

Yata felt very sad because his plans kept getting ruined.

"It's the "Jungle" email newsletter."

He walked over to his friends, who were holding their PDAs and talking cheerfully, and snatched the PDA out of one of their hands.

"What the heck is this email newsletter about?"

"Oh, Yata-kun, don't touch it with the hands you used to touch the rag."

"Don't be so picky, you're not a woman."

As his friend tried to retrieve his PDA, Yata roughly shoved him with the mop. The screen showed him an app he'd never seen before.

"What's this?"

"Yata-kun, do you know "Jungle"? Everyone plays it these days. There are a ton of different games, and the tricks are great."

"The design is great, too."

"I don't really get it. I mean, is it a game?"

"It's not just for games. You can also send group messages, which is really handy."

"Ah."

They were just starting a lively conversation when suddenly one of them raised his voice and made a "shhhh" gesture with his index finger. The other two looked as if they had just realized something and began muttering to themselves as they continued.

Shaking his head, Yata took his PDA out of his pocket.

"Hmm? Then I guess I'll join in too."

Since PDAs are designated by the school, they are all the same model, but students, especially the girls, decorate them with their own cases and straps. Yata was one of those who used "no straps". In addition to the usual call and internet functions, it is equipped with a contactless IC card function and can also serve as a student ID card.

"What was it, "Jungle"?"

It was just as he started working on his PDA.

Loud, harsh footsteps were heard from the door at the back of the classroom.

"Yata Misaki! And his gang!"

He yelled at him.

"Don't call me by my full name."

Almost reflexively, Yata barked and turned around.

"Everyone, come to the guidance room.", the homeroom teacher ordered in a gruff voice as he appeared.

"Huh? What did we do? Look..."

He began rebelliously, but seeing the expressions on his classmates' faces, Yata blinked.

All three of them were pale and frozen.

++++++++++

They were made to stand in a row of four in front of a long desk in the student guidance office. The answer sheets for the proficiency exam he took the other day were spread out on the desk. The sound his teacher made sarcastically tapping them with his fingertips was irritating to Yata's ears, and it made him feel increasingly irritated.

"Well, I'm telling you, how could we have cheated? And do you have proof?"

"There are several questions with the same answer. Even the mistakes are the same. Here and here too."

"It's a coincidence, right? How could we possibly have the same answer? Our seats are all different, so there's no way we can directly show each other the answers, and I don't think we're allowed to use PDAs during the test."

Yata was the only one arguing, and when he looked at his friends standing in a row to his left, all three of them looked completely depressed and had their heads hung low. (Oh no, they did it...) He already knew.

Yata felt a little sharp, thinking that if they didn't have the courage to deny it when they were caught, then they shouldn't have done it in the first place.

However, the teacher's gaze was directed at Yata with particular hatred.

"Yata, weren't you the one who made them do it?"

"Eh?!"

His voice cracked at the unexpected suspicion.

"Why do you think that? It doesn't make sense..."

"As for you, this is certainly the result."

The teacher carelessly rejected Yata's exam, which had a very disappointing score compared to the other three. He wasn't bragging, but that's not a score you can get by cheating.

"But you know why they called you in with them, right? Last month, you invited these three to sneak out of school during class, saying it was a test of courage. You were probably the one who made them do it this time too."

"Well, I was the one who invited them last month..."

"Tell me the truth. This isn't a normal test, so I'll keep this between us. But if you don't tell me the truth, I'll have to ask your parents to come."

His threatening tone caused the shoulders of his friends standing next to him to shudder.

One of them gulped.

"Y-Yata-kun told me to do it..."

"R-right, Yata-kun said so and made me use the cheat sheet, but he was the only one who didn't..."

"What...? You...!"

He instinctively raised his fist, causing the three of them to flinch. All three of them began to sob.

Yata had no choice but to lower his fist.

There's nothing he can do about it, really... He just remembered that's what happens when they do whatever they want when he's not around. If you can't wipe your own ass, then don't be a troublemaker.

"Ah, that's right. I snuck into the teacher's lounge and looked up the answers. Then I told them, but on the day of the exam, I was the only one who forgot my cheat sheet."

The three of them looked up, their eyes red and round.

Yata sighed and made a decision. It would be annoying to have to apologize to the teacher, but as the leader of the Yata group, it would be unmanly to abandon the comrades who clung to him.

"I'm sorry! I won't do it again!"

He bowed his head to the teacher so hard that the teacher flinched.

++++++++++

"Thanks to Yata-kun, I was truly saved because my parents weren't contacted."

"All right. Listen, if you want to deny it, deny it and be proud of it. If you want to admit it, admit it and apologize enthusiastically. Well, this time there's no getting around it, it's over. Next time, don't do things on your own; if you want to do something, consult me ​​first. I'll make it work for you."

"Yes. Thank you."

He still looked dejected, so the three of them laughed weakly.

Although they received some scoldings afterward, because it wasn't a normal exam, they didn't take anything seriously and were released. Of course, if something like this is discovered again, it's inevitable that their parents will be contacted. Looking around the class, it seems that most of the students are relatively well-behaved, so the parents would probably never imagine their children would cheat.

"Well, I'll take my bike. See you tomorrow."

He had planned to take everyone to Shizume after school that day, but he was sure the teacher would be watching them closely, so it would probably be best to reschedule.

After parting ways with his friends who were returning home on the school bus from the main gate, Yata headed alone to the side gate. That's because he parked his bike there, but there's no bike parking area. Riding a bike to school is prohibited because it's considered dangerous.

"Damn, this is why this middle school is so boring..."

It had been a month since he enrolled at Hinata Middle School, but to be honest, he felt like he didn't fit in. There are many restrictive school rules, such as prohibiting riding bikes to school and buying snacks on the way home from school.

The uniform, with its rather pretentious design of a dark red blazer and bow tie, was uncomfortable, so Yata rolled up his sleeves and wore it casually.

None of the friends he hung out with in elementary school were at this middle school. He had moved here during spring break due to his parents' work commitments. Although Yata missed his old school, he remained positive and thought it wasn't all bad. He was back near the town where he'd lived as a child, even before his previous school. Shizume is a town that holds many memories for Yata.

He pulled his bike out of the bushes by the gate. It's a worn-out mamachari (a women's bike) that his mother had given him, so it's not something he really wanted his friends to see. He wished he could get a part-time job and buy a good cyclocross bike, but of course, part-time jobs are prohibited for middle school students, and he'd already spent all his New Year's money, so he didn't want to ask for a raise in his allowance.

"I wonder if even a friend with a lot of money could do that?"

Muttering such absurd things to himself, he threw his crushed school bag into the basket, carefully removed the leaves that had accumulated on the saddle, and said, "Ready." as he easily climbed on top.

Hinata Middle School is located in the city, so the front door opens onto a busy main street, but the side door opens onto the shrine behind the school. For some reason, this area, including Shizume, has an unusually large number of Inari temples and shrines. Suddenly, in the middle of the city, a torii gate appears, with no clear idea of ​​what it enshrines, and a dense forest continues in the distance.

It's a quiet street nestled between the towering wall surrounding the school grounds and the shrine's forest. It feels like the border between the human world and the divine world, and is enveloped in a mysterious, green-scented atmosphere. Students riding the bus might not even know there's a street like that behind the school.

"Oh, is this it?"

He quickly found the app he was looking for. Once the installation was complete, a new icon called "Jungle/B" appeared on the screen. The icon evokes the image of twisted, crowded trees, just as the name "Jungle" suggests.

"I see, then a cute icon would be nice. They said the design is great too. Come to think of it, how did those guys manage to cheat?"

The most likely scenario would be that the answers would be given via email, but student phone numbers are managed by the school and are blocked during class so they can only be used for emergency calls. Although he managed to survive his teacher's interrogation, the fundamental questions remained unanswered.

"Well, I guess I'll ask tomorrow. Huh? Do I have to register as a user first?"

While using the new app and feeling a little unsteady while driving with one hand, he overheard a disturbing conversation.

"This guy has a 10,000 yen bill. He's only a freshman, though."

"The rumor that your family is rich is true."

"Well, we're all in the same boat when we have problems, aren't we? This month my bills have exceeded my allowance."

Yata looked up from his PDA. He has a good ear for that kind of talk. Reporting, extorting, bullying...

Looking ahead along the wall, he saw four boys wearing Hinata Middle School uniforms. Three of them formed a semicircle and pressed the remaining person against the wall.

"Hm? That guy..."

Yata squinted at the faces of the students surrounding him. He couldn't see well because he was holding his face in his hands and looking down, but the moment he saw his pale face and black-framed glasses, he shouted without hesitation.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

The three of them turned around. One of them was about to take a note out of his wallet. For a moment, the three seemed ready to flee, but as soon as they saw Yata standing with his arms crossed next to the old mamachari bicycle, they regained their composure.

"What's wrong, shorty? How old are you?"

"Don't call me shorty."

"This is Yata, a first-year student. Yata Misaki. He's a kid who stands out because he barks a lot."

"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and forgive you, but don't call me by my full name."

They were third-year students, probably from some kind of sports club. All three are much larger than Yata. Judging by their appearance alone, they didn't seem like the kind of bad guys who would mug someone. Unlike Yata, they didn't rebel against school rules by wearing their uniform sloppily or growing their hair long. As a student who takes their club activities seriously, they probably wouldn't attract the teachers' attention. He felt a sickening feeling that these ordinary people were doing things like that behind the scenes at that middle school.

"Give him back his wallet."

In an attempt to look a little bigger, Yata shrugged his shoulders as he approached, nodding at the bespectacled man in the background. It was frustrating that, due to their height difference, he had to look up to see the three of them.

"A wallet? If you want a wallet, I'll give it back to you."

The three looked at each other, laughed, and tossed the empty wallet to the bespectacled boy. It wasn't a Velcro type like Yata's, but a genuine leather one that looked quite expensive even just for the wallet itself.

"It's not just the wallet! Give him back the money!"

The wallet fell to the ground with a thud, and Yata, who was about to scream, was so startled that he stopped talking.

"I will."

The bespectacled boy said, without even looking at the wallet that had fallen from his shoulder. His voice was faint and mumbled.

"What? I can't hear you."

The third-years asked again in an intimidating manner.

"I'll give you my money and my wallet. I never want to touch anything you've ever touched again."

He said this and shook his shoulder as if it had dirt on it. On top of that, he kicked his wallet toward the third-year students and said,

"Take it. There are still some coins left, so crawl and search for some, there you go."

Even Yata, who went to help, was surprised by his attitude. The third-year students' faces turned red with anger. The bespectacled boy picked up his fallen school bag and began walking along the wall without even looking at the third-year students.

"Whoa! Wait a minute! Are you making fun of me?"

The third-year students suddenly raised their voices as if startled and grabbed the bespectacled boy by the back of his hair.

"Don't touch me!"

The bespectacled boy shouted in a deafening voice and headbutted the third-year student who had grabbed him by the hair. A painful crash was heard, and the man fell backward, clutching his face.

"What the hell is this guy doing all of a sudden?!"

The other two men flew into a rage and grabbed him.

"Fushimi!"

Yata immediately screamed and jumped at the nearest person. He jumped on his back, wrapped his legs around his body, and put both hands around his head to blindfold him, but he shook his head and said, "Let go of me, you little brat!"

Sensing another guy approaching from the side, he kicked him in the back and quickly broke free. He did a beautiful backflip and jumped to the ground.

"Hehe, as if you could catch me."

He snorted, but in the meantime, the bespectacled boy had been grabbed by his arm.

It was obviously a disadvantage to be three against one against the physically superior third-year students on the sports team. Clicking his tongue, Yata quickly operated his PDA with one hand. The bus probably hadn't left yet.

"Yata group, gather around..."

He noticed an unfamiliar notification on the screen.

At first glance, the word [Yata-kun] caught his attention.

[Isn't that annoying?]

"Huh? What's this?"

He frowned and did a double take as a shadow fell in front of him.

"Don't look away."

He was hit in the side of the face and sent flying.

"I'm telling you, you guys were the first to act. It was self-defense, so there's no point in telling the teacher."

"Don't ever face me again, you stupid first-year."

The third-year students jeered at the two as they fell to the ground, then quickly picked up their money and wallets. The guy who took Fushimi's headbutt stuffed a handkerchief up his nose and, in retaliation, kicked Fushimi in the shoulder again and spat on him.

"Damn it, what do you mean, self-defense?"

Frustrated, Yata slammed his fist against the ground. Gritting his teeth made the wounds in his mouth hurt even more.

When he turned to look at Fushimi, he had taken off his glasses, which were splattered with spit, and rubbed them against the dirt at the side of the road. His face was pale, and the red bruises on them looked painful.

"Are you okay, Fushimi?"

Fushimi adjusted his glasses, which were probably even more cloudy due to the dirt stains, and stared at him.

"Hmm? You're Fushimi Saruhiko, right? Did I read that wrong?"

"How do you know?"

An aura of anger seemed to rise from his thin shoulders. Yata was frightened, wondering why he got that reaction just by calling his name.

"Why? We're in the same class, right? I'm Yata. I'm in the same row as you."

It had been over a month since the entrance ceremony, but it seemed they didn't even remember his face. There are plans to change the seating arrangement in the second semester, but during the first semester, classroom seating is based on the attendance list. Yata's seat is fifth from the front, in the row closest to the aisle. Fushimi's seat is second from the front in the same row.

"It seems this isn't the first time those guys have bothered you. Do they always steal your money? Don't your parents know? They'd be angry if they found out, since it seems it was a considerable amount. If it happens again, tell me. I'll help you. Well, I lost today, but I have friends here."

"Hmmm.", Fushimi snorted.

"If you want to be thanked, go somewhere else."

While Yata was speechless at that unexpected comment, Fushimi easily brushed the dirt off his uniform and bag and began walking home. Although he didn't even touch the wallet the third years had stolen, he didn't seem to pay much attention to the dirt stains he wiped off, so Yata didn't really understand what was different.

Up until that point, he'd exchanged words with most of his classmates at least once, but now that he thought about it, that was the first time he'd ever spoken to Fushimi. He had no idea he spoke so rudely. The impression was as if every sound was uttered with a thorn stuck in his tongue.

Looking at his appearance alone, he's a quiet guy and a good student. He has a weak, thin build and isn't particularly tall. If the boys in his class were lined up by height, he'd be closer to the front than the middle (though Yata would be at the very front). He wears unfashionable black-framed glasses, and according to Yata, his hairstyle is shabby, and he generally seems unattractive. Yata assumed it was because of his appearance that he became a target for thieves.

His appearance didn't seem to match the person he was when he raised his voice to insult those guys.

"Wait... wait a minute."

As Yata ran back a few meters and picked up his bike, Fushimi rode off, clearly intending to leave him behind. Yata caught up with Fushimi, standing on the pedals, and began riding slowly beside him.

"Hey, don't you mind just giving up and doing nothing? We're going to fight back. I'll call my friends."

"Who said I'd give up and do nothing?"

Fushimi looked at him sideways.

"I'm going to retaliate. I'll crush them twice as hard."

He took out his PDA and muttered as if he were talking to the screen instead of Yata. The application displayed was the one Yata had just installed. Finally, when they found a common theme, Yata became excited.

"Ah, Fushimi, so you have it too. I just installed it..."

As he maneuvered his PDA and balanced it with one hand, his eyes shifted to the screen.

There were even more unfamiliar notifications than he'd glimpsed before.

They were shaped like speech bubbles and looked like an exchange of messages. There were so many speech bubbles that they almost filled the palm-sized screen.

[Yata-kun is annoying, right? Where does such annoying enthusiasm come from?]

[Why does he act so arrogant despite being so short?]

[He's short, but he has a loud voice.]

[They say idiots have loud voices.]

[It's so stupid to act like you're a bad guy when you haven't done anything particularly wrong.]

[What should we do? I told him about the group message, but won't it be annoying if Yata joins?]

[Why don't you create a separate group and teach him that? We'll have the important conversations here and leave the other group alone.]

[But wouldn't it be better to treat it naturally and keep him in a good mood? We could use him if something like this happens again.]

[Isn't that terrible? I feel sorry for Misaki. (laughs)]

[Misaki-chan. (laughs)]

[Misaki-chan. (laughs)]

"What the hell is this...?"

Because he wasn't paying attention while driving, the tire went over the curb and fell sideways along with his bike.

"What...?"

He hit his knee really hard, and it hurt so much he forgot the pain he felt when the third-years hit him. He gritted his teeth, but tears sprang to the corners of his eyes.

He opened his eyes to reach for his PDA, and Fushimi picked it up as it bounced on the ground, casually glancing at the screen.

"Ah!"

He jumped up in a panic and snatched the PDA out of Fushimi's hand.

"Oh, sorry, I fell. Haha, how pathetic of me. Anyway, back to the topic, the retaliation..."

A strangely high-pitched voice came out of his mouth, as if coming from the top of his head.

(Why did I laugh? It wasn't something to laugh about...)

"Oh, they're talking bad about you."

Fushimi simply said it as if he didn't care and turned his face away. Unable to accept the seemingly inconsiderate way in which he was spoken to, Yata retorted.

"That's all? Don't you have anything else to say?"

"Anything else?"

Fushimi tilted his head and spoke with a simple look on his face, as if he truly didn't understand.

"Should I laugh at you? Or do you want my sympathy? I'm not interested in you."

Yata had no way to respond to such a blunt statement.

++++++++++

Yata only took one action. That was the only thing he could think of.

"Hey, what's this?"

The next day, he confronted the three members of the Yata group with the PDA screen and interrogated them. All three were stunned by the screen and asked mischievously.

"What's that? It's terrible."

"Don't pretend you don't know! You think I don't know anything? This is a message from a "Jungle" group, right?"

He tried several things with the app he installed yesterday and got a general idea of ​​how to use it. However, at the time the message exchange in question was received, Yata had just installed the app and hadn't yet registered as a user. Of course, he wasn't part of any of the groups his friends had formed. Regardless, that exchange reached Yata just in time.

"If you have something to say to me, why don't you say it out loud instead of sneaking around?"

"If I tell you, you'll get angry."

"I can't hear you! I told you to speak up!"

He muttered a rebuttal, so he immediately started yelling at him, causing his friends to shake their heads.

"Ah..."

He had been thinking since last night that he should listen calmly and not yell, but he ended up yelling instead.

It was just before the start of morning class, and his classmates were arriving at school one after another. Everyone entered the classroom with a cheerful "good morning" and gasped at the atmosphere in the corner by the window. They looked around, wondering what was going on, and silently placed their bags on their desks. Fushimi hadn't arrived at school yet to take his seat.

Yata took a step back and took a deep breath.

"I won't be angry... If you have any complaints about me, just tell me. I'll listen."

The three of them, huddled by the window, looked at each other, and, as if without realizing it, they all burst out laughing.

"Yata-kun, you said you'd listen. Isn't that the part where you ask us to please tell you?"

"Ahh?! Say it again!"

Finally, he yelled again, grabbed his friend by the collar, and shook his fist. His friend let out a pathetic cry, "Aaaah!" and the other two also began to flee. Small screams were heard from the classmates watching nearby.

His friend desperately shielded his head and turned his face away. Although Yata was shorter, he was holding his friend by the neck, which almost made him faint.

"You can't even fight...", Yata said, looking at his friend with disdain.

He mocked people by adding things like "lol" to their messages, but when he tried to hit him, he was half-crying.

"As for the cheating, you went along with the lie that you forced us to do it. So, Yata-kun, you're the one who doesn't want to be excluded, right?"

"I was protecting them!"

"You wanted to protect me, right? You wanted me to thank you, right?"

"What...?!"

The words Fushimi said to him yesterday came back to him.

"If you want to be thanked, go somewhere else."

He never thought people would think that way.

He didn't want to be thanked. For Yata, it was unthinkable to abandon his friends and pretend he didn't notice anything.

(We're only friends because we play penalty kicks together. I'm the leader of the Yata group, and these are my friends whom I must protect...)

"Stop acting like a leader on your own. Don't you know you're bothering us? No one asked you to join, and being part of the Yata group isn't cool. We want to do other things and have fun, but we're always forced to participate in strange games."

His friend repeated the same thing in a hoarse, raspy voice, tears welling up in his eyes and his face contorted with fear.

He seems to be doing the best he can. Yata knows that face very well. It's the face of a bullied kid who finally stands up to the bullies. It was a common scene in elementary school. Yata was always the one beating up the bullies. Yata certainly acted like a tough guy, but bullying the weak was something he hated and despised.

He wondered when he'd reached the other side and felt dizzy, as if the world around him had turned upside down without him even realizing it.

++++++++++

With his classmates' eyes on him, he put on a face that said he wasn't hurt and left the classroom. Suddenly, all the strength left his body. Class was about to start, but he didn't feel like returning to the classroom. Where should he go? However, he couldn't think of anywhere to go alone, so his feet headed for the boys' restroom.

He closed the door and sat on the Western-style toilet. He leaned his back against the back tank and stared at the ceiling for a while.

He was so moved to tears that he had to go to the bathroom of all places possible. He swallowed the acrid sensation that had risen to the back of his nose.

The bathroom was quiet because the students had already gone to their classrooms. He could hear the sound of water dripping somewhere. It smelled a little off, but after a while his nose got used to it. He wondered if he would ever get used to it.

The bathroom is oddly a good place to think. Is it because there's nothing to see except the wall in front of him, or because there's nothing to do except shit, or is it the gloomy feeling created by the fluorescent lights that are almost always on the verge of going out?

Without even knowing what people were saying about him behind his back, he thought he was leading his friends and acted all grandiloquent and boastful because he thought the others respected him. He was so embarrassed. He felt like he wanted to crawl into a hole. There was just one suitable hole, so he stuck his face between his legs. Damn! It just made him feel a hundred times more miserable. He raised his head and rested the back of it loosely on the edge of the tank.

Sometimes he wondered if it would have been better if he'd never known anything. He wished he hadn't seen that text exchange. If that happened, he wondered if he could still be the center of his group starting tomorrow...

"Hm?"

Suddenly, he noticed a light reflecting off the ceiling. The light was a dim bluish light, different from the white of fluorescent lights, and it flickered, changing shape.

Next door...? How long had it been there...? There was a gap of about a foot at the top of the wall separating the toilets. The light from the adjacent bathroom seemed to be reflecting off the ceiling. He didn't hear any noise, but he wondered, "What's he doing?", he said to himself, thinking that the bathroom is a place to shit.

Trying not to make a sound, he climbed onto the toilet with his shoes on. He placed his hands on the top edge of the wall and stood on tiptoe to look into the next bathroom. He didn't think it was a big deal since it was the men's restroom. Well, it might have been a little embarrassing if his butt had been completely exposed, but the person was fully clothed, sitting on the toilet lid, and he could see his thin, hunched back and slender shoulders.

"Fushimi? What are you doing?"

That came out of his mouth before he had a chance to think about it.

His thin shoulders jumped dramatically. The person who had taken one end of the receiver out of his ear and turned to look at him was, yes, Fushimi. Two blue, plate-shaped objects appeared on Fushimi's lap and then suddenly disappeared.

"What the...?"

Fushimi's eyes widened, and he almost fell off the toilet lid. Yata could tell from his reaction that it would be surprising if he were suddenly called from above while he was inside the bathroom. But he was a little surprised that he had such a normal reaction.

"Sorry to scare you. I saw a light and thought it was something. But it's not like you were taking a shit, so it's okay, right? Aren't you in class?"

As he pushed his tilted glasses up, Fushimi's expression returned to normal.

"Get lost."

He spat that out and sat back down. As he gently ran his fingers over the PDA screen on his lap, the two plate-shaped objects he'd seen earlier appeared again. Positioned at an angle similar to that of an open laptop, the keyboard and screen were illuminated with a bluish, translucent light.

"What's that? It's cool. Does the PDA have something like that?"

Yata's eyes lit up.

"I made it."

"You made it?!"

What Yata imagined was Fushimi with pliers and wood glue in hand, assembling the PDA as if he were making a plastic model, but that probably wasn't the case. Incidentally, Yata has never built a plastic model exactly according to the finished drawing. Since he does things without reading the instructions, the final product ends up being somewhat different.

"Hey, can you put that on my PDA too?"

Unable to contain his curiosity, Yata leaned his stomach against the top of the partition and pushed his upper body to Fushimi's side.

"Oops.", he said, almost falling over, and kicking his legs, now completely off the floor, to regain his balance. He stared at the light display floating in front of Fushimi's gaze.

"Eh? But we're in class, right? Why's your PDA working? Mine is..."

When he took out his own PDA, it was locked and wouldn't accept any operations. That will continue until the end of school unless a disaster strikes or a parent makes an emergency call.

"Look, I can't operate mine, so why should yours work?"

"Get lost!"

Fushimi yelled as he turned around. As Yata was about to continue speaking, his eyes suddenly widened and he continued to smile.

Fushimi's hateful gaze pierced his chest.

"S-sorry..."

He shrugged, threw his head back, and then slipped out of the bathroom.

He sat sideways on the toilet facing the wall where Fushimi's bathroom was, facing the gap in the partition and remaining silent for a while.

"Uh, well... I won't make too much noise, can I talk to you? Fushimi, are you always idling alone?"

He couldn't remain silent for long, so he spoke solemnly.

He couldn't see him clearly because he was sitting in the back, but Fushimi often missed classes. He seemed like a frail child, so it could be that he was absent due to illness, but the teachers for each subject were always looking around the class and asking, "What's up with Fushimi?", so he was probably AWOL. Now he thinks he must have been quite brave to slack off alone despite his appearance as a good student.

"Actually, this is the first time I've ever relaxed on my own.", he confessed while scratching the back of his neck. In the month or so since he started middle school, he skipped classes a few times, but each time he invited his friends from Yata's class to join him.

There was no response from the person next to him, but he continued, wanting someone to listen.

"The Yata group was a group I created in my class... But, it seems my friends hated me, you know? The things I did for them seemed like a nuisance to them... But don't you think they should have said no if they didn't like me? It's so unfair that now they're saying they never wanted to spend time with me."

He ended by pouting and sounding like he was complaining.

"But you're not listening to what people are saying."

Just when he thought he was finally hearing a response from the person next to him, he was pushed aside with a sensible reason.

"Uh... ugh... that may be true, but..."

He tilted his head as if a heavy stone was being placed on top of him.

He hooked his heels on the toilet rim and sat with his knees hugged to his chest.

"I wonder if the same thing is happening to me complaining to Fushimi right now.", he said, discovering that if he spoke with his chin pressed against his knees, he would speak in a low, mumbled voice, similar to Fushimi.

"I wonder if it's the same as when those guys used the PDA to talk about me behind my back."

"Can't you even sulk alone?"

The cold voice drifted down the wall. There was no way to answer it, and he was devastated and said, "Ugh." But he did pay attention... about once out of three times. He was grateful that he answered, even if it's only once out of three times.

He lifted his chin from his knees and looked up at the ceiling. Just like before, a blue light was reflecting off the ceiling above the dividing wall. Once you know what light is, you can clearly see it reflecting off the PDA screen, and the screen changes rapidly. It seemed as if a small blue bird had been released from the ceiling and was playing by itself.

Why did he start complaining to Fushimi? He thought that if he was dealing with Fushimi, who had no one to hang out with, his complaints wouldn't get any attention... If that was the case, then maybe he was being quite cowardly and started feeling depressed again.

"I caught one."

Suddenly, he heard a voice coming from next door.

Yata was wondering if he had deliberately skipped class to play catch, when...

"You can come see him if you want."

He called out to him.

"Can I go there?"

"As long as you enter through legitimate means."

He heard the sound of the lock of the adjoining bathroom opening. When he called out to him again, he began to wonder if it was appropriate for two men to enter a bathroom together, but in any case, Yata could no longer contain his interest in what Fushimi was doing. He left his spot and, as instructed, this time went to the next door.

Just like before, a light panel shaped like a keyboard and screen floated over Fushimi's lap as he sat on the toilet. Yata squatted in front of Fushimi and looked at the display. The translucent screen was reversed from left to right, but Yata could see what was being shown even from his side.

He immediately realized it was a "Jungle" display. Several 3D characters walked freely in a space resembling a forest plaza. An avatar is a character that represents the user in a virtual space. At first, the character appears simply dressed, but you can customize the face, clothing, and belongings to your liking. After using it last night, Yata also wanted to make his avatar a little cooler, but the system requires you to pay to purchase any flashy costume items.

"Fushimi, your avatar... is this it?"

The one in the center appears to be Fushimi's avatar, but from the looks of it, it doesn't appear to have changed at all from the original. Yata compared the avatar in virtual space with Fushimi's face visible through the translucent screen.

Seen through the blue filter, Fushimi's face looked paler than usual and paler than his avatar, more doll-like.

"How about putting glasses on him?"

He mentioned it on a whim and he completely ignored it.

The avatar was so casual that it blended in with the other variously dressed avatars passing by, but it had an object in its hand that served as a marker. It was an axe.

Then, the screen shook with an effect as if something had collided, and the background changed.

It seemed like some kind of game had started. It didn't look like a fishing game. A collectible card game? Or a puzzle game? Or maybe a simulation game? The game screen seemed crammed with numerous elements, with an inordinate number of parameters and a complicated appearance.

"The game that's all the rage in "Jungle" right now is called "J-Cube". The opponent I just caught is one of yesterday's third-years."

The 3D cards and cube blocks seemed to swim and intertwine on the screen, but eventually they split into Fushimi's side and the opponent's side and formed something like a formation. Each person has five cards and five blocks.

"Oh, I've seen that too."

It was Yata's first time seeing the design on the card (wow, it's cool), but the cube blocks looked familiar. He's never had the actual item, but it's a famous puzzle.

The game is a hexahedron with each side made up of three rows of colored tiles, and players rotate the tiles horizontally or vertically, one row at a time, to collect tiles of the same color on one side. It's complete when all six sides are the same color, but even matching just one side should be quite difficult.

"Just so you understand, by combining the colors of the cubes you accumulate attack and defense power, which is then converted into card parameters, and the cards fight each other. Each color has an attribute; for example, red is "fire", green is "lightning", and white is "recovery". You can create combos by combining the five cubes. For example, if you line up the red faces of the five cubes, you get a 5-combo "fire". There's also an element of strategic simulation, so if you distribute forces between your own base and captured bases, secure supply lines, and manage politics to prevent rebellions."

"Oh, I don't think I know anything more than that, so it doesn't matter."

Halfway through the explanation, Yata gave up. Yata likes games too. In fact, he likes them "a lot". The games he's best at are rhythm games and racing games that require physical movement in arcades, but he's also pretty good at fighting and shooting games. While he's the type to do things without any discrimination, he's not good at things that require memorizing rules or using his brain to make long-range predictions. Woosh! Pow! He believes the true fun of games lies in instinct and reflexes, so he doesn't think he'll ever be compatible with strategic simulations.

Glancing mockingly at Yata, Fushimi glossed over the explanation of the simulation part.

"A depleted card's stamina will gradually recover over time, but if you use a paid item, you can restore it instantly and continue playing. You can also purchase items to strengthen cards for a fee. That's the bad thing about this game... Those guys are investing a fortune. Hundreds of thousands."

"Hundreds of thousands!"

Of course, if they run out of pocket money, they'll get desperate and try to extort money.

"Eh? But you know, aren't the third-years still in class?"

He'd wondered that before, but why can Fushimi and the third-years play during class time, when the PDAs are supposed to be locked?

"Sure, you can't normally do that. But installing "Jungle" creates a vulnerability. The manufacturer of this PDA has very strong security, but "Jungle" can bypass it and infiltrate the system, installing spyware."

"Oh... yeah, I see."

Yata nodded in agreement, but of course he had no idea what was going on.

"Five minutes left."

Then Fushimi looked at the digital clock on the edge of the screen. Before he knew it, a long time had passed. Five minutes before the end of the first period. During recess, people will probably come to use the bathroom.

"Five minutes will be enough."

Fushimi squinted behind his glasses.

The word "Fight!" appeared on the screen, and the battle began.

Suddenly, Fushimi's fingers began to run at incredible speed across the keyboard made of light. The cube spun on the screen, and the colors of the tiles scattered all over the room began to align. The six sides of the first cube aligned so quickly that Yata's eyes couldn't follow what was happening. The card was charged with an enormous amount of energy and attacked the opponent's cards. The health of the opponent's cards was gradually depleted in a way that was thrilling to watch. The screen shook as if it could hear the cards screaming.

"I see... that was a trap."

The person who challenged him to a battle probably never imagined that someone controlling such a random avatar, still in its almost initial state, would be so strong. They must have underestimated him, assuming he was a user who had just started using "Jungle".

Fushimi's cube spun brilliantly, and the colors on the six sides matched quickly, but compared to that, his opponent's cube was slow to handle. All he had to do was align one side, or at best both sides, and convert it into energy little by little.

What was even more surprising was that Fushimi wasn't manipulating the cubes one by one. Yata didn't know how he did it, but he was spinning several cubes on the screen at the same time. The combos he mentioned earlier exploded one after another. His movements were very fast, and he didn't seem to have time to think. His slender fingers danced across the keyboard, as if he were actually grasping and playing with the cubes on the screen.

"Wow..."

Yata couldn't help but murmur in awe.

The opponent was trying to somehow turn the tide of the battle by using more and more items that cost money. It was probably a card they'd invested time and money into developing, so losing it would be painful. Yata used to collect trading cards as well, so he understood that feeling. However, the more panicked they were, the less likely the cubes would be to fit. The enemy's panic on the other side of the screen was palpable.

Across the screen, the corners of Fushimi's mouth curled. A dark, warm smile appeared on Fushimi's face, which normally wore a sullen, scowling expression.

This was the meaning of "I'll smash them twice as hard". Destroying the cards they cherished and cared for in their PDAs, and making them throw their money away. All Yata could think about was fighting back with his fists or getting the cash back. The thought of Fushimi even sent shivers down his spine.

(This guy is scary... But... he's awesome...!)

Before he knew it, Yata's attention had shifted from the battle unfolding on the screen to Fushimi's face visible beyond it. The white face was distorted into jagged pieces by a mosaic pattern of dancing cubes on the screen. His visage resembled that of a purgatory guardian, gleefully watching the criminals burn in the flames.

++++++++++

There were two more extortionists left. They'd likely have been wary of the existence of vicious users who disguise themselves as beginners, stalking and crushing any fool who casually tries their luck, having heard about it from the first victim, so there was a good chance they'd have avoided Fushimi (though it's unlikely they knew that avatar's owner was Fushimi).

Fushimi carefully spaced two or three days between each one, waiting until the remaining two players let their guard down, and then cleverly orchestrated a match, squeezing them dry of their virtual assets in the form of cards and their real assets in the form of fees.

It took a week for the three of them to be completely exposed; in terms of actual playtime alone, that was more than enough, but all three ended up having to pay tens of thousands of yen in in-game purchases. They should have been pale by now.

On the way home a week later.

"Hey, Fushimi, I heard a rumor. If you don't pay your bills, a creepy, masked debt collector from "Jungle" will come and take any bodily tissue that can be converted into money. They'll draw your blood and rip off your skin!"

Yata asked Fushimi, with a look of horror on his face but also a hint of curiosity.

"It's an urban legend."

He was a little disappointed by the curt reply and thought, "Eh? Isn't that true?"

He was getting used to Fushimi's rude reactions. It seemed like it wasn't that the topic Yata was bringing up was bad, but rather that it was simply Fushimi's normal state.

"Thanks to drawing those cards, your deck has become super strong, right? And with your cube skills, no one will be able to stand in your way."

"Yeah. I don't want to do anything else in "Jungle" anymore, and it's gotten boring."

Fushimi, despite his brash mouth, seemed to have his ego satisfied to a certain extent, and for his part, he didn't seem to be in a bad mood.

"If you want the cards, I'll give them all to you. I'll stop now."

"Uh... I don't need it."

He hesitated for a moment, but decided against it. He had seen Fushimi do it and wanted to try, but if he started and then Fushimi quit, it wouldn't be fun.

For the past week, he has gotten used to going home with Fushimi.

Yata was standing next to him, so he wasn't sure if Fushimi was planning on riding home with him. Yata hopped on his bike and pedaled to and from Fushimi. "Oops." Sometimes he stumbles and almost collides with Fushimi, but even that's really funny.

"But, even if it's just an urban legend, I'm sure they're already scared. If they don't pay their next bill, who knows if a masked debt collector might show up."

It was comforting to imagine the third-year students fearing that they'd be caught by the dreaded debt collectors at any moment, their blood drained, and their skin ripped off.

"They'll need extra money and get desperate and start extorting."

After bursting out laughing,

"Yes?"

Sometimes, he suddenly realized what he'd said.

"Hey, Fushimi? I'll ask you anyway, but since it's you, of course we need to know what our next steps are..."

Suddenly, his bike was yanked from behind. His head was violently whipping from side to side, and when he turned, precariously standing, he saw someone standing there, holding onto the frame of the bike rack. It was one of those third-years.

Suddenly, he looked ahead and saw the remaining two appear from the woods, blocking his way.

It's that quiet path that runs between the back of the school and the shrine forest. Although it's close to the school, it's a road the students don't use to get around by bus, so unfortunately there's no one around.

"Could you lend me more money, Fushimi-kun? Eighty thousand yen. I really need it."

The two in front stood on either side of Fushimi, covering him. One of the people in the back was holding Yata's bicycle.

"I don't have any money."

"If you don't, of course you'll bring it from home right now, Fushimi-kun. We're in serious trouble. You have to put yourself in each other's shoes when we're in trouble, right?"

With a clear tone of threat in their voices, the two approached Fushimi. There was a sense of urgency in the atmosphere compared to when they got involved last week. Maybe they simply needed the money and didn't want revenge after discovering it was Fushimi who had beaten them so brutally.

Fushimi took a slight step back. He unleashed murderous intent, ready to headbutt them again if they came even an inch closer.

Surely those guys, who had already suffered that counterattack once, wouldn't be stupid enough to attack them the same way without taking any countermeasures? Yata quickly glanced at the third-year students. One of them was holding something in his jacket pocket...

(These guys are armed...?!)

The moment Yata glimpsed what looked like a Swiss Army knife, he kicked the third-year student in the chest as he held onto the bike rack.

Caught off guard, the third-year let out a grunt and stepped back. Using the momentum of the kick, Yata kicked his bike and crashed into Fushimi and the two remaining third-year students.

"What?"

The two third-year students jumped back in panic.

"Fushimi, hop on!"

He slammed on the brakes and shouted back. The third-year students became nervous and tried to capture Fushimi. A chill ran down his spine as the knife sped toward Fushimi's face.

"Fushimi!"

Just in time, literally by a hair, Fushimi dodged the knife and ran toward him.

Yata immediately began pedaling his bike forward. Fushimi, who had caught up with him, jumped onto the moving bike. Surprised at how agile he was despite not looking capable of exercising, he pressed hard on the pedals and picked up speed in one fell swoop.

"Don't fall!"

Yata shouted, then leaned forward and pedaled with all his might.

Pedal hard! Harder!

"Here we go!"

His own determined voice drowned out the third-years' voices, and they faded away.

As they started down, he decided he'd gone far enough and looked back. Although he could vaguely hear angry voices, the third-year students had completely disappeared across the street. Fushimi also looked back as he gripped the edge of his chair to steady himself.

"Phew! We're over it now."

He gasped, but it felt great.

"If you think about it, it's obvious, right? If Fushimi forces those guys to spend money on the game, then they'll come back to Fushimi and ask for money, creating a cycle. What were you going to do then?"

"What? I hadn't thought of that."

Fushimi turned to him, adjusted his position, and said with a sullen look on his face.

"Eh? You didn't think of that?"

"When I came up with the worst way to get revenge on them, I wanted to crush them with it as quickly as possible, and after that, I didn't care about anything else."

Fushimi wasn't just defiant, he was even proud.

Yata was surprised and looked back at the bespectacled Fushimi, who looked like a very intelligent character.

"You seemed so sure of yourself, but it can't be true. Those guys were carrying knives. It would have been worse than a beating like the other day. It's only natural that those guys would escalate their methods to hurt you, think about it for a moment. Maybe there weren't people like that at the school where you grew up, like a spoiled brat..."

"If you don't want to get involved, don't cling to me. It's not you they're after. You don't seem to have any money."

"I didn't say that! Why are you so twisted? I'm doing this for you!"

He raised his voice in irritation at the perverse response, but then calmed down.

That's the same thing he told his friends in the Yata group. He didn't help them because he wanted to impose his goodwill on them... and even now, it's not like he was pedaling so hard because he wanted Fushimi to thank him. "I did it for you." No... that was the reason...

The bike stuck out too far from the street, so passing cars were honking at it.

It's a two-seater, which can be problematic if you get caught by the police. He stopped talking and focused on pedaling forward.

Yata silently led Fushimi, who was sulking and quiet behind him.

Yata was unsure of the reason why he'd been so excited when he managed to escape, shaking off the third-year students who were chasing and shouting at him.

Because he wasn't alone.

After all, riding a bike with someone behind him and pedaling as hard as you can while escaping from the bad guys together sounds like a pretty exciting adventure.

[badkitty3000]

It's A Wonderful Life, Five Hargreeves

So, I got two asks today about Christmas stories:

**are you going to put your other Christmas story on here? Not trying to be pushy it's just easier to read them on here and I saw you linked others. I love your stories btw :⁠-⁠**

and

*I loved your Santa Five story. Would you be willing to do another like it? Something for the season? 🙏🙏🙏*

So, first of all, thank you so much to both of you! Wow! I was assuming the first ask was about this story? This is a multi-chapter one I wrote a year ago on AO3. It's a cross between It's A Wonderful Life and A Christmas Carol, with Five getting a visit from his guardian angel after he's not doing well without his powers in Reggie's new world, post-season 3 (written before season 4 came out). I will post it below.

In regards to the other ask, I won't be writing any new ones most likely this season, but I do have a couple other one-shots that were part of a series and that @kaybreezy3000, who is the co-author on them, and I are currently working on to make them into reader-inserts for tumblr. Those should be posted soon.

Thank you again and I hope you enjoy this sexy, sad, but sweet with a happy ending Five story! Have a wonderful holiday everyone! Cheers!

A Five x Female OC, 22k words, multi-chapter, cross-posted on AO3 from 2023

Warnings: Explicit sex, rough/angry sex, but also sweet sex, little bit of daddy kink

Chapter One: Candy

Number Five does not believe in God, or Heaven, or Religion as a whole. He knows what Klaus has told him, about the Void, and he knows he’s not lying. It’s just that Five is a man of science and logic, and he operates on proven theories and facts. He figures whenever he dies someday, if there is something to see, then and only then will he develop a belief system. He doesn’t really see the point in speculating about something that is inevitable anyway.

So, if someone were to tell him that guardian angels really existed, he’d laugh in their face. He’d ask for proof; solid evidence on which they could base this claim. And when they couldn’t produce any, he’d smirk in that knowing way, basking in the glow of always being right.

There was just one tiny flaw with not believing in the existence of angels, however, and that was the very real presence of the one currently lying naked in his bed.

🪽❤️🪽❤️🪽❤️🪽❤️🪽❤️🪽❤️🪽❤️

The seedy bar was mostly empty, occupied by only a few sad and lonely patrons that had nowhere better to go. The lone bartender looked about as despondent as his customers as he mindlessly poured the cheap whiskey and beer that they asked for. A few strands of red and white lights hung over the bar, casting a reddish glow over the dirty countertop, and someone had set up a sparsely decorated tree in the corner. Somehow, those small attempts at cheeriness just made the place feel more depressing. The jukebox playing “Blue Christmas” for the third time in a row wasn’t helping, either.

Five sat in a booth near the back wall, the table in front of him wobbling periodically on its mismatched legs. He was on his fourth drink. Or maybe it was five. He had lost count and frankly didn’t care either way. He sat staring wistfully across the table, lost in his own dark thoughts.

Along with the number of drinks that he had consumed, somewhere along the line Five had also lost count of the number of years he’d been on the planet. He thought he was around 63, but then once you factor in all of the time travel, who knows exactly. Well, actually, he should know. He was the genius, or so he had thought. Calculating his age shouldn’t exactly be a brain buster. Whatever it was, he was still younger than he felt, which was about a million years old.

Not that it mattered, really. He was here now, in this timeline, with no powers and nothing much to show for all of the effort he’d put into trying to save the world. The world was still standing, he supposed, but how much of that was him and how much of it was Reginald?

Five years had passed since he and his siblings had been dumped into this fucked up, dystopian world created by his former adopted father. He refused to think of him as anything other than an alien in human skin that used them all as living batteries and abandoned them without powers. What a giant dick.

Having no idea where to go or what to do was bad enough, but to be suddenly without the power that had coursed through his body his entire life was a real fucking drag. It took Five at least six months before he stopped trying to blink away from things or teleport as a mode of transportation.

He’d narrowly missed getting run over by cars several times, and got his face beaten in more than once for running his mouth to the wrong people and then not having an exit strategy. He could still fight, but it was a lot harder without time and space manipulation on your side. Even now, every so often, he found himself staring down at his clenched fists in surprise when his body automatically tried to jump and nothing happened.

Not surprisingly, Five had found it difficult to adapt to normal life. Part of this was the years spent in isolation and not really having a good foundation for living a normal life in the first place. He had been told, on several occasions, that he lacked “basic social skills”, and was “surly” and “borderline psychotic”, whatever that meant. If people couldn’t deal with his attitude, so what? He wasn’t exactly dying to make new friends, thank you very much.

He and his brothers had managed to stick together, despite a rocky start. And as much as he hated to admit it, he did love them, even if they were astonishingly infantile and annoying. He no longer had a sister, or at least one that he acknowledged. Allison was off living her best life, probably laughing at all of them. But the rest of them, they were ok. And they were all Five had.

All things considered, the past five years had been decent to his siblings. They still struggled with having their powers stripped, just like Five did, but overall, they were doing much better than he was. Diego and Lila had started a new life together, and now had an almost five-year old daughter. The fact that the two dimmest people on the planet were responsible for another human life was astounding, but despite all odds his niece was actually a delight to be around and insanely smart. Luther had found Sloane, although it did take a couple of years. He never gave up hope, and eventually he found her, convinced her to fall in love with him again, and they were now married for a second time.

Viktor probably had the most successful turn-around out of all of them and had moved a few miles outside of the city where he had opened his own music school exclusively for trans kids. Five didn’t see him that much anymore, but they talked about once a week on the phone. As time went on, though, Five found they had less and less to talk about.

Klaus was still Klaus, albeit much happier. With no more ghosts tormenting him, he had found he had no reason to go back to hard drugs anymore. He still liked to grab an occasional drink with Five, but overall, he was sober and doing well. At least, Five assumed he was doing well. He actually had no idea what the hell he did for money, but he always seemed happy and well cared for. Maybe he had a sugar daddy or an old lady somewhere that took care of him. Five never asked and Klaus never volunteered.

Ben (the asshat version) was still around, but he kept his distance most of the time. He had tried to go crawling back to their dad at the over-the-top skyscraper that bore his name, but was quickly dismissed by security staff, saying that Reginald Hargreeves had no children. Ben had been obviously hurt and embarrassed, but since he never really considered himself part of the Umbrella family, he went off by himself. Occasionally he would check up on Sloane, though.

So, that left Five. There were only two things from his father that Five could say he was thankful for. One was that, on top of giving him his arm back, he had also added on a few years to his body when the universe was reset, so that Five had been 18 when they emerged into Oblivion Park. The other was that all of the siblings had found a bank card in their pockets, giving them access to individual bank accounts with a few thousand dollars in them, allowing them a chance to start a new life.

Five still lived in the small, crappy apartment he had found and rented back then. He could afford a better place now, but he didn’t see the point in moving. It was just himself there and anything with a roof over his head and simple furnishings still felt like a luxury. He didn’t have a job like the rest of his brothers, but he did have a steady income. Right from the start, he took half the money from Reginald and made investments that paid off nicely. The thought of working some dead-end office job at his age made him cringe, so he was perfectly happy to play the stock market from the comfort of his living room.

With no need for a car in the city, and no interest in a fancy apartment or house, Five had plenty of disposable income. Most of it was spent on his family, particularly his niece, who he liked to spoil as often as he could. He loved watching her face light up when he brought her a present and she was about the only person he would tolerate and enjoy hugs from. It made him happy to see her happy, with the added bonus of pissing Lila off by being her daughter’s favorite uncle.

The rest of his money went to his wardrobe. Afterall, what was the point in having a trim, young body again if you didn’t put in an effort to showcase it? Between his school boy Academy uniform, scrounging for clothes in the Apocalypse, and the drab Commission-issued suits he’d had to wear throughout his life, he was finally getting a choice in his style. And while that was a small victory in the scheme of things, his finely tailored and expensive suit collection was one of his only pleasures in life.

Five had tried to fix things, in the beginning. He had tried to figure out what Reginald’s end game was and how to take him down once and for all. Luther and Diego even got the taste for revenge, and for a while they were a small team. But after that first year, they determined it was fruitless. There was no way to get to Reggie, up there in his tower. He owned the city, literally. And without their powers, his forgotten children were no threat. Five never really gave up, though. He knew there had to be a way; he just couldn’t figure it out. Even now, it’s always there in the back of his mind.

With his family off living their lives as best they could, Five was alone. Which you would think he would have been used to by now, but this time seemed different. Five had gotten used to having his siblings around again. Even if they were obnoxious and had the collective IQ of a fruit fly. He had liked talking to them, and fighting alongside them again. He had even liked fighting with them again. After all, everything he had ever done was for them.

Five knew that he needed to open himself up more. It’s not like they didn’t try to have a closer relationship with him. But he remained closed off for the most part, often alone. He knew the reason, too. He was angry. Angry at Reginald for landing them there, angry at the Handler and The Commission, who had really screwed him over. Or maybe he screwed himself over, he still wasn’t sure how that worked. But most of all, he was angry with himself. And that anger was so big and so raw, that it was always threatening to burst out at any moment. So, it was just better that he kept to himself.

The same went for relationships outside of his family. They were constantly bothering him about dating or finding someone to settle down with. While they were all a little fucked up in the head, and maybe had some major daddy issues, Five knew he was different. He wasn’t blind to women, despite what his brothers thought. He’d even tried to date a few. But there was too much baggage, too many secrets. And that was not even including the mind/body age difference, which was a whole other complication to add to the mix.

Because of the constant turmoil inside, Five hadn’t let himself get close to anyone. The last few “relationships” he’d had were nothing but one-night stands that he’d barely remembered the next day. And even those left him feeling guilty and even worse than he had before. Because what would Dolores say if she knew?

He had worked so fucking hard for everything, and for what? One time when he was drunk, he had asked Klaus that same question. Klaus had told him that he had saved them; that he had technically achieved what he had wanted, just maybe not in the way he had envisioned. But Five had just laughed and poured another drink. They didn’t get it.

So, there he sat, alone on Christmas Eve, at a shit bar, drinking shit booze, and wondering what the fucking point was. He just couldn’t find a purpose anymore.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he groaned when he saw the caller ID, but he answered.

“Hi, Diego.”

“Hey, where are you? I thought you were going to come over for dinner tonight. Everyone is going to be here.”

“I can’t. I have plans,” Five answered dryly, his glass raised halfway to his mouth.

“Bullshit. You don’t have any plans, you just don’t want to come.”

“If you know that, then why did you ask?”

Diego sighed heavily on the other end and Five took another drink. Then he heard some shuffling and a small voice screamed into the phone, making Five wince and pull it away from his ear.

“Hi, Uncle Five! Are you coming over? Are you bringing me a present?”

“Grace!” Diego scolded. “Stop screaming into the phone, and also that’s not polite.”

The girl ignored her father and continued talking loudly with her mouth way too close to the phone.

“My mom said you’re being a grumpy twat. What’s a twat?”

Five couldn’t help smiling. “It means a really cool person.”

“Ohhh! Ok. Well, I hope you’re coming for dinner and I hope you’re going to come over and watch me open presents tomorrow morning, too. It’s Christmas tomorrow!”

“I know, Gracie, and I did get you a very nice present. I just don’t know if I’ll be able to be there tomorrow morning.”

“Why?”

“Because I might be doing something else.”

“Why?”

“Because I just am.”

“But why?”

Five ran a frustrated hand down his face. “Can you put your dad back on please?”

“Ok. DAD!”

Five pulled the phone away again before he went permanently deaf in that ear.

“Ok, here’s my dad. Hey dad, you’re a twat!”

Five laughed loudly, unlike his brother.

“What the fuck, Five? If we get a call from the school saying she’s calling the other kids twats I’m giving them your number.”

“Lila started it.”

“Jesus, you two. Anyway, are you coming over or not?”

“Not.”

“You’re kind of being an asshole.”

“This is not new information to you, Diego.”

“Fine. Well, Merry Christmas or whatever. Have fun drinking alone.”

“Thanks.”

They hung up and Five set his phone down, lifting his glass back up. He shook his head. “Fuck, I really am an asshole,” he muttered to himself.

As Five sat there, contemplating when he had become such a jerk, a waitress came over. He hadn’t noticed any waitress before, just the bartender. But she sidled up next to his table and he looked up.

“Can I get you something, handsome?”

Five blinked at her a few times. She was extremely pretty, with long, thick black hair, dark eyelashes and full, red lips. But that wasn’t the only thing that caught Five’s eye. She was dressed head to toe in what he could only describe as a slutty elf outfit. An extremely short, flared green skirt with red trim, and a tight red shirt that buttoned up the front. The neckline was so low and her tits were pushed up so high that Five was honestly perplexed at how she was keeping them from just spilling out altogether. The red headband in her hair was adorned with tiny bells that jingled anytime she moved her head. A brief vision of that headband jingling loudly as it banged against his headboard passed through his mind, but he was in no mood for company tonight. Not to mention, she was probably half his age.

The waitress smiled down at Five and spoke again after she received no response. “Did you want anything?”

Five looked back down at his half-full glass. “No, I’m all set.”

“Are you sure? There’s nothing you want that I can get for you?”

Five sighed, annoyed with her persistence, and flashed her his best fake smile. “Nope. All good.”

She pursed her lips and put a hand on her hip. “What are you doing here on Christmas Eve? You seem way too classy to be hanging out in this dump. Don’t you have a family to go home to?”

Five looked up at her, his eyebrows drawn together in irritation. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I don’t have a family. I’m here to drink and be left alone.”

She nodded thoughtfully, then looked around the bar again. “It’s pretty slow tonight. Mind if I join you?”

“What part of alone did you not understand?”

Pretending like she either didn’t hear him or didn’t care, the girl shrugged her shoulders and plunked herself down in the chair across from Five, her headband jingling. He gritted his teeth together.

“If you don’t have a family, then who were you talking to just now?” she pried.

“Are you always this annoying to everyone, or am I just special?”

She shrugged again, unaffected by his insult. “I just overheard you talking and saying you didn’t want to go somewhere. Was that your family? Did they want you to come over for Christmas?”

Five slammed his glass down. “Jesus! Look, I don’t know what your angle is here, sweetheart, but I just want to be left alone. Go bother someone else.”

“I don’t have an angle. And my name’s not sweetheart. It’s Candy.” She extended her hand out to Five, which he promptly ignored.

“Candy?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “That’s a little cliché, isn’t it? Even for made up names.”

“It’s not made up! That’s my real name. Candy.”

“So, what’s your last name, Cane?”

She laughed, moving her head so the bells jingled. It wasn’t a funny joke and Five wasn’t being nice to her, so he had no idea why the hell she was still sitting there with him and laughing, of all things. He looked down at his glass, which was now empty from when he sloshed it all over the table.

‘No, silly. We don’t have last names where I’m from,” she answered with a giggle.

Five chose not to address that odd statement. “Well, then, Candy , looks like I could use another drink after all. And since you apparently have no other customers at the moment, would you mind grabbing that for me?” Five picked up the empty glass, waving it in the air to demonstrate the emptiness as he smirked at the waitress.

She frowned. “Are you sure you need another drink?”

Five rolled his eyes. “You just asked me ten seconds ago if I wanted anything!”

“Maybe I wasn’t talking about a drink,” she smiled, leaning forward so that her ample cleavage was even more on display.

As aggravated as Five was by her, his eyes were still drawn to her chest. Because of the buzz he had going, too, his look wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. She noticed and ran her hand across her collarbone, drawing attention to the delicious looking divot between her clavicle and neck as she brushed her hair off her shoulder. He tried not to think about what it would be like to run his tongue across that very spot.

Five leaned back against the booth, his arm slung across the back of it. “Thanks, but no thanks. Not interested.”

Candy pulled back in shock, even though she was still smiling. “I find that a little hard to believe, but that’s ok. My feelings aren’t hurt. As much as I would love to get inside those tight pants of yours, I can take a hint.”

Five leaned in again, speaking through clenched teeth. “Then if you aren’t getting in my pants, and you aren’t going to bring me a drink, I think our little conversation here is done.”

For the first time since she’d wandered over, Candy looked a little bit at a loss of what to do. Then she smiled again and stood up. “Ok, one more drink, I’ll be right back.”

When she turned to walk away, she glanced down at the black suede ankle boots she had on. One of the laces had come undone and she bent over, directly in front of Five, not even trying to hide what she was doing. Underneath the miniscule skirt, were an even smaller pair of red and white panties, striped like a candy cane. They were cut in a way that showed off a good portion of her ass and Five found himself staring yet again. He was also very glad she was not looking at him right then, because as he was caught in the tractor beam that was her tight little rear end, he licked his lips and let out a puff of air.

“Damn,” he murmured, hopefully quietly enough that she didn’t pick up on it.

She righted herself and looked over her shoulder with a grin before she set off to get his drink. Just as Five was imagining a hypothetical scenario involving those panties and his teeth, she appeared in front of him again, fresh drink in hand. When she handed it over to him, Five paused.

“Where did you..how did you get over here so fast?”

She shrugged again, and Five found that just that small action of her shrugging was really starting to get on his nerves. In her hand was her own drink of some sort and she took a generous sip.

“I’m a really good waitress, I guess.”

“Huh.” Five eyed her curiously as he lifted the glass to his lips.

Without any invitation, Candy dropped herself onto Five’s lap, her legs swinging to the side. Five gave her what he intended to be a very murderous glare, but considering her perky round tits were right under his face, it didn’t have the same effect that it normally did. He kept his hands at his sides, not touching her in any way, but he also didn’t push her off. Because her skirt was so short, he knew that the only thing between her and his lap were those little striped panties. He could feel the warmth of her thighs seeping through onto his. She may have been annoying as fuck, but he still had a brain and a dick, and sometimes those two things got very confused about which one was in charge.

“So, if you’re not spending time with your family tonight, what are your plans?”

“To finish this drink, stagger home, and pass out in my bed. If I’m lucky, maybe I won’t wake up until Christmas is over,” he answered.

“Well, that sounds terrible. Why would you want that? Don’t you like Christmas?”

Five shifted in his seat, the irritating jingling of bells now closer to his ears. “I used to.”

Candy nodded with a small frown. Then she placed a hand on his chest. “Maybe I can help you like it again.”

Five lifted his eyes to hers, raising one eyebrow.

“I’ll let you roast your chestnuts over my open fire,” she purred with a grin.

He rolled his eyes. “Subtle. But, even after that cute show you put on for me a minute ago, and this little stunt you’re pulling right now, I’ll be going home alone this evening.”

She stuck out her bottom lip, shiny and wet with lip gloss and her drink. She traced one finger down the side of his neck and over the buttons of his white dress shirt. “That’s a shame. I was really hoping you’d have a special package for me to unwrap later.”

One side of Five’s mouth curled up and his jaw twitched as he took another drink, trying to decide how drunk he was and how much of a hassle it would be to get rid of this girl in the morning. He leaned in closer, placing a hand lightly on the small of her back.

“Sweetheart, I would shove my package down your chimney so hard and so deep, you’d still be feeling it by New Year’s. But that’s not going to happen tonight, I’m afraid.”

She laughed and then nodded, like she hadn’t expected him to say anything less. “I just thought maybe I could remind you how wonderful Christmas is. And maybe how to enjoy yourself a little more and stop closing yourself off to everyone.”

With narrowed eyes, Five lowered his glass that had been midway to his mouth. “What the hell are you talking about? You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know a lot about you, Number Five. And I know that your family loves you and they wish you could have a full and happy life.”

Five’s hand flew up and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her forward and squeezing it hard.

“How do you know my name?” he hissed in her face.

The girl only smiled again. “I’m your guardian angel, Five.”

He clamped down harder onto her wrist and roughly jerked her towards him again. “Cut the shit. Who are you? What do you want? Do you work for Reginald Hargreeves?”

She had the audacity to laugh, those fucking bells ringing again. “Of course I don’t work for your father. Like I told you, my name is Candy and I’m your guardian angel. And I’ve been sent here to make sure you know what a wonderful life you could have here, Five. If only you could let yourself.”

“I don’t know who the fuck you are, or what you want with me, but you have seriously underestimated what I could do to you right now.”

“Oooh, I would love to find out all the things you could do to me,” she said, still not trying to pull her arm away or move off his lap. “I bet you could really put me on the naughty list.”

“How about this? If you don’t get away from me right this second, I snap that pretty little neck of yours?” he growled, digging his fingers into her wrist.

Candy sighed, rolling her eyes skyward and talking out loud to the empty air above her, gesturing to Five with her hand that held her drink. “I know, I know…you warned me. This is going to be a tough one, like you said, but I still think he’s hot, though.”

Five shoved her roughly off his lap and stood up, pushing the table back with a loud screech. “Since you know all about me, then you should know what I’m capable of. So, keep that in mind; because if I ever see your face again, you’ll get to witness it firsthand. Now get out of my way.”

He shouldered past her, out of the bar, and into the cold night air. All around him, just like every other day and night for the past five years, he saw the glowing signs bearing his last name. He paused and took in the giant Hargreeves Enterprises building that loomed over the whole city. The first few snowflakes of the night had started to fall, landing in his hair and onto his eyelashes. With another look back at the bar, he hurried off down the sidewalk. His apartment wasn’t that close, and he had forgotten his coat inside the bar, but he didn’t care. He needed to walk and clear his head and try to figure out what the hell just happened back there.

Five knew the girl had to have been sent by someone. But who? And why? Maybe she was sent from another timeline, here to stop him from doing something that will affect the future. But she didn’t say that. She said she wanted to help him, which made no fucking sense. Then, to matters more fucked up, how the fuck did she know how he felt about things?

After a few more blocks, Five came to a bridge that spanned over a large river. He stopped halfway across, nearing the icy rail and peering down at the roiling and freezing water below. It was windy on the bridge, and he bent his head against the falling snow. He remembered how a year ago, he’d stood in that very same spot, looking down. He had been drunk and in a dark place, just like he was now. He hadn’t gone through with it then, and he wasn’t going to do it now, either. After everything he’d been through and survived, it seemed like a pretty stupid way to end things.

Five huffed out a short laugh, speaking into the empty dark night. “Guardian angel my ass. If that were true, where the fuck were you when I was wasting away in the Apocalypse? At least then I could have had something else to fuck besides my hand.”

“I was there with you, Five, but you didn’t need me then. You do now, though, and you’re much too hot to just be flinging that body of yours over the side of a bridge.”

Five pulled the gun he was carrying out from his waistband, spun around, and pressed the barrel into the side of the girl’s head, clicking off the safety. She gasped a little, but otherwise didn’t seem afraid. She had thrown on a red, faux fur coat over her skimpy outfit, but it remained open, blowing in the wind.

“Why are you following me?” he yelled, a little more frantically than he had intended.

“I don’t know how many times I can tell you, Five. I’m your guardian angel.”

“Forgetting for a moment that angels don’t exist; if they did, I highly doubt they would look like you.”

She stuck her bottom lip out in a pout. “Why? What’s an angel supposed to look like?”

Five couldn’t believe he was actually having this conversation. “I have no idea, but not someone that’s dressed like they just came from working the pole at Santa’s workshop.”

Candy actually laughed, despite the very loaded gun pointed directly at her head and the blatant insult he had just hurled at her. “Santa’s strip club? That’s good! Oh! I bet it would be called ‘The South Pole’.” Her eyes flitted down to where Five had pulled out his gun. “And I wouldn’t mind getting my tongue frozen to your pole.”

“Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! God, you are annoying!”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. But I’m very delightful once you get to know me.”

“I highly doubt that. I’m also not going to find out. Because, even though I could blow your brains out and throw your body into the river very easily right now, I’m not going to do that. So, I highly recommend that you walk away from me before I change my mind.”

“Oh, Five,” she said with a smile, running her hand down his arm. “You’re not going to hurt me. That’s not you.”

Five blanched at her words, lowering the gun. Even though he had liked the feeling of her warm hand on his arm, he shook her off and got in her face.

“I have killed more people than you could ever know,” he snarled.

“263.”

Five’s eyes widened and he took a step back. “What?”

“I do know how many and it’s 263.” She pointed up to the sky and shrugged her shoulders. “We keep track.”

Five didn’t know what to say to that. His heart began to race and his hand trembled as he shoved the gun back into his pants, trying to process the craziest thing this woman had said to him yet. She was right; he had kept track, too.

Chapter Two: Christmas Past

“Fuck.” 

When Five shivered against the cold, Candy opened up her coat, pulling it around his back as she stepped in closer to his side. “Here, let me warm you up.” She leaned in even closer and whispered next to his ear, her lips ghosting over his cheek. “You’re an amazing person, Number Five, and I want to show you that.”

“How?” Five’s voice came out soft, and he realized he was quickly losing his control of the situation.

Candy pressed her body into him, her arms circling his waist. When she kissed him, he didn’t try to pull away. Instead, he felt himself giving in to her and the heat of her hand as she touched the side of his face with her palm. The snow was still falling and landing over them both, but Five was no longer cold. The heat radiating off of her body was more than enough to warm them both. His eyes fell closed as he felt her pull away just slightly, her voice sounding both far away, and directly inside his head.

“Just relax, Five. Let me remind you.”

“Remind me of what?” he whispered, although he wasn’t sure he’d spoken out loud.

“When you were happy.”

Five’s vision started to fade; the snowy landscape around them shimmering like water. For a split second he thought he had his powers back. The sensation was the same. The same surge of energy through his veins, the pull of time and space on every molecule in his body. His heart raced with the possibility that his old self was back. But instead of appearing out of a portal, it was as if he stood still and his surroundings shifted into something new.

One second Five had been standing on a freezing bridge with Candy’s body pressed to his; and the next they were standing in the warm living room of the Hargreeves’ mansion. He was inside of his childhood home and Candy was holding his hand loosely in hers. None of this made sense and he looked to her for an answer. Instead of an actual explanation, she smiled cheerfully, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, and squeezed his hand.

“Just watch,” she chirped.

Five really had no other choice but to wait and watch, considering he had no idea what the fuck was going on. The main room of the mansion had been decorated for Christmas, with wreaths on every window, garland on the mantle above the fireplace, and a tastefully decorated tree in the corner. Looking up, he noticed that some of the trophy heads his father had collected had lights strung across their antlers and necks and he smiled. He actually remembered helping Ben string those up, with both of them wondering if they would get in trouble when Reginald saw. By some miracle, their father either didn’t care or didn’t notice, and the rest of their siblings had laughed and clapped when the oryx and wildebeest were suddenly illuminated with twinkling lights.

Five’s smile turned back into a frown when he realized how old that memory was. They had been around 8 years old then. How the hell was he seeing this now? Before he could question Candy, he heard the stampeding sound of multiple feet running down the hallway towards them, accompanied by loud shrieks of laughter. He watched in disbelief as the 8-year-old version of himself, along with the rest of his brothers and sister, came clamoring into the room.

Five immediately ran his hands over his face and down his arms, fully expecting his body to start sweating and itching like crazy. But he felt fine, and he didn’t feel the normal paranoia creeping in. Maybe it was the denial, though. He looked back at Candy, who was watching him, and she shook her head with a smile.

“Don’t worry. There’s no psychosis here. It’s more of a flashback or like watching a home movie. They’re real but they can’t see us.”

Five rolled his eyes. “So, we’re doing the Christmas Carol thing? How original,” he muttered.

Despite his suspicions of all of this, he went back to watching the scene in front of him. He remembered that exact Christmas Eve because it had always been his favorite. They were still too young to have officially formed the Umbrella Academy, and so life was a little freer than it would be in the coming years. Even though they fought sometimes, and formed alliances behind each other’s backs, that was all forgotten at Christmas time. Everyone was happy and getting along. Their mother brought in a tray of seven mugs of hot chocolate with marshmallows and each kid excitedly grabbed one.

Five watched his younger self double over with laughter when Diego stuck a marshmallow up his nose and shot it into Luther’s mug. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed like that, and seeing it was both heartbreaking and uplifting. He smiled, wishing so badly he could step out of whatever bubble Candy had put them in and warn his little innocent self not to ruin his life on a whim just to prove a point.

“I remember this Christmas,” Five said to Candy, not taking his eyes off of his family. “Klaus and Allison had written a stupid play called ‘The Unhappy Christmas Tree’ and forced us all to be in it. We performed it for our mother and Pogo on Christmas morning.”

His supposed guardian angel laughed. “And what part did you play?”

“I’ll give you one guess.”

“The unhappy Christmas tree?”

Five nodded and chuckled. “I had absolutely refused to speak any lines or sing their dumb song, so they made me stand there covered in garland with a star on my head while the rest of them performed around me.”

“I bet you were an adorable little tree.”

“I don’t know about adorable. I was a pretty pissed off little tree, anyway.” Five sighed and shook his head. “Of course, you would have thought it was worthy of a Tony award based on our mother’s reaction. Not that that was real in any way, but it made Allison and Klaus feel good.”

“Did your father enjoy it?”

Five snorted with derision. “Fuck no. He never would have lowered himself to actually spend time with his children. No, I’m sure he was either out with his high-society crowd, or up in his office planning our eventual demise.”

They watched in silence for a few more minutes as his young family laughed and played. They really were a real family once upon a time, all seven of them together. Here was the proof. Ben was alive and Five hadn’t even thought of time travel yet. They even included Viktor in everything back then. Five’s chest tightened with the emotion of a lost childhood and he turned to Candy.

“Make it stop,” he told her, his voice cracking.

“But there’s more to see, don’t you want to—”

“Now,” he demanded harshly. “Stop doing whatever you’re doing.”

She looked sad, the smile that she always seemed to wear fading and she nodded her head slowly. The time travel sensation was back and gone just as quickly, and they were back on the bridge with the wind and snow whipping around them.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” Five yelled at her, yanking his hand away.

“I brought you back to a happy moment in your life. So you could remember what it used to feel like.”

Five wiped aggressively at his face, telling himself that it was wet from the snow, and stumbled backwards away from her. “Stay away from me, whoever or whatever you are!”

Candy raised her arms up and let them drop back down to her sides in frustration. “Five, please! I’m trying to help you.”

“Stay the fuck away from me! Understand? If I see you again, I will kill you!” he yelled into the wind.

He took a few more steps backwards, to make sure she wasn’t going to follow him, but she stayed where she was. Then he turned around and headed towards his apartment as fast as he could without breaking into a sprint.

Head down, Five pressed on for the few remaining blocks, not daring to look behind him. He didn’t know what had happened back there, or who that woman was, but he wanted no part of it. She probably drugged his drink at the bar and everything he had seen was a hallucination. That was the only logical explanation. Logic aside, it had still scared the shit out of him, and Five did not like being the scared one in any situation. He liked to be in control, and back there he had let himself lose control. All because she had pressed her body against his and kissed him.

So what if she was insanely hot, and had a nice ass and her tits were perfect? And so what if she was actually nice to him, even though he was being a dick to her? She was clearly insane. Even attractive people with amazing boobs could be insane, he reminded himself.

When he finally reached his apartment, Five hurried inside and shut and locked the door behind him. He stood shivering with his back against the door, breathing hard and flexing his frozen fingers to try and warm them up. He was still a little tipsy from the bar, but after what he’d just been through, he needed another drink. Striding over to his small, drab kitchen, he pulled out a glass, pouring a generous amount of bourbon, and tipping it back to swallow it in one gulp.

“Fuck,” he said out loud to no one, grimacing from the burn of the alcohol.

Before he could think what to do next, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, startling him back to reality. With a glance at the screen, he sighed heavily, but was actually grateful for someone else to talk to. If only to make sure he wasn’t completely losing his mind.

“Hello?”

“Heyyy, Cinco! We miss you buddy, where are you?”

Klaus was just about as loud as his niece had been, and Five found himself pulling the phone away again.

“I’m at home,” he answered flatly.

“Well, what the hell are you doing there? It’s Christmas Eve, Fivey!”

“I’m aware of the day.”

“Then why would you want to be alone? Come hang out with us. We miss you!”

Five’s heart tightened just a little on hearing that. He missed them, too. A little, anyway. But he stayed silent.

“You’re not still mad at me for spilling guacamole on your suit jacket that one time, are you? Because it really was an accident.”

Five pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers and closed his eyes. “No, Klaus, I am not mad about that. I just don’t want to come, ok?”

There was a pause. In the background, Five could hear the rest of his family being loud and obnoxious as always, with Lila’s voice carrying over all of them. “Klaus, don’t waste your time with that crabby old fart. Let him be miserable and alone. That’s clearly what he wants.”

“We’d really like you to be here,” Klaus said apologetically.

“Yeah, sounds like it.”

“Fivey, come on—”

“Really, Klaus, I’m fine. But as Lila said, don’t waste your time on me, because I’m not coming.”

“Can you at least tell me why?”

Five huffed angrily and raised his voice. “Because maybe I just don’t want to spend Christmas with you people, ok?”

There was silence on the other end and Five immediately felt like shit. Klaus didn’t deserve that. None of them did. Why did he have to be such a stubborn asshole all of the time?

“Yeah, ok. Ten-four, big bro. Have a nice life.”

Five watched as the call went dead and he slammed his phone on the counter.

“Fuck,” he said quietly. But as usual, no one was around to hear it.

He was still wet and shivering from the snow, so after a quick check out the window and a glance at his locked door, he went into his bedroom to change. He just needed to go to bed and go to sleep, that was all. Whatever drug that girl put in his drink would wear off by tomorrow, and maybe then he could think straight. Then maybe he would go over to Diego’s in the morning and apologize; if he wasn’t too hung over, that is.

After pulling off his soaked shoes and socks and peeling off his shirt, Five was in the process of unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly when he heard it. Those fucking bells. He paused, his hands on his waistband as he listened with his heart pounding loudly in his ears. There was no fucking way he had actually heard that. He must be going crazy. But then he heard it again, and he gritted his teeth together.

When he stormed out of his bedroom, there she was. Standing in his kitchen, helping herself to his bourbon, and looking like she had every right to be there. Her red coat had been discarded in the living room, thrown onto a chair. Five also noticed she had thrown her boots off by the door. When she saw him, she smiled happily and raised her glass.

“This is good! I see why you like it.”

Five wanted to scream or yell or do something. Something other than what he did do, which was to stammer incoherently and run his hands so hard through his hair a few strands were pulled out.

“What the…how did you…god damn it! How the fuck are you here?”

He looked over at his door, which was still dead bolted from the inside. If he had been freaked out before, that was nothing to how he was feeling now. Candy, however, only tilted her head like she had no idea what he was talking about and took another sip of her drink.

“Angels don’t need to use doors, Five. I thought that was common knowledge.”

She shrugged her shoulders, drawing his attention to the smooth skin of her collarbone again. He really wished he could stop thinking about running his lips over that skin and wondering how it would taste. He did not want this girl here. He wanted her to leave him the fuck alone. He’d been very clear about that.

“Get. The fuck. Out,” he spit out between clenched teeth.

Candy ignored him and hoisted herself up onto the kitchen countertop, wiggling her sparkly red painted toes. Her skirt was riding up far enough that Five was able to get another glimpse at those red and white striped underwear of hers. She made no attempt to try and hide them and she looked Five up and down, only just then realizing he was standing there shirtless with his pants halfway undone. She raised her eyebrows.

“Damn, Five” she exhaled quietly. “You can deck my halls anytime.”

Five’s eyes darkened and he strode over to her, muscles dangerously flexed, and he grabbed her around the neck. Only inches from her face, he hissed menacingly as he pressed his fingers in harder.

“I told you I would kill you if I saw you again, didn’t I?”

Candy clasped onto his wrist, but she didn’t seem panicked at all. In fact, it looked like she was trying to smile.

“You’re not going to kill me, Five.”

He tightened his grip again and he heard a small gurgle in her throat.

“What makes you think I won’t?” he snarled.

“Because I think you’d rather do something else to me,” she breathed out.

Five’s chest was heaving and his teeth were bared as he stared her down, his fingers not loosening from around her slender neck. Up close like that, he could see down her shirt and he realized he was standing between her legs, with the inside of her thighs brushing against his hips.

“Is that really what you want?” he growled as he leaned in even closer. “You want to get fucked by some stranger on Christmas Eve? Right here, in this shit hole apartment?”

He saw a small twitch at the corner of her mouth and she inhaled as best she could while he was choking her. Five could feel the intense heat pulsing off her body again, just like when they were out in the snow. She looked him directly in the eyes and nodded.

The one ounce of resolve he had left in him to not let his lust for this woman take over in any way dissolved immediately with that nod.

“Shit,” he cursed to himself in between his heavy panting.

Her head was slammed back into the cupboards behind her as Five moved his hand to the back of her neck and kissed her brutally, his other hand sliding roughly up her skirt and onto her hip, where his fingers dug into her skin.

Five leaned down and sucked a dark bruise on to the delicious looking indentation next to her collarbone. He heard her hissing inhale from his teeth scraping against her and he let up, grabbing a handful of her hair.

“I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into here, honey. Because I’m not the nice guy you think I am.” He kissed her roughly before pulling away again. One hand was still in her hair while his other traveled around the font of her skirt and he pressed his entire hand between her legs, pushing his palm hard against her until he heard her let out a little moan. “You are going to get fucked hard and rough, and I’m going to come inside of you because I don’t really give a shit about anything anymore.”

It hadn’t been a question; his drunk self just blurted it out there. He waited for her to tell him to drop dead, or to finally realize who she was dealing with and leave him alone for good. Instead, she reached down and pressed his hand in harder and smirked.

“It’s not nice to tease.”  

With a vicious smile that was more like a snarl, Five pressed his body into hers so that she could feel his hard on grinding into her thigh. He left more bruises over her neck as he eagerly bit and sucked at her skin.

“Get these fucking panties off.”

With one hand he yanked the tiny red and white striped underpants down, letting them fall to the floor while he started fingering her under her skirt. He watched with satisfaction as her eyelids fell closed and she tipped her head back with a low groan.

He wasn’t gentle with her, but she seemed to like it, and even in his inebriated state he knew what he was doing. Five pushed his groin into her again, rubbing himself against her while he stroked the soft, wet folds between her legs. She was starting to roll her hips into his hand, urging him on with the way she was panting, her chest heaving and her breasts pushed up against his chest.

When Five began finger fucking her, hard with two fingers, her moans came out louder and she thrust her hips into him.

“Ohhh…yes,” she whined, her hands clutching the edge of the countertop.

With another growling noise, Five pulled his hand away, leaving her gasping for air. He ripped open the front of her shirt, the buttons pulling apart and exposing her breasts. The bra she had on was striped just like her underwear. He pushed the shirt the rest of the way down her arms and let it fall off of her.

“Let’s see those tits you’ve been shoving in my face.”

Five reached around and unhooked her bra, throwing it on the ground. The sight of her perfectly round breasts displayed before him was too much and he let out a pathetic noise from deep down in his throat. He couldn’t wait any longer, he needed to fuck this girl and he needed to fuck her now. Candy watched, breathing hard, as he unzipped his pants the rest of the way.

“Fuck, Five…I knew you would have a big package to load into my sleigh.”

He was filled with nothing but rage and lust when he pulled her forcibly by her hips, shoving her skirt up around her waist. With one hand he began stroking his straining cock while the other grabbed her hair again, pulling her head back so she was forced to look at him. Her mouth gaped open and her rapid breaths were loud and rasping.

“Tell me you want this,” he demanded through clenched teeth.

She nodded as best she could with his fist in her hair. He shook her slightly and her head hit the cupboard again, the bells on her headband jingling.

“You haven’t shut up all fucking night, so don’t stop now, sweetheart. Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

“I want you to fuck me,” she whimpered quietly as one side of her mouth turned up in a half smile.

Five let go of her hair and positioned himself carefully, using his hand to slip the head of his cock inside of her. She sucked in a sharp gasp at the same time that Five sneered in her face.

“I am going to ruin you.”

The first hard thrust all of the way inside pushed her back and she cried out while grabbing onto his shoulders for support. Five had her hips and ass held tight in his hands as he began to pound into her hot, wet core. Candy’s headband continued to jangle pleasantly each time the back of her head hit the cupboard behind her.

“Fuuuck,” Five groaned out.

“Oh my god you’re good at this,” she moaned. “Keep fucking me like I’m your ho ho ho,” she added with a smile as her head bounced off the cupboard in time with each ‘ho’; those god damn bells ringing.

“Shut. Up.” Five panted. Then he reached up and grabbed her headband, flinging it across the room, the bells making one final, sad tinkling sound as they hit the linoleum. “Jesus, I hate that thing.”

Candy’s laugh was quickly cut off by another desperate moan as Five banged into her over and over again and she clutched at his shoulders. In contrast to his apparent anger and viciousness towards her, he couldn’t help pulling her closer. He liked her impossibly warm skin and the weight of her body on his. He began to kiss her mouth, hard and hungry, sucking at her lips and tasting her tongue on his. She was delicious, like her name, and he kept going back for more until he was clutching her against him and feeling the soft skin of her cheek under his palm and her firm tits pressed against his bare chest.

“Whatever you’re doing to me, stop it,” he begged her as his lips grazed over the corner of her mouth.

“It’s not me, this time. This is all you, daddy.”

“Oh, fuck…I like that,” he groaned into her neck.

“I know you do,” she smirked.

He was still drilling into her hard and fast, and Five could tell that he was doing something she liked because she finally shut the fuck up. The only sounds he heard were the slamming of his body into hers and her whines and cries that were getting louder and more pleading. Her fingers were digging into his skin and her head was thrown back.

“Yes…please,” she gasped in between more of his voracious kisses.

He felt her release against him as she clung to his body with her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands on his back. Her body seemed to give off a shimmering glow as she climaxed and she felt even warmer to the touch, her hot walls pulsing around his dick.

Five picked up his pace, slamming even more violently into her as he chased his own high. He felt like he wanted to break her, to crack her open with each thrust of his hips. He wasn’t even angry at her anymore, but she was the outlet for his chronic rage and he poured every ounce of it into her. It was unrelenting as he shamelessly used her as a way to get his rocks off and maybe a little relief from the constant ache of resentment he felt every day.

The aggression and ferocity kept building until finally Five couldn’t take it. He was barely aware of her existence anymore, just mindlessly penetrating her over and over again. His own orgasm came hard, and he did exactly what he said he was going to, coming inside of her with no warning. Sweating, shuddering, and with a final long, low grunt, he finished unloading into her and fell limply against her body.

“Damn it,” Five groaned sadly under his breath as he rested his forehead against his shitty cabinet door, her hair brushing against his cheek.

He was still breathing heavily, but he wasn’t pent up with rage anymore. He felt the inevitable shame washing over him like a thick, creeping fog. He had let his anger and fear get the best of him, and he had taken it out on her. When he felt Candy’s fingers threading lightly through his hair at the back of his neck, he flinched and drew back, pulling out of her and stepping away.

He immediately zipped his pants back up and pushed his hair off his face. He was having a hard time looking her in the eyes, but he watched as she hopped casually down from the counter to retrieve her bra and panties that had been thoughtlessly discarded on the floor. Once she had them back on again, she stepped closer to Five. He had no choice but to look at her.

“Wow,” she breathed out with a satisfied smile. Her eyebrows creased together when she saw his expression. “What’s wrong?”

Five wasn’t sure how to answer that question, considering it seemed pretty fucking obvious to him. He looked away from her again, turning back to the bottle of bourbon on the counter. With a shaky hand, he poured more into his empty glass. Then he felt her hand on his arm and he turned back around.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Five. I asked for something and you gave it to me. I know you were mad, but that’s ok. That’s what I’m here for. To make you feel better.”

“That’s what you’re here for? Jesus, what kind of fucked up thing is that to say?”

She sighed. “See, this is exactly why I needed to come down here. You think you’re this cold-hearted, uncaring person, but I’ve seen the real you. And you have so much love inside you, Five. You just need to figure out how to let people see it.”

Five turned his back on her, bracing his hands on the counter so that the muscles in his back tensed and flexed and he let out a short, sarcastic laugh.

“How can you even say that, after…” His voice trailed off, too ashamed to finish the sentence.

She placed a hand on his back. “Can I show you more?”

“More what?” he asked miserably.

“Well, even though one of my objectives tonight was to take a ride on your Polar Express, that wasn’t my main one.”

Five rolled his eyes at her stupid innuendo, but he also had to fight down the smile he felt creeping up. He turned to face her again, crossing his arms over his chest.

“And now I suppose this is the point where you show me another vision or whatever it is and I come to some conclusion that life is just one big fucking ray of sunshine?”

Candy shrugged her bare shoulders, standing there in just her skirt and peppermint striped push-up bra. If Five had been in more of a romantic mood, he would have thought she looked adorable. Instead, he just rolled his eyes again, thankful that at least that fucking headband was gone.

She took another step towards him, prying one of his hands away and taking it in hers.

“Don’t you trust me?”

He shook his head slowly. “Not even a little.”

Chapter 3: I'll Stuff Your Stocking

With another soft smile, Candy placed her hand on the side of his face, just like she had done on the bridge. She leaned in to kiss him, so softly and sweetly that Five couldn’t stand how much he loved that feeling. Just like he had gotten lost in the sensation of kissing her while he roughly fucked her, he was losing himself again. He didn’t care about whatever it was she wanted to show him. He wanted to keep kissing her while her warm body was against his. There was something comforting about it and he let himself relax into her.

When he opened his eyes, he and Candy were fully dressed again, standing in another warmly lit home, with her hand clasped in his. He shook off the strangely familiar feeling of teleportation and glanced around. He knew exactly where they were and he let out a disappointed groan.

“Here?” he asked, turning to Candy with a pointedly annoyed look. “Ok, I get it. I’m a big jerk that everyone hates. Can we go now?”

Candy shook her head with a smile, and Five noticed the fucking bells were back on her head.

“Sorry, that’s not how it works.” When she saw his unamused face, she laughed. “Hey, I don’t make the rules, I just carry them out.”

Five reluctantly turned back to the scene before him. It was happening in real time, on that same night, and he watched his entire family as they gathered around Diego and Lila’s small but cozy living room.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath and he felt Candy squeeze his hand.

“So, why isn’t Uncle Five here again?” Grace asked, as they all took seats and she sat on the floor surrounded by presents.

“He is just very busy, sweetie, that’s all,” Luther lied.

Diego and Lila exchanged eye rolls behind their daughter’s back.

"I’m sure you’ll see him soon. Now, why don’t you go ahead and open up the presents everyone brought for you?” Diego said.

Distracted by the presents from her other uncles, Grace started tearing into the paper while everyone watched. Five felt a stabbing sensation in his chest, knowing she was asking about him and he hadn’t even had the decency to show up.

He and Candy watched as the little girl opened each gift, and each time she held one up to show everyone, Five would scoff, growing increasingly agitated.

“Barbies? Please. She doesn’t even like dolls!”

“She already has Candy Land! I know because I bought it for her two years ago. She cheats, by the way.”

“Pink fuzzy bunny slippers. Ok, Klaus, you’re supposed to pick out things for her, not you. Gracie hates pink. She likes purple.”

Five was getting more and more worked up as Grace continued to open her ill-thought-out gifts. He was gesturing wildly to the scene in front of them and looking over to Candy in disbelief.

“Oh for fucks sa—are you seeing this? Dr. Seuss books? Her reading level is much too advanced for those.”

Candy stood silently next to Five, watching his reactions with her usual smile. Grace finished opening her presents and thanked and hugged everyone politely. But Five could see she was secretly disappointed.

Candy finally piped up. “Too bad you aren’t there to give her your gift. You seem to know her the best.”

Five huffed. “Well, it’s not that hard to figure out what a kid likes. All you have to do is pay attention once in a while. Dumbasses.”

“What did you get her again?”

Five hesitated. “A telescope. I told her how I used to look at the stars every night when it was just me and Dolores and she said she wanted me to show her. I was going to take her outside of the city so we could see them better.”

Candy nodded. “When were you planning on doing that? Before or after your very busy plans of getting black-out drunk all by yourself?”

Five’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything. What could he possibly say? She was right. He had no excuse as to why he wasn’t there with his family and doting on his niece like he loved to do. Only that he was a selfish asshole.

“Alright, so are we done here?”

Candy shrugged, and Five noticed the bruises he had left on her neck and chest were gone. “That’s up to you. Have you seen enough?”

Five turned back to his family. Grace had already slipped away from the group of adults, leaving her new gifts on the floor untouched. He was about to tell Candy that he had seen enough, when he realized his siblings were talking about him.

“…couldn’t take ten minutes out of his busy schedule of tossing off to mannequin catalogs to hang out with his family?”

Five flipped Lila off, even though he knew she couldn’t see him.

“I don’t know, I feel bad for him. He’s been through a lot.”

Surprisingly, Luther was defending him. Then Klaus spoke up.

“I know, but haven’t we all? And we’ve somehow managed to get on with life.”

“Yeah, but we have each other. He doesn’t have anyone,” Diego added.

Lila snorted. “Well, he could have if he tried even a little bit. It’s like he loves being a miserable little shit.”

“I do want him to be happy, though,” said Viktor.

Klaus sighed and nodded. “Yeah, me too. It’s just too bad he can’t let himself. I’m not sure the old man even knows how anymore.”

After that, the subject switched to something else and Five was left standing there with a dull ache throbbing in his chest.

“That’s enough,” he said quietly to Candy.

She nodded and took his hand again. The room started to shimmer and then disappear altogether. In a second, they were back in Five’s apartment. Candy was back to wearing nothing but her skirt and bra, her red headband lying on the floor where Five had so rudely flung it. Five was wearing just his pants, which only brought back the shame he had been feeling earlier. Shame heaped on top of shame.

“I thought you said you were supposed to make me feel better.”

“I am!”

“Well, then you’re terrible at your job because I feel shittier than before. Maybe you need to go back and take a guardian angel refresher course.”

Candy laughed. Because of course she would. “I’m sorry, Five, really. But can’t you see how your family just wants you to be happy? And little Grace…she loves you so much.”

Five nodded and leaned against his kitchen counter, hands braced behind him. “Yeah, I heard. And that’s great. But I just don’t know –” his voice trailed off and he looked away from her.

“What?”

“I don’t know how.”

“To be happy?”

Five nodded.

“Five, everyone has the ability to be happy. Some people just have to work for it a little bit more than others. But I have no doubt in my mind that you could be if you just tried.”

Five flung his hands up in frustration. “You keep saying that! How can I try to be happy? That makes no sense. You either are or you aren’t. It’s not like I can wake up in the morning and say ‘Gee, I think I’ll be happy today!’”

“Actually, that’s exactly what you can do.”

Five sighed angrily, but stayed quiet. She obviously didn’t know what she was talking about, and was the world’s worst guardian angel. Amazing body; terrible angel.

“What do you think Dolores would say?”

Eyes flashing and jaw set, he glared at Candy. “Don’t talk about Dolores,” he warned.

“I’m just saying, maybe if you listened to her –”

“STOP! RIGHT NOW!” he shouted, his voice loud enough to make ripples in the bottle of bourbon next to him.

Candy put her hands on her hips, tipping her head back and exhaling loudly. A piece of her dark hair floated upwards from her exasperated breath. With her head back like that, Five could see the love bites he’d left on her neck, renewing his guilt.

“Wow, you are making my job difficult,” she spoke out loud, to him and to whoever else was listening above.

When she looked back at him, her normal smile returned and she let her arms relax at her sides.

“Ok, how about this? You take some time to reflect on things, while I go take a much needed nap in your bed.”

“A nap? Now?”

“Yes. You are very exhausting,” she huffed. Then she smiled and winked at him, reaching out to run a hand down his arm. “In more ways than one.”

As she sauntered past him, towards his bedroom, Five continued to stand in one spot, thoroughly confused. Just when he thought he had her figured out, she’d trip him up again. He had shouted at her, insulted her, and angrily banged her into his yellow, Formica countertop. And what had she done? Nothing. Nothing but continue to be sweet, and encouraging, and sexy. Damn, she was sexy. But why was she still here? He just didn’t understand.

After a few minutes, Five wandered over to his bedroom doorway. Candy was under the covers, lying on her stomach with her head on his pillow, on the side of the bed he normally reserved for himself. He tried not to let that little fact irritate him, though. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing soft and rhythmically.

"Why are you here?” Five asked out loud.

Candy opened her eyes slowly and smiled when she saw him standing there.

“What do you mean? You know why I’m here.”

“I mean, why are you still here? I’ve been awful to you. I threatened to kill you, I screamed at you. Nothing I’ve done has been nice. And you’re still here. Why?”

She propped her head up on one hand. “Those things don’t bother me.”

Five took a few steps into his room, closer to the bed. “They don’t bother you? How?”

“Because I told you, Five. I know you. The real you. And I know you don’t mean any of those things. I’m not scared of you.”

As he was mulling that over, he came and sat on the opposite side of the bed. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“I know.”

He looked at her, lying there in his bed, looking serene and peaceful despite everything that had happened. “Really, Candy, I am sorry. I’ve treated you like crap and you don’t deserve that. Even if I still think you’re a lunatic.”

She laughed and nodded her head. “It’s ok.”

With another, longer look at her, the sheet hanging loosely over her, he realized something. “Are you naked?”

Candy giggled and nodded. “All guardian angels sleep naked. We generate a lot of heat, so it’s much more comfortable that way.”

Five blinked a few times and swallowed. Apparently being sorry for treating someone like shit did not deter instant boners when that someone was a beautiful woman lying naked in your bed. He shifted, pulling at the crotch of his pants.

"I guess it’s a good thing that I got you as my angel instead of a 300lb hairy man.”

“Ah, that would be Todd. I actually fought him for this job. So, you’re welcome.”

Five wasn’t entirely sure if she was kidding or not, but then she laughed at his confused face, which made him smile in return. He still sat there on the edge of the bed.

“So, are you going to keep me company under these covers, or do you want to just sit there in your uncomfortably tight pants?”

“Only if that’s what you want.”

She nodded.

With a grin, Five stood up and shed his pants while Candy looked him over with an approving smile. He slid into bed, close to her so that he could run a hand gently down her back and over her tight butt. She was still lying on her stomach and she wriggled under his touch.

“What, no clever Christmas-themed sexual innuendo, this time?” he teased.

“I can’t think of any good ones right now.”

“Hmmm…” Five leaned in close, his hand resting on the small of her back. “How about I stuff your stocking and give you some of my special eggnog?”

Candy burst out laughing, burying her face in the pillow, before looking back at his smirking face. “I knew you were funny! See, you just need to loosen up a little.”

He looked thoughtful as he continued to trace soft lines down her shoulders and back with his fingertips. When he pushed her long hair off to the side, he saw what he hadn’t been able to before. Two angel wing tattoos, intricately drawn on each of her shoulder blades. He let out a soft laugh as he touched each one lightly.

“So, what did you have to do to earn these?”

“Nothing. Standard issue.”

“I thought guardian angels were supposed to do something special to earn their wings. You know, like every time a bell rings…”

She shook her head with a smile. “Nope. That’s just in the movies. We all have them. This is just my Earth version. My real wings would look a little too obvious down here.”

He looked at her dubiously, with one eyebrow raised. “Then what do you get if you successfully turn me into a believer?”

“I get to stay.”

“Stay where?”

“Here. On Earth.”

He let out a loud, short laugh. “Why in the hell would you want to stay here?”

She shrugged. “I like it here. You have the ocean, and the sun. Rain, trees, snow, buildings, cars, people. Oh! And the food! It’s all so wonderful!”

Now Five really thought she was bat-shit crazy, but he didn’t comment. She continued.

“It’s an incredibly difficult wish to have granted, though. That’s why they gave me you. Or rather, I chose you.”

“And why is that? What’s so special about me?”

Candy smiled coyly, shifting her body over so that she was pressing Five back into the mattress by his shoulders. She climbed on top of him, straddling his thighs and letting the covers fall off of her.

“Because you, Five Hargreeves…” she rocked her hips into him and he groaned. “…are a very hard man to please.” She rubbed herself against him again, sliding her wet heat over his cock.

Five grabbed her hips and she straightened herself, allowing him to see her fully naked body on top of him. He let out a stuttering breath.

“Well, I’m pretty fucking pleased right now. Does this count?”

She shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid not. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun in the meantime.”

After reaching up to cup each breast, rubbing his thumb over her stiff nipples and watching her throw her head back, Five ran his hands slowly down her sides. He loved the softness of her skin and the curves of her body; the intense heat that got stronger with her arousal. He desperately wanted to feel himself inside of her again, but without all of the anger and malice that he had projected onto her the last time.

“If you kiss me, will you make me see things again?”

“No. Not this time.”

Five nodded. “Then kiss me,” he whispered. "Please."

When she leaned over him, she paused for just a moment, an inch from his mouth, and then her lips met his as he closed his eyes. His hand caressed the side of her face and his fingers found their way into her long hair. This time there was no anger or violence; no screaming urge to drive her away or control her. He just wanted to keep kissing her, to touch her hot skin, and feel the weight of her body on top of his. He hadn’t realized it before, but it felt so good with her naked body pressed to his. There was something comforting about it. And he was so rarely comforted.

Five wasn’t sure when she had adjusted herself so that his cock was sliding inside of her again, but her hips were moving in a steady rhythm against his, her sex so hot and wet that he was positive he’d never felt anything so amazing in his entire life.

She moved her mouth to the side of his neck, still slowly riding him, as he breathed loudly into the sweet scent of her hair.

“Five,” she whined, drawing his name out as her lips brushed across his skin.

“Oh, fuck…” He knew he had a tendency for arrogance, but he never realized just how much he loved hearing his name moaned next to his ear while he was being fucked. But he could say for absolute certainty now that he would not get tired of hearing it.

His hands were on her hips again, urging her to ride him faster and harder, all while her chest remained flush with his. Their soft kisses had turned into hungry ones, and Five latched onto the creamy skin next to her collarbone again, sucking another purple mark onto it.

“I want to give you what you want. Just tell me,” he panted, his breath hot on her already flaming skin.

“I need you in deeper, Five. I want more of you.”

“Sit up.”

Candy took the direction, pulling herself away from Five’s mouth and neck, and sat up, sinking deeper down onto his cock. Five’s strong hands pushed her down further, harder, and he thrust his hips up to meet hers.

“Oh fuck yes !” she yelled, letting him roughly guide her body.

Grasping hands; fingers digging into hot, damp skin; the sound of the bed slamming into the wall, and her desperate moans and cries were mixing together into one erotic symphony as Five drove into her again and again. It was the most blissful experience he’d ever had. He couldn’t even remember why he was so angry towards her earlier. Oh right, she claimed to be a celestial being, wouldn’t shut up, and broke into his apartment. Well, right now he didn’t care about any of that. Right now, he watched her amazingly tight body rock back and forth on top of him, his dick buried deep inside her.

“You feel so goddamn good right now. Maybe you’re my guardian angel after all.”

She let out a breathy laugh and bit her bottom lip as she continued to ride him.

“That’s another reason I want to stay here…fuuck…the sex here is…oh god, yes, do more of that…amazing…ah shit, Five!”

With a long wail of pleasure, Candy tipped her head back, mouth open, as she came undone. Five watched her face, lost in ecstasy; took in her body that was writhing and shuddering on top of his; felt her tight cunt pulsing around him. The arrogant, asshole part of him that lived inside his brain was practically gloating over the fact that he was the one responsible for all of it, too. And, fuck, if that wasn’t the final push he needed to be filling her up with his cum again, groaning through a clenched jaw as he pressed his fingers further into her flesh.

Afterwards, they laid there in silence, Candy’s head next to his on the pillow as she smiled over at him and let out a contented sigh, stretching her body out long like a cat warming itself in a sunbeam. Five laid on his back, staring at the ceiling, a million thoughts running through his head. That old feeling of guilt was creeping back in again.

“I really am sorry,” he said quietly. “For earlier.”

“And I already said it’s ok.”

He tapped his fingers on his bare chest, as one of the many nagging thoughts in his brain surfaced again. “Candy, how old are you?”

She let out a giggle that she quickly suppressed. “Are you worried that you’ve taken advantage of an impressionable, young woman that’s half your age?”

Five looked over in surprise, and then remembered that she seemed to know everything about him. Even things no one should know. So, of course, she would know his true age.

“That’s a bit of a concern of mine, yes.”

“Well, if anyone is taking advantage of anyone in this scenario it’s me with you.”

“How so?”

“We don’t really have years like they do down here, but if I were to guess, I’d probably be around 390.”

Five raised his eyebrows at her and let out a disbelieving laugh. “390 years old.”

Candy stretched out languidly again, showing off her body that could not have been more than 22 years old by the looks of it. After a yawn, she nodded. “Yep. I’m the ultimate cougar, aren’t I?” She laughed at her own joke.

With a shake of his head, Five let out a soft sigh. He was not even sure why he bothered. Every time she answered one of his questions, it only created more. In the matter of a few hours, he had gone through about every emotion in his inventory, and he still didn’t understand what was going on. Just a couple of hours earlier, he had threatened to kill this woman. He had held a loaded gun to her head. And now, here she was, lying naked next to him in his bed, as comfortable as could be. The even weirder part was that Five felt comfortable, too. He had no panicky urge to kick her out with some lame excuse; no sudden need to get up and shower, remaining aloof until she left on her own.

He liked her. He thought. Or maybe she drugged him again, who the fuck knows? Whatever was going on was strange, to say the least. He looked back over at her, and she had fallen asleep. If this little game of visions they were playing was going to continue, then that meant there would be one more. The future, he supposed. He laughed quietly to himself. Jesus, what was wrong with him?

He laid there for a while, thinking, and watching her sleep. He wasn’t tired, though, so eventually, after covering her gently with a blanket, he slipped out of bed. In the bathroom, he washed his face and looked in the mirror. He thought about what Candy had said. “What would Dolores say?” Well, he thought, what would she say? If he wanted to depress himself even more, he’d realize he could literally ask her right then. She was there, staring him in the face as he looked at his reflection. He wasn’t stupid. He knew the love of his life had been just a branch of his subconscious. Created for the sole purpose of not going completely insane. Five wasn’t sure that had worked entirely, though. Just look at him now.

“She’d say you’re being an asshole.” He spoke out loud to the mirror. “She’d tell you to stop being a whiny cry baby all the time and try to be grateful for once.” Five ran a hand down his face. “She’d tell you to stop drinking so much. And maybe be nice to people. Even if they are idiots. And to stop closing yourself off to your family.”

He sighed. Then he looked down at the chipped porcelain sink and smiled to himself.

“As usual, my darling, you are right about everything.”

As Candy slept, Five sat in the dark of his apartment, in his underwear, and thought. He had poured himself another bourbon, more out of habit than anything else, but then thought better of it and dumped it down the sink. He’d had more than enough to drink that night. So, he’d chosen water instead, and sat in the worn armchair in his living room, staring out at the skyline.

He normally hated looking out that window. When he had moved in, he had asked if they had anything on the ground floor, but the only availability was on the sixth. So, every day he had to stare out into the world that he supposed he was partially responsible for creating. In the very far distance, he could make out the obnoxious search lights that circled the night sky from the roof of his father’s skyscraper. He would listen to the sounds of the police sirens wailing continually, the constant roar of choppers overhead as they completed their nightly rounds. Each one of the vehicles were emblazoned with his father’s HE logo, since he owned the law, too. Most nights he would slam the blinds down so he wouldn’t have to look at it.

But Five was tired of being angry and resentful. He was tired of being a miserable, crabby old fart, as Lila had said. He was exhausted, actually. So, maybe it was time to take Candy and Dolores’ advice and move on. Be grateful for the things he did have. Be happy for once.

Chapter 4: White Christmas

Five was still sitting there an hour later when Candy came strolling in from the bedroom. She had thrown on one of Five’s white t-shirts, with it barely covering the striped panties she had put back on. She hadn’t bothered with a bra, and Five could make out the faint outline of her nipples through the material. When she walked over to him, she smiled and sat down in his lap, putting an arm around his shoulder.

“What are you doing out here all alone?”

“Just thinking,” he mused, while looking her delicious looking body up and down.

“Good, you need to think. Thanks for letting me sleep, though.”

Five’s hand immediately began stroking her bare legs and not-so-subtly trying to grind up onto her tight little butt.

“I guess that means you have more energy now?” His hand crept up higher, onto her hip. “Why don't you let me do something about that.”

He gave her a playful nip to her neck and she giggled. He was starting to like that sound. Better than the bells, anyway.

“That is very tempting, and I can tell, or rather feel , that you are ready for another round of ‘Hide the Yule Log’, but we can’t do that just yet.”

Five frowned. “You can’t expect me to behave when you come in wearing nothing but my t-shirt and drop into my lap like this.”

She laughed. “I know, I’m rotten. I do like seeing you squirm, though.”

Five would rather be squirming into her underpants, but considering his earlier transgressions, he decided to behave. That didn’t mean he had to stop running his hand up and down her smooth thigh, though.

“You’re going to make me see things again, aren’t you?”

Candy nodded. “It’s time.”

“Please don’t make me do this again.”

His voice had come out soft and the words caught in his throat. He looked away out of embarrassment.

“Why not?”

“Because if you’re going to show me the future, I’d rather not see it.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m scared,” he croaked out. “I don’t exactly have a good track record with seeing future events. Or future versions of myself, for that matter.”

She smiled sadly, but nodded, tracing her fingers lightly over his lips. “I know, but it’s ok. You need to see it.”

“I don’t need to. I get it. I’m an old, ungrateful bastard that needs to let people in more and live a happier life. See? I don’t need this part. I figured it out already.”

“That’s not really how this works,” Candy argued.

Five let out a frustrated groan. “Who cares? I learned my lesson, end of story. Now, why don’t you give me my shirt back and we can do something much more fun.”

He leaned in to kiss her and she held him back with a hand on his chest, shaking her head.

“Later. Right now, I need to show you.”

Five inhaled a deep breath and swallowed hard, giving her a small nod of assent. “Ok.”

Another soft kiss, another pulling sensation over his body. When Five looked up, they were back in Diego and Lila’s living room. It was the same house, but things were different. Different furniture, wall paint, and light fixtures. He was about to ask Candy if she screwed up, but then there were voices and his brother and Lila entered the room.

They had aged, that much was clear. By how many years Five wasn’t sure, but there were deep wrinkles in their foreheads and around their eyes. Diego’s hair had streaks of gray running through it.

“We don’t have to invite him, you know. It’s not required.”

Diego sighed and put his hands on his hips, addressing Lila. “He’s my brother. We kind of do.”

“Well, by that logic, do you want to send off an invitation to good old Reggie, too? Just because he’s your adopted brother, doesn’t mean you owe him anything. Besides, do you even know if the little shit stain is still alive? We haven’t seen him in like, what? At least three years.”

Five balked at that. They hadn’t seen him in three years? How was that possible?

There was another long sigh from Diego and he shook his head. “I guess I just assume he is. The old bastard is hard to kill.”

Lila crossed her arms and looked at him in the pointed way that hadn’t changed in so many years. “And do you really want another incident like Grace’s college graduation?”

“No, of course not. But maybe he’s changed; maybe he’s better now.”

“Diego!” Lila threw her arms up and looked at him in disbelief. “The man showed up hammered drunk, interrupted the commencement speaker to yell at them about how wrong they were, and then proceeded to upchuck in the parking lot in front of all of Grace's friends! I highly doubt he’s just miraculously better now.”

Diego nodded in agreement.

“And it’s not like that’s the only time. Remember that Thanksgiving when she was in high school? He drank all the wine and passed out on the floor in the living room? All in front of her boyfriend? She was so embarrassed.” Lila’s voice softened and she put a hand on Diego’s arm. “You tried your best. We all did. But you can’t change someone that doesn’t want to be changed.”

“You’re right. It’s probably for the best that we don't invite him. I wouldn’t want anything horrible like that to happen at her wedding. Besides, I don’t think she will want him there, either.”

Five’s insides were churning and the tightening sensation in his chest was making it hard to breathe. He looked over at Candy, who was watching him with a pitying look on her face.

“This can’t be real. I would never do those things. Ever! Especially not to Grace.”

Candy shook her head sadly. “I know you don’t think you would. But it’s a slippery slope from where you are now.”

Five shook his head, refusing to believe it. There was no way he’d ever let himself stoop so low. Would he? And they weren’t even going to invite him to Grace’s wedding? He clutched at his stomach.

“No. There’s no way. This did not happen.”

“But it has happened. This is the future. Unless you do something to change it.”

Five was silent for a moment, taking that in. “Lila said they weren’t sure I was still alive.” He turned to Candy again. “Am I?”

“Well, see for yourself.”

There was more shimmering around them, the living room fading away as it was replaced with a different scene. As it came into view, Five could see that it was his apartment. Or, at least a version of his apartment. It looked like many years had gone by and it had fallen into disrepair. The paint was peeling on the walls, the window looked like it had been broken at one point and was now half-hidden behind some plastic held up with duct tape. The kitchen was falling apart, with cabinet doors hanging crooked on their hinges, and the faucet dripping continually into the old, stainless-steel sink.

The television was on, tuned to some news station. The anchor was talking about the upcoming New Year’s Eve gala that was held every year inside Reginald Hargreeves’ tower. Only the very elite of the city were invited, of course, but that’s not what Five was focusing on. It was the date. He was looking twenty years into the future.

If that were true, that meant he’d been living in the same shit hole for two decades? And it really was a shit hole now. The place looked like it should be condemned.

Just as Five was about to question Candy, there was a groaning sound coming from the beat up couch in front of the tv. A figure slowly hoisted themselves up and ran a hand through their graying hair. He couldn’t see his face, but Five was pretty sure he knew who it was.

“Shut the fuck up! Fucking Hargreeves bullshit.”

Five watched as his older self grumbled out loud at the tv, standing up to turn in their direction. His heart sank. How many times was he going to have to face his future self? Of all the versions so far, however, this one might have been the worst. He should have only been in his early forties, but he looked about eighty. Even his 100-year-old self had looked marginally better.

With thinning hair and a prematurely aged face that looked like it hadn’t been shaved in several days, the older version stumbled into the kitchen, scrounging in the cupboards. Five noticed that his clothes were wrinkled and stained, like he’d been wearing them for days at a time. In fact, he looked like he hadn’t showered in about that long, too. His expensive clothes that he was normally proud of were now thread bare; his dress shirt looking more yellow than white.

Once he finally found the bottle of cheap whiskey he had been searching for, his older self poured a large glass and then wandered back to the couch again.

Five looked to Candy, his face horror-struck. “This can’t be…how could I live like this?”

“It’s pretty sad, isn’t it?”

Five nodded guiltily. The other version was mumbling out loud to himself and Five listened to his own voice croaking out of the pile of detritus that was his older body.

“Yes, I know what you said, but this is the last one for the night, I swear.” There was a pause. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about. This is only my second one.” Another pause and a heavy sigh. “Alright, Dolores. Whatever you say.”

Holy shit. He was back to talking to Dolores? And he didn’t even have a solid, mannequin version of her to at least give some realness to it. He was just mumbling to himself; like a crazy person.

Five closed his eyes and shook his head like he was trying to erase this vision from his memory, but of course that didn’t work, and he turned to Candy, his eyes wide with fright.

“Stop it. Please, I can’t stand this. This can’t be me. Change it back,” he pleaded.

“I can’t do that, Five. Only you can change it.”

“Fine. I’m sorry, ok? I’m sorry for all the ways I’ve fucked up over the years, and all of the horrible things I’ve done. I’m sorry!”

She shook her head, the bells on her headband jangling sadly. “I know you’re sorry. But that’s not enough to change things.”

“Well then what the fuck! I…I can’t let this happen. It’s such a…”

“What, Five?”

Five’s eyes filled with tears and his voice broke. “A fucking waste of a life! After everything I have done. I did not spend 45 years in a fucking wasteland to save my family and the world, just to end up as a sad, old drunk all alone. I worked too hard for it to end like this. Why didn’t I appreciate what I had? Why did I pull away from my family?” He shook his head. “No, this is not going to happen. I refuse to go out like this. I have to make it right. Starting now, I’m going to make this right.”

Candy smiled warmly and pulled him in close. She kissed his cheek and put her arms around his shoulders. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

When they were back in Five’s apartment, even though it looked the same as usual and in better shape than the future version, he still couldn’t help but cringe. He needed to find a new place, and soon, that was for certain.

Candy was not on his lap anymore, but sitting across from him in another chair. She was still wearing his t-shirt and nothing else, but Five wasn’t really focused on that at the moment. She leaned forward, her forearms resting on her legs.

“Please tell me we’re done. That was horrible and I never want to see that again,” Five begged.

“You won’t have to. As long as you change and don’t let yourself become that version.”

He nodded and exhaled a long and shaky breath. “I won’t. I’m going to stop being such a prick and start living my life.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to forget everything he’d seen, and then glanced at the clock on the wall. It was still the middle of the night. Too early, or late, to really do anything now. But first thing in the morning, Christmas morning, he was going to start making things right. Five looked back to Candy.

“Even though I hated all of that, you helped me see what I really needed to see. So, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Does this mean you believe in guardian angels now?”

Five narrowed his eyes, a smile quirking up the corner of his mouth. “I guess I have to, don’t I? I have no other explanation.”

Candy laughed and clapped her hands together, then pumped her fists in the air. “Yes! Ha! I knew I could make you believe!”

Five laughed along with her, that horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach starting to fade away. Then he quieted again and looked at her thoughtfully.

“So, does this mean you’re leaving now? Now that your job is done?”

She shrugged, and Five found he didn’t find that little mannerism nearly as annoying as he used to.  “Yes, eventually. But I don’t have to leave this very minute.” She smiled and spread her legs just enough so that Five could get a glimpse of the red and white stripes between them. “Why? Have something in mind?”

“Well, I figured I have a few more hours before I have to start being a better person. Might as well make the most of it.”

Candy stood up and crossed over, plopping herself in his lap again, making sure to wiggle her butt over just the right spot to get him hard again.

“And just what naughty thing were you thinking?”

Five smiled slyly. “It is after midnight; technically Christmas.” He leaned in to kiss her neck, not hard like before, but gently; trailing his lips over her hot skin, teasing, until he heard her make a little sighing noise and she shifted in his lap, rubbing against the growing tent in his boxers. His hand crept back up her leg and onto her hip, where he slipped one finger into the waistband of her underwear. “And since you’re sitting here on my lap, grinding your cute little ass into my crotch, why don’t you go ahead and tell Daddy what you want?”

Her breath hitching in her throat, Candy closed her eyes for a moment, teeth digging into her bottom lip before looking back at him, her breasts rising and falling with each labored breath. She grazed a finger down his neck and over his chest.

“Will you give me anything I want?” she purred with a smile.

“Anything.”

“Then I want you to bend me over…” she kissed his lips softly, “…grab my hips…” another kiss, “…spread me open…” one bite under his jaw, “…and give me a White Christmas, Daddy .” With the last word she pressed into him harder.

“Jesus Chri—” he started to moan, but he was cut off.

She was kissing him. Slow and deep, lacing her fingers through his hair while he swallowed each whimper and moan she breathed into his mouth. Five couldn’t stop his hands roaming over her body, her skin like hot silk under his fingers. Every part of her was a piece of heaven, maybe even literally, and he wanted to commit every curve to memory. She was still kissing him when he stood, picking her up with him, and carried her into his bedroom. When he placed her on his bed, she immediately yanked his stolen t-shirt over her head, propping herself on her elbows and displaying her flawless breasts.

After removing his own underwear, Five climbed onto the bed, kneeling between her legs. Leaning over her, his hands on either side of her and holding himself up, she was forced onto her back.

“I’m going to give you what you asked for, sweetheart, don’t worry. But first, I need to get a taste of this stunning body of yours. See if you live up to your name.”

He leaned in, like he was going to kiss her, stopping just before their lips met, and then he pulled away again. Flashing an overly-confident smirk, he moved south, massaging each breast and taking turns with each side; licking and sucking at each perfect nipple. Five could have spent an entire day just worshiping those soft mounds of flesh. He’d always considered himself a titty man. Tits and ass; that was his thing. As long as a woman had a nice rack and a tight ass, Five didn’t really care what else was going on with them. And fuck, did Candy have a nice one of each.

After a particularly hard bite onto her sensitive nipple, Candy gave a small shriek, but that only spurred Five on further. His bites got harder and he sucked at her skin until he left more marks all over her chest. With each one, though, her back would arch off the bed and she’d push her hips up into him.

“Five…” she pleaded softly.

“I know, sweetheart, I’ll get there. But these gorgeous tits are just too good to ignore.”

She threaded her fingers through his hair as he continued to blissfully torture her. “Please, just…I want your partridge in my pear tree!”

Five rolled his eyes and ignored her remark.

Candy hissed sharply as his teeth dragged across an already bruising mark. “Load up my one-horse open sleigh.”

He resisted the urge to laugh, and instead gave her a hard pinch on her already abused nipple.

“Ah!” she cried, digging her nails into his scalp. “But I need you! Stuff my Christmas turkey, frost my gingerbread house, eat my fruitcake, mmmph!”

Five clapped a hand over her mouth and raised himself up so he could look down on her face, his lips pressed into a thin line of annoyance. He could feel her smiling beneath his palm.

“Candy?”

“Hmm?”

“Shut up.”

After she nodded, he released his hand, and thankfully she did shut up for once. He knelt in front of her again, frowning as he started pulling her panties down her hips.

“And don’t ever wear these again. They just create more work for me.”

He shoved them the rest of the way off and flung them over his shoulder with a scowl as she laughed. Five took a moment to appreciate the fact that this amazingly stunning woman was stretched out before him, completely naked, and waiting for him to fuck her. She was dying for it, too. Chest heaving and hips twitching, it was a small miracle that Five wasn’t shoving his dick into her already. But he really did want to know what the rest of her tasted like.

When he ran his tongue up her wet slit, she thrusted up so hard that he had to forcefully hold her hips down so he wouldn’t get bucked off.

“Oh shit!” she cried out, her hands clutching the sheets underneath her as her head flung back. “Five, oh my god, that’s –”

She was cut off by her own high-pitched whine as Five sucked at her folds and her clit, using his tongue to penetrate her and hungrily lap up the slick wetness that was running out of her. He didn’t have much experience in eating anyone out, since most of his one-night stands got right down to the fucking with not much time for foreplay. Even though he was making it up as he went along, it seemed to be working in his favor, judging by the sounds she was making and the strength it took for him to hold her writhing body down.

When he felt her getting close; when she was panting loudly and moaning his name, he started drawing it out longer. He slowed down his pace, no longer devouring her, but licking languidly at her hole and pausing to kiss her inner thighs. He smiled when he heard the disappointed groan.

“Five…”

He stopped altogether and raised his head to look at her, one eyebrow raised and a crooked smile on his wet and shiny lips.

“Yeah?”

She exhaled loudly and tried to buck up into him again, but he was still holding her down. “Damn it…don’t stop now!”

“Why? Did you like that?”

“Fuck…Five, please.” Her desperate whine was on the verge of turning into an all out sob.

“Well, since you asked nicely.”

It didn’t take long after he was back on her before her moans turned into loud screams and her back was arching off the bed again. Five worked her into more and more of a frenzy as he felt her pulsing against him, coming against his mouth and soaking the sheets underneath them. He had started grinding himself into the mattress as his own arousal peaked, and Five was very afraid of blowing his load with his dick not even touching her.

He sat up and looked at her lying there with her hair in a mess around her, her chest flushed pink and littered with his bites and bruises, gasping for air from the intense orgasm that he gave her. Holy fuck, he needed to come.

Five moved up, straddling her waist as he clutched his straining dick in his hands.

“I want to fuck your tits,” he breathed out desperately.

Candy nodded eagerly and Five positioned himself so that his cock nestled in the valley of her cleavage and she pushed her breasts together, sheathing him in her warm skin.

“Oh fuck, yes,” he groaned out.

Straddling her chest, Five started thrusting hard and fast, all while he looked down so he didn’t miss out on the pornographic visual. His dick was so hard that the leaked pre-cum that was dripping steadily out smeared over his shaft and between her tits. Candy was massaging and squeezing them around him, running her thumbs over her nipples as he rutted into her. She was so soft and tight at the same time, and the feeling was so fucking good. So much better than when he used to try and use Dolores in the same manner. Back then, he’d had to envision a real live woman beneath him, but now it was very real and he was going to lose it in about ten seconds.

Not wanting to risk it by coming in her face, Five backed off, slipping out of her. Still kneeling over her, he grasped his rock-hard dick and jerked himself vigorously. He tipped his head back with a groan while he worked his fist over himself faster and faster until he was just on the precipice.

“Fuck, I’m going to come on you,” he groaned, as if that wasn’t already obvious.

He gave her the White Christmas she had asked for, painting her perfect tits with ropes of cum, covering her until it was sliding down her sides and onto the bed. Five continued to work himself over, each spasm seeming to create another spurt of semen that was strewn across her chest. When he was finally spent, he let go of himself and climbed off of her, flopping on his back in post-orgasmic bliss.

“Holy shit,” he murmured between ragged breaths.

After a minute, he looked over at Candy, who had propped herself up on her elbows and was watching him. The sight of her covered in his dripping load was quite possibly the hottest thing he’d ever seen, and if he had a few more minutes, he could probably use that image to get hard again. But that wouldn’t be very nice to leave her like that, and even he wasn’t that much of a selfish asshole.

“Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

When he returned with a washcloth, Five helped to clean her up.

“Sorry. I guess I didn’t really ask if that was ok.”

“No, you didn’t, but that’s ok. I like when you take charge.”

Five gave her a sexy smirk, but then it faltered with the realization that she was probably going to leave him soon.

“Do you have to go now?”

Candy hesitated, but then she shook her head. “Not quite yet. I can stay for a little longer…if that’s what you want.”

Five nodded, then pulled her into him, trapping her in his arms, her back flush with his chest as they laid side by side. Candy wiggled in closer and pressed her ass against him.

“Stay as long as you can, ok?” he whispered.

She squeezed his hand and placed it on her stomach. “Ok.”

With his free hand, he traced his fingers down her side and over her hip and thigh. She let out a soft sigh and relaxed into his chest. Five kissed her neck and her shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“You already thanked me.”

“This time I mean for everything. Thank you for making me see what I couldn’t before. But also, thank you for just being here. I didn’t realize how lonely I had become.”

“You’re welcome. And…I wish I could stay.”

He gave her another kiss to her neck and she closed her eyes. “Why can’t you?”

“There are rules. And I have to go back.”

“Will you ever come back?”

“If everything goes the way I want, then yes.”

Five pushed his groin that was already starting to harden again, into her firm backside. Candy let out a tiny moan and pushed back.

“Then I hope you find me,” he said softly against her skin.

“I think it would be very hard to stay away from you.”

He could feel her skin getting warmer again, and he moved so that his cock slid between her legs, brushing against her folds that were already wet for him.

His mouth sucked another mark onto the nape of her neck as he lowered his voice and his hand slid down to squeeze the inside of her thigh. “Do you want me again?”

“Yes,” she whimpered. She pressed backwards, slick running down her inner thighs and wetting his dick as he rubbed between them.

“God, I could keep fucking you all day,” he groaned.

“Just fuck me for as long as we have.”

With a deep growl, Five pulled her hard against him, as she lifted her leg and rested it on top of his. He inhaled sharply when she reached back and grabbed his cock, guiding it into her dripping cunt and thrusting backwards so that his full length was completely inside of her.

“Five,” she moaned sweetly as he rocked into her.

He kept up the slow pace, pulling at her hip and kissing any area of exposed skin that he could reach. He had wanted to hold himself back; to draw it out as long as possible. He had wanted to drink in the scent of her hair and trail his mouth over her soft skin. But then she moaned his name again.

Digging his fingers into her hip, he hissed next to her ear.

“Be a good girl and let Daddy fuck you hard, ok sweetheart?”

With the shamelessly loud groan that she released as her back arched against him, he really didn’t need an answer, but he waited for one anyway.

“Fuck yes. Give it to me.”

Five pulled out and roughly flipped her over so that she was on her stomach and he positioned himself behind her. Grabbing her hips and jerking them backwards, he lined up with her entrance again and shoved himself inside of her. With teeth clenched and jaw set, he got to work. Banging into her ferociously, his hips slapping against her as he railed into her as hard as he could. He didn’t need to feel guilty. She wanted it like this, and he wasn’t doing it out of rage. Anger wasn’t driving him this time, just pure animalistic lust and feral instinct.

He continued pounding into her and they were both lost in their own highs. Candy was moaning loudly, begging for more and clutching at the sheets underneath her. Five was grunting through gritted teeth with the effort he was putting in to fucking her; fueled even more by the hypnotic visual of her angel wing tattoos flexing and twisting as she braced herself against his powerful thrusts. After a few minutes, it was clear that neither one of them were going to be able to take much more.

With another long whine, Candy reached down to rub her clit while Five slammed into her. He could feel her hand every time he thrust forward and his balls slapped against it.

“Five…I can’t…I’m going to come!”

“Go ahead, baby. Come on my dick while you touch yourself.”

“Oh fuuuck, Five!”

When he heard her scream, he came with a loud growl, holding her flush to his body as he pumped one more load inside of her. He could feel her contracting around him as his hips stuttered against her backside. Candy’s legs were shaking and Five pulled out so she could lie down flat, her hair covering her face as she sucked air into her lungs. He sat back on his knees and gave her a playful slap on the ass before lying down next to her.

As they both laid there, trying to steady their breathing, a few minutes passed in silence. Then Five heard her giggle under her curtain of hair. When he pushed it out of the way, she was grinning up at him

“When I think about you, I touch my elf. ”

Five shook his head with a smile. “Have I told you how annoying you are?”

“You may have mentioned it once or twice.”

He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Then he flipped her hair over her face so she was hidden again. “There. Much better.”

Chapter 5: It's A Wonderful Life

In the early morning hours, Five finally drifted off, warm and content, with his arm flung across Candy’s stomach. She never let him know before she left, but in the morning when he woke, there was no sign of her. He didn’t know why he was surprised; he knew she wasn’t going to stay for much longer. But when he walked into the living room of his apartment, there was no red coat. No black boots by the door. And, most notably, no red headband. All evidence of her existence was gone. All except for the lingering scent of her hair on his pillow and one tiny bell that he found on the kitchen floor and slipped into his dresser drawer.

He was sad she was gone, but not in a way that felt permanent or oppressive. She had shown him there was a lot more to live for, and it needed to start with himself. He didn’t need her with him to make the changes he needed to.

It was still early, but he knew Grace would have woken up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning, so he was sure Diego and Lila were up. The rest of his family would probably sleep in a little but then they would be over at their house again, too.

After a shower, Five changed and grabbed the wrapped present he had for Grace on the way out. He stopped by a bakery that happened to be open that morning, and then caught a cab to Diego’s. When he knocked on the door at 7am, he tried not to laugh when his brother opened the door. Diego was still in his bathrobe, looking disheveled and sleep deprived, a cup of coffee in his hands. But the look on his face when he saw Five standing there was priceless. He actually poked his head out of the door and looked around him, as if there might be some kind of prank being played on him and there were cameras around to film his reaction.

“Five, what are you doing here? Are you still drunk from last night?”

“No! I’m here to watch Grace open her presents. And to hang out with you guys, too, if you’ll let me.”

Diego frowned like he couldn’t quite comprehend what he was hearing. He looked Five up and down, taking in his clean-cut appearance, and coming to the conclusion that he must not have come directly from a bar.

“So, can I come in, or do you want me to stand out here all day freezing my nuts off?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah…sure, come on in. Grace and Lila are in the living room.”

He stepped aside to let Five in, still not completely believing what he was seeing. After a moment though, he smiled and clapped Five on the back.

“I’m glad you’re here. We missed you yesterday.”

Five nodded. “I’m sorry about that. I won’t miss any more family things from now on.”

Five handed off the box of pastries he had picked up and headed into the room where Lila and Grace were gathered around the Christmas tree. When Grace saw her uncle, she let out a little screech and ran over to him, throwing her arms around his waist in a big hug.

“Uncle Five! I knew you would come! My mom said you weren’t going to, but I knew you would!”

Five laughed, then he looked at Lila who was staring at him with the same expression Diego had given him.

“Merry Christmas, Lila,” Five said with as much of a smile as he could manage, and only a hint of snark. He could learn to be nice, but he still had his limits.

“Yeah, Merry Christmas to you, too,” she said slowly, her eyebrows creased together in confusion.

Five didn’t even respond when he heard her add “wanker” under her breath.

“Is that my present?” Grace asked when she eyed the large box that Five was holding.

“It is. Do you want to open it? I think you’ll like it.”

She nodded and sat on the floor as Five handed it to her and then joined Diego on the couch. They watched as the little girl ripped open the paper and gasped.

“A real telescope?!”

Five nodded, smiling. “Yep. Now we can go look at the stars together.”

Grace looked up at him with her little chubby face and wide, dark eyes. Then she jumped up from the floor and ran to Five, throwing her arms around his neck in a hug.

“Thank you thank you thank you! I love it so much!” As Five hugged her back, Grace pecked his cheek with a kiss. “This is my favorite present and you’re my favorite person.”

Five grinned and gave her a kiss on the top of her head “You’re my favorite person, too, Gracie.”

As she returned to the telescope and busied herself with getting it out of the box, Five heard Diego sniffing next to him. Lila groaned.

“Oh my god, are you crying , Diego?”

“No! I’m not crying. It’s just…dry in here…and I have allergies…and I’m probably getting a cold.”

“Uh-huh. Ok, babe. Sure.” She rolled her eyes, but she was obviously just as happy as he was.

Diego turned to Five. “So, what happened? You just suddenly changed your mind, got your shit together, and decided to be a decent human being? Overnight?”

Five shrugged, reminding himself of Candy’s annoying habit. “Without going into the boring details, yes, that’s what happened. And I apologize for not being around more. But that’s going to change. I’m going to change.”

Diego raised a suspicious eyebrow at him. “Wow. I don’t know where this is coming from, but I’m happy. Like, really happy.” He grinned widely at Five. “I’ve missed you, buddy. We all have.”

“Speak for yourself!” Lila exclaimed from across the room.

Five turned towards her. “You know, Lila, you should really think about letting go of some of your anger. Try to be a little bit happier, sometimes.” As she looked at him like he was deranged, he mouthed “Fuck you” to her over Grace’s head. Lila just shook her head and smiled, glad to see that it wasn’t the end of the world after all.

Five stayed at the house for the rest of the morning. His other siblings trickled in, as well, and it eventually turned into another official Hargreeves’ family party. Seeing that their notoriously high-strung and unhinged brother was suddenly acting like a mostly sane person, they were obviously concerned. But after they realized he wasn’t going to suddenly snap or turn into a pod person, they all loosened up a little.

Klaus sidled up to him at one point, offering him a freshly made glass of Lila’s famously strong Christmas punch. Five waved him off, though.

“No, thanks. I’m not drinking today.”

“Uh, ex-squeeze me? Did you just turn down a drink? You know it has alcohol in it, right?”

Five laughed, a little embarrassed, and put his hands in his pockets. “I know. Just trying to turn over a new leaf.”

“Ohh…I get it. You met a girl, didn’t you?”

Five looked up at him in surprise. “Why would you say that?”

Klaus took a drink from his glass and grimaced at the strong mixture. “You hanging out with us, not drinking, being nice …it reeks of new girlfriend.”

“Huh. Well, in a way, yes. I mean, not a girlfriend, but there was a girl.”

“You should have brought her! I’d love to see what kind of woman managed to snag my darling, murderous brother.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible at the moment. But maybe someday. Stranger things have happened.”

🪽❤️🪽❤️🪽❤️🪽❤️🪽❤️🪽❤️🪽❤️🪽

“Gracie, honey, we’ve been here for thirty minutes. Pick a book, already.”

The little girl sighed and looked down at her pile on the children’s table where she and Five were seated. One of them comfortably so, the other scrunched up with his knees to his chest.

“But I can’t decide.”

“I told you, pick as many as you want.”

“Yes, but I want to make sure they’re the right ones. What if I get home and I change my mind?”

Five rolled his eyes and shifted in the tiny plastic chair. “Then I’ll return them. Or you can throw them out, I don’t care. My ass is falling asleep.”

Grace gave her uncle a disapproving look. “That’s a bad word.”

“Yes, it is. But if you don’t pick your books in the next five minutes, I’m going to say a lot of bad words.”

She sighed again, as if this was the most difficult decision in the world.

Five and Grace had spent the day together, just like they had once a month for the past six months. It was now July. July 3rd, to be exact, and they had opted for indoor activities to escape the oppressive heat of the city. Earlier, they had gone to the movie theater where Five sat through one of those horrible movies where they take real animals and CGI them into playing sports like soccer or basketball. Oh, and the animals talked, too. Completely asinine. It was ninety minutes of torture and Five wanted to stab his eyeballs out with Grace’s lemonade straw, but she giggled through the whole thing so he deemed it worth it in the end. Now they were at the bookstore next to the theater, where Five told her he would buy her some new books.

As he sat there with his expensive pants jammed into a chair in the children’s section, he decided he was going to give her about two more minutes before they were leaving. Books or no books. Who was he kidding…he’d probably sit there all day if it made her happy.

His young niece was about to say something to him, when Five snapped to attention and held his hand out for her to be quiet. He thought he had heard something. Something very familiar. But he was probably just going crazy.

“I think—”

“Shhh!” he hushed her again.

Grace sat back in her chair, arms folded across her chest with a pout. She did not like being quieted.

Five concentrated, listening for the sound he thought he had heard. There was nothing, though, which made a lot more sense, and his body relaxed again. He turned to Grace to apologize, but then he heard it again.

Those fucking bells.

It could have been anything, of course. The bells over the store door, or a baby’s toy. Maybe someone had their dog with them and its chain was jangling. But he would know that sound anywhere. He heard it in his sleep sometimes.

The sound seemed to be coming from a few aisles away. Five sprang out of his chair, his body stiff from being folded up like a pretzel for so long, and the chair tipped over behind him. Grace looked up at him, confused.

“Are we going? I haven’t made my decision yet.”

“Yes, come on. Just…grab all of them, let’s go.”

“But…”

Five groaned with his head back, wishing he could say what he really wanted to which was “Get the fuck up now.” Instead, he looked hastily around him at all the books on the shelves and on the table.

“Here.” He began scooping up piles of them, not even looking at the covers. He was grabbing four or five at a time off the shelves and balancing them in his arms. He shoved a couple at Grace, too. “We’ll just get all of them.”

Grace’s eyes widened. “All of them?”

“Yeah, sure. Come on, let’s go.”

With one arm full of random kid’s books, he held out his other hand for her to take. He all but pulled her arm out of the socket as he yanked her out of her chair.

“Ow!”

“Sorry, Gracie,” he mumbled, still dragging her behind him as she tried to keep up.

Five hurried through the store, looking frantically down each aisle. He couldn’t hear the bells anymore, and he was afraid maybe he was too late. But as they rounded a corner into the “Religion” section, he stopped. And stared.

There she was, just like he remembered her. She wasn’t wearing the slutty elf outfit, but her body was still as sexy as ever in a pair of small cut-off shorts and a tight, red tank top. Her long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was looking over the back cover of a book in her hand, and Five could see she was smiling. Of course she was smiling.

Five walked slowly towards her, Grace still in tow. When she looked up, her smile grew bigger.

“I thought I told you to stop following me,” Five said with a smirk.

“Who says I’m following you? Don’t you believe in coincidences?”

Five shook his head. “Not really.”

Candy actually looked flustered and she chewed at her bottom lip. “It’s good to see you again.”

Five let out a sigh of relief. “It’s really good to see you.”

Candy looked down at Grace, who was staring up at her in curiosity, and then back at Five.

Five cleared his throat. “Oh, this is my niece. Grace. But you already know that, I guess.” He looked down at his niece. “This is a…friend of mine. Candy.”

Grace smiled shyly. Then she stuck out her hand and pointed at Candy’s wrist. “I like your bracelet.”

Five’s eyes were drawn to the jewelry at the same time Candy smiled down at Grace in return. “Thank you. It’s one of my favorites.”

Then she moved her wrist to show off the gold bracelet made up of tiny, jingling bells. The source of the bells Five had heard. He laughed, shaking his head and looking at the floor.

“I really hate that sound.”

“No you don’t.”

“You’re right, I don’t.”

There was an awkward pause, and Five glanced over at the book Candy had in her hand. The title was The Path To Enlightenment: Discovering Your Guardian Angel .

“Brushing up on things?” he asked, gesturing to the book.

“This? Oh no, this is what I read when I need a laugh. This whole section should be titled “Humor”. I mean, you should read some of the things they try and pass off as fact.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Candy looked to the books Five was holding and pointed a finger at the top one on the stack. “I hear that’s a good one.”

Five looked down, seeing that one of the random books he’d pulled out was I Pooped on the Potty, And You Can Too! , complete with a drawing of a cartoon elephant sitting on a toilet. Five blushed, but then he laughed.

“Well, better late than never.”

Candy nodded. “Definitely.”

Five felt a tug on his hand and he looked at Grace, who was motioning with her index finger for him to lean in closer. He crouched down so he was at eye level, and she leaned in to whisper in his ear. Although, being a kid, the whole damn book store could have heard her whisper.

“She’s pretty.”

Five feigned surprised, then looked back up at Candy, then back at Grace. “You think so?”

Grace nodded. “You should take her on a date,” she whispered loudly and Five heard Candy giggle.

“What do you know about dates?”

“I know that girls like them because my mom always gets happy after my dad takes her somewhere to eat.”

Five nodded like he was mulling this over. “I see. So, I should ask her now?”

Grace nodded, her face serious. “If you want her to like you.”

When Five stood up, Candy was covering her mouth, trying not to laugh. Then she waited expectantly for whatever Five was going to say to her.

“My tiny wingman here has informed me that I should ask you on a date. Would you like that?”

Candy nodded. “I think I would, yes.”

“Would you like to come over to my brother’s house tomorrow? He’s having a family barbecue for the 4th. It will probably be a giant shit show, but I said I’d be there.”

“How could I pass that up? I would love to.”

When Five looked back down at Grace, she gave him a thumbs up. Then she sat on the floor to look at her books since her job as matchmaker was now done. He set his own books down and took a step closer to Candy, reaching out to touch her hand lightly, brushing his fingers over the back of her hand. He wanted to do a hell of a lot more than that, but seeing as how they were in a bookstore and his niece was present, he held himself back.

“I really missed you.”

“I missed you too, Five.”

“So, you’re here now? Permanently?”

She nodded. “I am. Thanks to you.”

“Why did it take so long? Where have you been?”

“Oh, I’ve been around. You needed some time to get things sorted out by yourself. But I’ve been keeping tabs on you.” She looked down at Grace. “Seems like you’ve got things figured out now.”

“Yeah, I think I do. Thank you.”

“Just part of the job.”

Five laughed and then reached up to gently tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I really want to kiss you again.”

“I would love that,” she breathed out.

He was about to lean in, when he stopped himself. “Wait. You’re not going to make me see anything weird again, are you?”

She shook her head. “No. I promise.”

“Good. Because I’ve had enough of that shit to last a lifetime.”

In a second, he was kissing her, softly and deeply, while he pulled her body in closer with an arm around her waist. He let out a sigh when he felt her fingers trace down the back of his neck. She felt and tasted just like he remembered and it was taking everything inside himself not to pull her down to the floor right there in the Religion section.

“Ew! Gross!”

Five pulled away, the disgusted sound of his niece snapping him out of his trance. Candy laughed and Five looked down at Grace, perturbed that she had abruptly turned from adorable wingman to major cock blocker. But he supposed this wasn’t the most appropriate place for a steamy make-out session anyway.

Five cleared his throat. “Well, I guess we should get going. I have to get her home.”

“Ok. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

Five nodded, gathering up his books again. “Oh, wait. I’m not very good at this dating thing, but don’t you need my phone number?”

Candy shook her head. “No, that’s ok. I know how to find you.”

Then, with a sly smile, she added “Oh, and Five? Keeping in the spirit of the holiday tomorrow…you can declare my independence anytime you want. Give me your John Han cock . If you’re up for it.”

With a slightly evil smile of his own, Five stepped in closer to her again, close enough to lean in next to her ear.

“Baby, the British won’t be the only ones that are coming. Not when you red, white, and blow me.”

Candy laughed loudly, her entire body shaking and her stupid bracelet jingling. Five just smirked and turned to walk away, holding his niece’s hand and feeling undeniably happy.

[ckret2]

Chapter 34 of human Bill Cipher not making friends with Stan during his imprisonment in the Mystery Shack, featuring: the tooth fairy and her dentist attempting to steal Bill's teeth in the middle of the night. Stan would care a lot less if he weren't still handcuffed to Bill. And also: Stan and Bill have a friendly chat. As you can see.

####

Even though Bill and Stan were trying to watch the same TV as they had dinner, Bill refused to sit in the living room with Stan; so he sat on the bottom step of the stairs in the entryway, Stan perched on the end of the couch, and they strung the handcuffs around the doorway with their little plastic microwave dinner trays balanced on their knees.

Both of their dinners had come out undercooked. Both of them were too proud to complain.

After picking through maybe a third of his meal, Bill decided he'd rather go to bed hungry than eat something he didn't enjoy, dropped his tray on the floor, and kicked it into the kitchen. "Hey Stanley, still glad you went with the cuffs instead of the bracelets?"

"Shut up."

Bill smirked victoriously, and looked back to the TV. "No mayonnaise in Ireland."

"What?"

Bill pointed at the screen and the rows of blank letters waiting for contestants to fill them in. "The round that just started. That's the solution."

"Oh." Stan counted out all the blank letters, frowned, and said unconfidently, "It can't be that. It doesn't make any sense."

"You're wrong," Bill said lightly; and then fell silent, running the tip of his tongue over the new gold spots on his teeth. 

When the contestants had guessed enough letters that one could hesitantly offer, "Is it... 'no mayonnaise in Ireland'?" Bill smirked triumphantly at the sound of Stan's silence. He just barely waited until the next board of blank letters flashed on the screen, and then announced, "Tip your waiter."

Stan counted the letters under his breath. "Man. I thought I was good at this, but we'd clean up if we put you on this show. No one would ever figure out how you're cheating."

Bill laughed. "Listen to you! If you were Ford, you'd just be mad that I'm giving away all the answers before you can guess. That's the great thing about you, Stanley: you don't get irritated at me for stupid little reasons. You're more fun." He took a deep breath and shouted, "Hey Ford, did you hear that?! Stan's the fun twin—!"

"Keep it down, you idiot. Ford's in the basement, he can't hear you." Stan had thought Bill was finally sobering up from the sedative; maybe not. (Then again, maybe this was just what he was like sober.) "And what are you talking about? You irritate me all the time!"

"Oh, well, I guess I just don't care when you're irritated." Bill laughed.

Stan grumbled, planted his chin in his hand, and tried to focus on Cash Wheel. It was difficult when he already knew the solution.

He tolerated the silence for less than a minute before sighing, looking toward the doorway, and demanding, "What's with you, anyway? Why are you so obsessed with my brother?"

Bill spluttered in disbelief. Stan could feel his handcuff chain jerk over. Voice even shriller than usual, Bill said, "Excuse m—Excuse me?! Obsessed? Moi?! I don't know what you're talking about!" He forced a loud laugh.

"If Ford's in the room, he's the only one you talk to, and when he isn't here you're yelling across the house for him—"

"Is it obsession to sometimes pay a little more attention to the human here I happen to know best and to whom I happen to be a teacher, muse, and friend—"

"Oh that's a load of bull," Stan snapped, "you're not any of those things! Friend? Friend? He wants you dead, you crazy—"

"Well if he does," Bill said, louder still, "then wouldn't it make perfect sense to keep my eye on the guy who killed me? There's no big mystery—"

"That's it! That's just it!" Stan tossed down his TV dinner and stood so he could face Bill properly. "He didn't kill you alone, remember? That was a two-man con you fell for! But you keep talking like Ford was the only one there!"

Without bothering to stand, Bill looked up at Stan and said, quite confidently, "Only one person killed me. You're just the place where I was killed."

"I wh...?" Stan fell silent, blinking at Bill in disbelief.

"Do you even remember what happened inside your brain? After you took my hand?" Bill asked. "You don't, do you?"

Stan glowered at Bill, but he shut his mouth and said nothing.

"I knew it." Bill laughed nastily. "We were both trapped in there when Fordsy fired the gun. Completely powerless. You were weeping and begging for a way out when the flames got too close, but there was nothing I could do by then—"

"All right," Stan took a threatening step closer, "I know that that didn't happen! I would never—"

Bill leaned back, hands raised palm out in appeasement, "Okay okay okay! All right, you got me—just embellishing the story a little—we actually had a big psychic laser battle. Imagined up all kinds of futuristic weapons. It was very 90's action movie. You did... fine, you were fine."

Stan considered that. "Ehh... sure, that sounds more like me."

"But it was all imaginary," Bill snapped. "It was a vast illusion! At that point there was nothing either of us could do to the other. We were just two victims locked inside a burning house as it came down around us. You didn't kill me, you never even had the power to kill me."

"Huh." That was all Stan said. But he kept looking at Bill, frowning distrustfully, studying him.

Bill's shoulders slowly went up under the pressure of Stan's gaze. "Oh—oh wow, okay, I see what's going on!" He gave Stan a crooked, mean smile. "You're jealous, aren't you? You thought offering up your body to be the scene of a murder finally made you a co-star instead of a sidekick! All your lives, Stanford got more attention from daddy, more attention from the teachers, more attention from the whole world... and you thought you'd finally get at least a little attention from the big bad living nightmare. Just because you let your brother shoot you in the head!" Bill laughed. "You weren't special enough for anyone else—why do you think you're special enough for me?"

Stan jerked Bill to his feet by the handcuff's chain. "I bet I'm special enough to break your face!" He dragged him into the living room, fist raised. "Let's see if you stay down this time—"

Bill scrambled back as far as the chain allowed him. "NO!" Horror filled the one ragged syllable. His free arm was raised to shield his terrified eye.

They froze, staring at each other.

Bill straightened up, forcing a nervous, rattled laugh. "Come on, I just got all this dental work done. At least give me a couple days to enjoy it before you pound it in!" He was talking fast to fill the silence. "Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't mind having a flatter face, all these bones and cartilage jutting out never did feel right—"

Stan feigned a punch.

Bill flinched.

Stan laughed at him, slapping his knee. "You big chicken! Look at you! Baw-baaawk-bgawk! HA!"

Bill tried, very hard, to explode Stan with his brain. This usually worked on people who dared try to insult Bill Cipher. "If I had one billionth of a billionth of my power, I'd have already destroyed you—!"

"But you don't, sucker!" Stan laughed louder.

Bill screamed in frustration, turned his back on Stan, and stomped upstairs to sulk.

Or, he would have, if he hadn't gotten one step up the stairs before the handcuffs yanked tight. He stumbled back, landed on his butt, and inadvertently jerked Stan down on one knee with a yelp.

Bill cast a resentful look at Stan—who was rubbing his shoulder and finally looking as irritated as Bill felt—and then he lay down and deliberately stared straight at the ceiling. "Whatever. I don't even care about your pointless mammal posturing. It's fine. It doesn't bother me. I'm calm. You're just making yourself look stupid." Bill shut his eyes. "I wanna go to bed."

####

"Bill," Ford said.

Bill cracked open an eye and peered up at the form looming over his makeshift cushion bed. "Mrm?"

In a very calm voice that suggested he was not calm at all, Ford asked, "Why are you sleeping on the floor in front of my bedroom door."

"Oh. Right, you missed it." Bill yawned and sat up. "Well, you see, Stanley got us handcuffed together until tomorrow morning," he pointed at his cuffed wrist and rattled the chain, "and I tried to be accommodating, but he doesn't want to sleep in the attic and won't let me sleep in the guest room—"

Stan yelled through the door, "And Mr. Accommodating here still refuses to sleep on the sofa bed."

"—so the best compromise we've got is sleeping on the floor with the chain under the door. Not my idea of a fun evening, but." Bill shrugged ruefully, like an adult resigned to indulging the whims of a petulant child. "Do you want in? It'll take us a little coordination to get the door open, but we've already done this once, so—"

"I'm not messing with this," Ford said. "I'm sleeping in the basement. Good night, Stanley."

"Night, Ford."

Trying not to sound miffed at being snubbed, Bill said, "Hey, do you still keep your cot on that rug you used to channel me better?" He laughed.

"Nope. I burned that rug." Ford turned the corner and left.

Bill stuck his tongue out at his back. He didn't actually know whether Ford was lying. He wished he'd thought to check out Ford's study before heading down to the portal back when he'd had his time tape.

"Hey." He rapped on the bedroom door. "I thought we weren't asking Sixer for help so he wouldn't find out about the handcuffs." They hadn't actually discussed it, but he'd taken it for granted. "Now that he knows, why aren't we getting his help?"

"What, you think I need his help to solve all my problems? Ha!"

"Okay, fine. Doesn't matter to me, I'm used to sleeping on the floor." Bill lay back down and sighed.

He shut his eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

####

Bill wasn't quite dreaming, but for a few seconds it was something very close to a dream. He saw points of light in darkness. One of his earliest, oldest memories. He'd memorized the constellations outside of his plain when his starblind species didn't even have a word for "constellations."

But these weren't those points of light in darkness. Some nearer, some farther—he could sense their distance—and all of the lights were calling to him. All of his eyes. He could see so many more than he had last night.

One was just a few inches away. He could almost reach out and grab it. 

But those few seconds of light-in-darkness were in the gray twilight between the dreamscape and the physical world, and Bill only fleetingly glimpsed them as he passed from sleep back to wakefulness. He opened his eyes.

To see a person looming over him.

And the taste of thick metal tools in his mouth.

"Hi," Bill said, for lack of anything better to say under these circumstances.

It was enough to make Dr. Illing gasp and stumble back from Bill. "Jeez." He clapped a hand over his heart. "I'm sorry— I-I didn't want to—"

"Uh-huh." Bill sat up and took the abandoned tool out of his mouth—pliers. They'd been gently clamped around one of his canine teeth. "Not the most unpleasant thing I've had aimed at my face in the middle of the night," Bill mused, "but it's pretty high on the list." He tried to lift his other hand to feel his face for damage—and only remembered the handcuff when the rattling chain caught his wrist in place.

They both looked at the cuff. As Dr. Illing realized Bill was trapped, a change came over his face—a desperate, crazed fury.

Bill shook his head. "Ohhh, no no no—"

"Give me that!" Dr. Illing lunged for Bill, one hand reaching toward the pliers and the other toward his throat, trying to pin him against the door.

Bill shoved his feet in Dr. Illing's chest, trying to hold him back. "Stanley!" He pounded on the door with the pliers. "We have visitors, wake up!"

"It'll only take a second," Dr. Illing insisted. "You were going to give me one anyway! And that tooth is already loose! You can handle the pain! Just—hold still, I can't damage it!" He managed to get his thumb in Bill's mouth—he cringed when Bill bit down, but didn't back off—and pulled a fresh set of pliers out of his tool bag.

Bill parried the pliers with his own pair. "STAAAN—"

The door unlatched and Bill tumbled backward into the room. He twisted out of the dentist's way, slid the handcuff chain out from under the door, and skittered behind Stan.

"Wha—what's—?" Stan squinted into the dark hallway. "The heck's going on?"

Bill stretched to Stan's nightstand and grabbed up his glasses and hearing aids. "Put your face on!" He shoved them in Stan's hands, then reached back for his dentures.

Stan put his glasses on first. "What the— Illing? What are you doing here?"

Dr. Illing stood forlorn in the hallway, trembling all over, eyeing Stan nervously. "Uhhh," he said eloquently. "I just..." He gestured around Stan's shoulder toward Bill, "wanted to check her fillings. I thought one of them might be a little loose—"

Bill's cackle cut through his excuses. "Oh, come on! I know your boss put you up to this! What does the little lady want with my mouth?"

Dr. Illing's eyes widened. All he managed to produce was a squeak.

Stan said, "What 'little lady,' this guy's self-employed. What are you talking about—"

"The tooth fairy, genius!" Bill flung his free hand in the air. "Why did you think your dentist pays you to pull your teeth! He lives in a van, who'd you think was funding him?!"

"Uh," Stan said. "You know, I sort of just took his whole 'creepy sadist who bribes people to let him pull their teeth' shtick at face value." (Dr. Illing's shoulders slumped.) "But—I know things are weird around here, but the tooth fairy's gotta be fake, right? That's the stupidest..."

A fairy popped out of Dr. Illing's bag—just large enough to use an adult man's hand like a chair, with a bob cut so white it almost shone, giving off a glowing toothpaste-blue aura, wearing a necklace of baby teeth like a hunter who'd taken trophies from the bones of her kills.

"Oh," Stan said. "Well. Never mind. Just one more crazy thing in this town."

Bill's back went stiff, his eyes widened, and he curled his fists into the fabric of Stan's tank top like he was holding his shield in place. "Oh, she's here." He lisped an inhuman swear under his breath.

Ignoring them, the tooth fairy glowered up at Dr. Illing. "How did they know? What did you tell them!"

"Nothing!" he protested. "I swear! I'd never!"

"Well, you must have let something slip—"

Bill swallowed hard; but then he straightened up, let go, and stepped into the open. "Why, if it isn't Miss Pearl E. White, in the fae flesh! To what do I owe such an honor?"

Dr. Illing and the fairy both flinched. She asked, "How do you know my...?"

"Oh, Pearl. I know things you couldn't even dream of." Bill favored her with his best, widest, most unnerving grin.

And got the creeping sense that she'd stopped looking at his face, and started staring at his teeth. He pressed his lips together. "And here's just one thing I know: lady, if you were toeing the line of your treaty any harder, you'd be tripping across it. So tell me what you're doing here and what you want."

She huffed defensively, wings buzzing as they lifted her several inches in the air. "I'm well within the terms of the treaty! I haven't laid a hand on you and I'm not about to start, and I've been offering more than adequate financial compensation—"

"Oh, right," Bill laughed, "I'm sure the queen of your court would be thrilled to hear you ordered your legally-dubious helper to rip out someone's teeth in the dead of night—"

"Hi," Stan said, "question. What the hey are you guys talking about. Treaties? Queens?"

"Oh, this is all going over your head, isn't it! I'll catch you up." He turned to the side to point accusingly at Pearl, "Little miss enamel-happy here has a thing for teeth. To the extent that she started stealing them straight out of humans' mouths. She went so crazy that the local human settlements actually declared war on her court over her dental kleptomania—and the fairies she dragged into the conflict weren't any happier about it than the humans were. So now, under the conditions of a human-fairy peace treaty, she's only allowed to acquire already freed teeth that are voluntarily offered to her by their owners—which is why she started bribing children."

Pearl crossed her arms, fuming. "That's a very biased version of events. You're just trying to paint me in the worst possible—"

"Save it, sparkles! I woke up with your minion's pliers in my mouth, I'll be as biased as I want!" He shifted his attention to Dr. Illing—who seemed to wilt under the force of Bill's glare. "But she's getting deep in a gray area working with this guy. Once a tooth is handed to a dentist, he's its 'owner,' and can freely give that tooth to the tooth fairy—but him extracting the tooth puts the whole operation on shaky legal ground. Really, I think the only reason you've gotten away with this racket so long is because nobody's filed a legal challenge with the fairy court yet."

"Nobody's complained about it," Pearl said hotly.

"None of your victims know about it," Bill countered. "Hey Fisherman," he jabbed Stan's arm, "how do you feel knowing your teeth were sacrificed to the tooth fairy?"

He considered that. "Well—it was free."

Pearl crowed, "Ha!"

Ignoring Stan's reply, Bill blithely moved on: "But by any reading of the treaty, hiring a human to steal teeth straight out of someone's mouth is beyond the pale. So you'd better have a good explanation for this!"

"Yeah. I do have a good explanation." She sucked in a deep breath. "I want your teeth!" She launched herself toward Bill; Dr. Illing had to grab her around the waist to hold her back. "I'd do anything for those teeth! They're the most amazing teeth I've ever seen!" She clawed at the air, hissing and straining as she tried to reach Bill.

"My lady, please," Dr. Illing said pathetically. "The treaty—"

She aimed a swipe at his face. "I know about the stupid treaty!"

Bill stared at her, baffled. His perfectly normal human teeth? But he shook his head, smiled, and said, "Well okay, fantastic! It's been a while since I've bargained with the fae, but I'm not too attached to this body—so how much gold do you have on you, kid?"

"We're not bargaining. You already know too much," Pearl snapped. "I'm not about to get blackmailed by a human, and I'm not going back to fairy jail. So here's what's happening." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder toward Dr. Illing. "I'm gonna have my guy rip out every one of your teeth, and then rip your head apart so you can't talk, and the only negotiating you get to do is whether or not my guy uses the local anesthetic before he starts. So what's it gonna be?"

Dr. Illing went deathly pale and his knees shook as he verged on fainting.

"Hey," Stan waved at the fairy, "listen, I'd love to see this guy's head get ripped apart, but—crazy thing, long story—it turns out there's fifty-fifty odds that killing him could end the world. So, maybe let's talk this out—?"

Pearl gestured dismissively at Stan. "His mouth has nothing left of interest to me. He's a witness. Kill him, too."

Dr. Illing swallowed hard; but, with trembling hand, he reached into his tool bag and slowly pulled out a large power drill that definitely wasn't designed for teeth.

"Right," Bill said. "Okay. This'll be fun." If he said it convincingly enough, maybe it would be true. "Hey, Fisher—you know that spell Sixer's got on me? If I cast it on Frankie here, can you..."

"Yeah, I see where you're going."

Pearl's eyes narrowed. She pounded her tiny fist on Dr. Illing's finger. "Hurry up, before they—"

Before she could issue a warning, Stan charged at them, fist raised. Dr. Illing flinched, shielding his face with the drill; but Stan dodged around him, heading for the hall. Bill seized Dr. Illing's upper arm as he passed—"Amnesia Limina, Stupidi Digiti, Occultus Locus!"—and then Stan yanked Bill out into the hall by their chain and slammed the bedroom door.

Dr. Illing gasped. "What?"

Blue light radiated through the cracks around the door as Pearl darted around, shrieking, "Open the door, you idiot!"

There was a moment of futile scrabbling. "How?!"

Bill and Stan retreated to the entryway. Bill said, "If we get outside, we can lose 'em."

"Or get the car and run them over," Stan said.

"You don't wanna be the guy who kills the tooth fairy! She might be in the doghouse, but she's still old fae nobility. Her court would—"

Bill cut off as Stan opened the door. Instead of leading to the porch and the forest beyond, it now opened into a bone-colored cathedral, the arches and vaulted ceilings constructed out of what looked like small irregular pebbles: teeth.

Stan gaped at the vast chamber. "Where the heck...?"

Bill looked at what had once been the outside of the door; the numbers "13 / 32" were carved into the wood. "Nowhere we want to go! Shut it!"

Stan slammed the door.

"That explains how she got in," Bill muttered. "There's no time to un-enchant this exit, we'll need another one."

Stan pointed toward the living room. "We can go out the—"

"The floor room exit." Bill dragged Stan back toward the hallway they'd just left.

"What?! That's the other end of the house, you idiot, the gift shop's right through here!"

"But it's a straight shot down the hall—" Bill stumbled to a stop.

The tooth fairy was clawing her way out from under the bedroom door. She caught sight of Bill, and her wings raised in a sharp V like a wasp preparing to attack. "You!"

"Never mind."

Stan dragged Bill back toward the living room. "Now can we go—"

Bill saw the living room—that familiar dark room, the familiar walls and carpet, the familiar armchair facing the doorway as though welcoming him back, the pale blue light from the fish tank climbing the walls like flames—and Stanley Pines, dragging Bill by a chain toward this tomb—and he grabbed on to the staircase railing. "Up."

Stan jerked to a stop. "That's a dead end!" He tried again to pull Bill toward the living room. "Are you insane?!"

"Yes." Bill locked his hand around the railing like a corpse in rigor mortis. He'd break his fingers before he let go. "We're going up."

"We are not—"

The tooth fairy shot past them like a glowing blue bullet, streaking into the kitchen. Stan started, and Bill took the opportunity to drag them up the stairs. Stan finally followed.

"You're not getting out of here with my teeth!" Pearl screamed after them.

"Ignore her," Bill muttered, "she can't risk touching us and she knows it. She's powerless without her minion." He stumbled on a step and just kept climbing on all fours.

"I wouldn't bet on her self control!" Stan struggled to keep up, his cuffed wrist in the lead. "Why are we going this way? How do you expect to get out from the attic?!"

"I don't know! It just seemed like a better idea! Do I have to think of everything?!"

"This was your plan!"

"There's got to be a ladder in the storage over the kids' room, we can get down out a window."

"I don't keep ladders—!"

"Well maybe Jesús does, do you know everything in the attic?! Come on!"

Bill kicked the door to the kids' room until Stan opened it. After a short argument about who should climb to the storage loft ("I have to look, you can't see in the dark!" "And you can?! Since when!" "Since always! You didn't need to know!"), Bill scrambled up the makeshift rungs nailed to the wall while Stan climbed halfway up to give the handcuffs a little slack.

As Bill started searching for anything useful, Pearl's ranting filled the shack: "Those teeth are too good for you!"

"I think she's getting closer," Stan said. "Find anything?"

"Not yet." Bill pulled out a broken umbrella with a hooked handle. He clung to it like it was his only defense as he scanned the loft for any signs of a ladder.

Pearl went on, "They're the most beautiful, pristine, unblemished, perfect teeth I've ever seen in my life!"

Bill asked, "Are they really that great?" He'd never paid that close attention.

"Eh..." Stan shrugged and made a so-so gesture with one hand. "A little weird-looking, honestly. They've got those jagged bits in the front that make 'em look like kids' teeth?"

"Huh."

"They're pure," Pearl snarled. "I've never seen adult teeth so pure! And you're ruining them by drilling out chunks of perfect enamel for unnecessary fillings! You don't have the right to those teeth! I deserve them!"

"Hey Bill," Stan said. "So you knew my dentist works for the tooth fairy, right?"

Bill was dragging aside a large box to see if anything ladder-like was hiding behind it. "Yes."

"And you knew she goes crazy for nice teeth."

"Yes." No ladder; he moved to another stack of boxes.

"And it didn't occur to you that she'd be furious that you carved up your new teeth."

"It's in the past, Stanley! Focus on the present!"

"—and I don't even know how you got magic teeth," Pearl continued. "Fully adult teeth in a fully adult mouth, but somehow they're barely a month old! It's impossible! I could barely believe it myself until I saw your mouth with my own two eyes! I must have those teeth, as soon as possible, so I can preserve them exactly like this, who knows if I'll ever find such a novelty again—"

"Ahh, so that's it," Bill said. "Welp, nope, didn't see that one coming at all."

"She's been shouting a while without actually coming after us," Stan pointed out. "What's she up to?"

Bill paused. "Check." He lay down and stretched his cuffed arm down from the loft to give Stan enough slack to peer out the bedroom door.

Stan frowned. "Huh. Weird."

"She's upstairs?"

"Yeah. But she's just flying in a circle. With... I think a veggie container from the fridge?"

Bill sucked in a breath. "Do we have mushrooms?"

"Wh—yeah? How'd you..."

"What!" Bill half-climbed half-fell to the attic floor. "That little cheater's making a fairy ring! That's not fair!" He leaned out the door with Stan. "She's probably already made the matching ring downstairs. We have to destroy it before—"

The circle of chopped portobello mushrooms glowed white; and with a glittery puff, Dr. Illing appeared in the ring.  He coughed out a lungful of fairy dust.

Pearl pointed at Stan and Bill and screamed, "Get them!" With a murderous scowl and terrified eyes, Dr. Illing stared them down and revved his drill.

Stan yanked Bill back into the bedroom and slammed the door.

Dr. Illing whined. "Aw, f—again?!"

"Just break through it!" Pearl commanded. "It's just wood! You have power tools!"

"He can't do that," Bill said confidently. "Doors don't work like that."

Stan said, "He can do that." A power tool whine announced Dr. Illing beginning his assault on the door.

"Oh." Bill considered that, eyes scanning the bedroom from one side to the other, mouth set in a grim line. "I have an idea." He pointed toward the window with his umbrella. "Stan, open the window." He hooked the umbrella over his elbow as he ripped the bedsheets off Dipper's bed and started tying the corners together.

Stan shook his head in disbelief. "You don't really expect us to climb out that window on bedsheets, do you?"

Bill dragged Stan closer and murmured in his ear, just quiet enough that their assailants wouldn't hear him over the power drill, "No, I expect them to think we climbed out the window, while we hide in the closet in the alcove. Once they're past us to check the window, we can sneak out and run downstairs."

"I don't like hiding like cowards instead of fighting. Illing's rickety, we can take him."

Bill kept tying bedsheets. He picked up Dipper's zodiac blanket, flinched, and tossed it to the floor on the other side of Dipper's bed rather than add it to his chain. "Funny—you didn't seem to have any problem hiding for a week while I had your brother prisoner."

Stan grabbed Bill by the shirt, dragging him closer. "You wanna say that again?"

Bill's hands shot up next to his face in surrender. "Sorry, sorry, sorry—"

"There were people in this shack I wanted to keep safe," Stan growled. "I'm not half as fond of you."

"Got it," Bill squeaked. He pointed toward Mabel's bed. "But I can see a dozen futures that end with our brains splattered across Mabel's dolls. I do not want to fight power tools."

There was a crack as the drill flung the first few splinters of wood free from the door. Stan's scowl deepened, but he let go of Bill and nodded.

They tied the bedsheet rope to a table leg, opened the window, and flung the rope out the window; then retreated into the alcove at the other end of the room, pulled shut the ragged curtain that hid it, and closed themselves in the closet to wait for the tooth fairy and Dr. Illing to break in.

####

(Thanks for reading!! If y'all enjoyed, I'd love to hear what y'all think! Next week we conclude both with the tooth fairy and with whatever the heck is going on between Stan & Bill.)

[kaysfanficcorner]

Movie Dates with a Stranger

Author's note: Just a quick little one shot about sweet Javi after a discussion with my best friend. She and Pedro are truly my two muses. If you dig this, please check out my other fics, Celebrity Crush (Dieter Bravo) and Out of This World (Din Djarin). More chapters of Out of this World are on *the way* soon!

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez x reader

Summary: You go the movies every Saturday morning, and the same man is there every single time.

Warnings: none that I can think of other than how stinking cute this film nerd really is.

AO3

*****

When the company you work for announced that they were opening an office in Spain, you jumped at the chance to take a position there. Having always wanted an excuse to leave the country and coming off of a bad break up, it was as if the universe was giving you exactly what you needed exactly when you needed it.

You're finally feeling settled in your new city. You've even managed to find yourself a gorgeous little vintage movie theater so you can get back into your favorite hobby from back in the states. Going to the movies is your favorite pastime in the whole world, and it has been since before you can remember. In America, you would attend the movies at least once a week if not two or three depending on how many good releases were out in one weekend. You hadn't realized how much you missed it until the morning stroll when you managed to stumble upon the one-screen theater playing a new film you'd been dying to see.

Without further consideration you'd purchased a ticket and the rest was history. Every Saturday morning since you've gone to see whatever movie was out regardless of what it was. Some in Spanish, some in English, but none of that matters. You're in your happy place.

The fact that you always go to the first screening of the day means that there are usually very few people in the theater.

So you notice when the same man has been there with you for the last five films.

He's gorgeous in every sense of the word, which you really got to see up close the third time you came and he was in front of you in the line for the snack bar. Well dressed, his casual attire was certainly expensive looking so you assume he must have money. He's got the most adorable smile, his dark eyes wrinkling at the corners as his mouth forms a grin at the huge bucket of popcorn the worker handed him. He always gets popcorn, a cherry coke, and a box of peanut m&ms. He's had the same snack every time you've seen him.

His burnt caramel hair is curly and always well managed, definitely with some sort of boujee product. His cologne smells like heaven when you catch a good whiff of it. He'd turned with all of his treats in hand, smiling down at you and telling you to enjoy the film with such genuine enthusiasm you hadn't been able to hold back your own wide grin at him. As he moved past you to allow you your turn in line, the scent of him nearly made you moan out loud. His voice had also been one of the loveliest sounds you'd ever heard.

In other circumstances, the thought of a strange man appearing at the movie theater five weeks in a row would freak you out. Are you being stalked? A naive American being scoped out for kidnapping or murder?

No, that's not the vibe you get from him at all. If you had to pinpoint the vibe you do get, it's that he's a fucking nerd. This guy adores film, just like you do. He'll obviously see everything. In the last five weeks the two of you have watched two action movies, one drama, one boner-comedy, and one romantic comedy. Not all of them were good, but your movie theater buddy seemed to watch all of them with the same level of reverence. He even turned around after the second action film, the fourth time you'd been in the theater with this stranger, and gave you an enthusiastic little grin and a thumbs up.

“That was fucking awesome, wasn't it?!” he'd whisper yelled to you.

That had made your heart skip a beat, whisper-yelling back in the affirmative.

The fifth movie was when you realized how much you were looking forward to seeing your stranger. That entire morning you'd had a giddy little smile on your face, picking out one of your cutest and most flattering casual dresses with a pair of heeled boots to match. You'd even gone so far as to do your hair and make up, when the first couple of weeks you'd gone for a more bum-chic look with sweatpants and a hoodie.

It was halfway through applying your mascara when it hit you that you like your film-nerd stranger. Seeing him every Saturday has been the highlight of your free time in Spain so far. Living so far away from everyone you've ever known has been lonely, and this handsome fellow at the movies has been the closest thing to a real social interaction outside of work since you moved here.

You're certain that you'd noticed his reaction to a more dressed up version of yourself, purposefully sitting one row in front of him so that he had no choice but to see you. His eyes had widened before a little shy smile crept up his lips, you'd seen it out of the corner of your eye before sitting down with a little smile of your own.

Now it's the sixth week, and the first horror movie. Horror is one of your favorite genres, and this one has been getting rave reviews for the last couple of weeks. Critics are calling it the horror film of the year and audiences are calling it the most frightening movie of the decade. Needless to say you are chomping at the bit for this one.

With an appropriately spooky and equally flattering outfit, and a makeup look complimenting the vibe of the film you're about to see, you feel like you truly look your best upon entering the theater lobby on that Saturday morning. On instinct your eyes flick around the large room, on the lookout for your stranger among the movie posters and popcorn.

You don't see him anywhere and your heart sinks a little, but you try not to lose hope. You're aware that it's quite possible that he's going to eventually skip a Saturday or there may be a movie that doesn't interest him after all.

Making your way over to the snack bar, you grin and wave at the same teenage girl who has greeted you from behind the counter every weekend. The same crew works the same shift each time you're there so you've become a little friendly in your snack bar encounters.

Knowing your Spanish isn't perfect, you try your best to order a soda and nachos in the language of the country you're in, and a cheerful voice from behind you makes you jump when you're finished.

“Your accent is getting much better.”

You spin around to find him standing behind you, that kind smile of his reaching all the way up to his eyes. He's dressed in a dark brown pair of slacks with a tan t-shirt and a dark purple corduroy jacket. His hair is perfect and he looks almost as if he's the one who was trying to dress his best this week.

You can feel a blush rush to your cheeks, avoiding his gaze as you give an awkward little, “Gracias.”

So he'd been paying attention to you just as much as you'd been paying attention to him? Lord have mercy.

He doesn't say more, just smiles that adorable smile of his as you grab your snacks and leave him to order his usual. You quickly make your way to your seat then, opting for the one you usually take that sits two rows behind the handsome stranger. He takes the same exact seat every week and you'd certainly noticed that as well.

Right on time he comes in and takes his seat, eyes flicking to you for a moment before he sits down. You smile broadly at him, and a shy little look takes over his features as he turns to face the screen. No one else shows up to this screening. The trailers run and your stomach flutters when you realize that the two of you will be here alone for the very first time.

You try not to pay attention to him when the lights begin to dim and the title card of the movie appears on the screen. You try not to watch the back of his head as he happily shoves popcorn into his mouth, attempting to focus on the movie you've been dying to see since they first announced its conception on some movie news site years ago.

Eventually the eerie tension of the film and the characters start to draw you in, your attention finally in the right place. And then a brilliantly laid out jump scare actually manages to get you, and you notice a bit of popcorn flying into the air over at your stranger's seat. Another comes shortly after that, and the stranger gets up from his seat completely. Your eyebrows raise, trying to keep your eyeballs glued to the screen. But then you feel a presence come right up beside you, and you turn to see your stranger standing right there. Your heart leaps in your chest as he slips into the seat right beside you and sends an apologetic look your way.

“I am so sorry to intrude, and I hate to look like a total pussy in front of a beautiful woman, but I am so fucking scared of this movie. Is it alright if I sit with you?” he whispers over, despite the fact that no one else is in the room but you. His accent is so cute that it's killing you not to giggle.

“Sure, I was honestly getting a little scared of it myself,” you whisper back, hoping to reassure him a little.

“Gracias,” he says with a bow of the head before turning his attention back to the film.

The presence of him next to you is driving you mad throughout the next few scenes, but you're completely elated by the fact that he's so close now. Close enough to smell that cologne again, for your forearm to brush his on the armrest.

Another scare comes, and the stranger's little yelp of surprise beside you causes the giddiest of grins to tug at your lips. When another comes again shortly after, his hand grabs for yours.

“Sorry!” he whisper-yells, letting you go just as quickly as he'd grabbed you. He looks so embarrassed.

Feeling brave, you reach over and take his hand in yours. He lets you touch him with ease, fingers of both hands intertwining with each other. His hand is so much bigger than yours.

“If this helps you feel less scared I really don't mind,” you whisper back, eyes on the screen once again. He doesn't say anything else.

Each time the movie scares your stranger, his fingers dig into your hand with varying levels of pressure. At one point you catch yourself tracing little circles into his skin with your thumb, and he's actually doing it back. That makes you melt into the seat a little.

Sooner than you'd like it feels like the climax of the film is wrapping up in a mess of blood and guts, and shortly after that the film is over all together. The credits start rolling and the house lights come back on. You're expecting your stranger to let go of you, but to your shock he lifts your connected hands and places a chaste kiss on the back of your hand. Then he lets go.

“Thank you for keeping me company during that. I am forever in your debt,” he says, adding shyly, “Horror movies always scare the shit out of me. Even the bad ones.”

“Well they weren't kidding when they said that was the scariest movie of the decade online. I was just as scared as you! And usually I can handle things like that. Proud of you for making it through that with me,” you say, adding an introduction as you give him your name.

“I am Javi,” he says with a grin, “I'm glad to finally meet you after all these weeks.”

“Likewise. It's nice to know another movie enthusiast,” you agree.

The two of you gather your things, heading back out to the lobby while discussing the finer points of the film you both just saw. When you part ways to both use the restroom, you're thrilled to find him waiting for you just outside as you reemerge.

Javi extends an elbow towards you. “Would you like to go get a cup of coffee? I have so much more to say about that movie, I probably need at least another hour to get it all out!”

A giggle finds your voice, a hand coming to your lips for a second before you're looping your arm through his and he's leading you out of the theater and down the street.

You start the conversation back up, leaning into him a little as you walk. “I cannot believe that the lead actress did such a good job! I honestly wasn't expecting such a performance from her based on the other movies of hers that I've seen.”

“Oh my God, I know! I was really shocked by how good she was, and the things that poor girl had to do! It must have been so fun to shoot that stuff.”

When the following Saturday morning rolls around, you cannot wait to jump out of bed to start your day. It will be the seventh straight week of going to the movies with Javi Gutierrez, but it's going to be your first real date.

*****

Masterlist