#Deep Learning Workstation

[budgetgameruae]

High VRAM Graphics Card for AI Training in UAE: A Deep Dive for Enthusiasts and Professionals

The need for specialised processing power has increased as a result of artificial intelligence's (AI) rise in the United Arab Emirates. High VRAM graphics cards are now necessary for deep learning models and AI training, not optional. Selecting the best GPU for AI model training can be a game-changer for anyone looking for strong, AI-ready hardware in Dubai, Abu Dhabi, or Sharjah, whether they are data scientists, AI researchers, or tech enthusiasts.

[ithardware-info]

Which is the most vital element of a deep-learning workstation?

One of the most vital hardware parts of a deep-learning workstation is the GPU. Training neural networks is one of the important tasks in Deep learning are highly parallelizable. It means that the massive calculations in training neural networks can be divided into many smaller tasks that can be processed simultaneously. This is where GPUs work, as they are built for parallel computing, rendering them significantly faster than CPUs for deep learning tasks.

• Parallel Processing:

Deep learning, particularly training neural networks, includes immense amounts of calculations that can be segmented into smaller tasks processed simultaneously. GPUs are crafted for this kind of parallel processing, making them perfect for deep learning.

• CUDA Support:

NVIDIA GPUs with CUDA (Compute Unified Device Architecture) are favoured for deep learning due to their robust performance and compatibility with frameworks such as TensorFlow and PyTorch.

• VRAM:

The quantity of Video RAM (VRAM) on the GPU is also vital, as it dictates how large a model and dataset can be managed.

• Other Considerations:

While the GPU is essential, other components like the CPU (for standard processing), RAM (for managing large datasets), storage (for rapid data access), and a reliable power supply are also crucial. SO GPU is the most significant component for deep learning workstations.

When selecting a GPU, high-end models like the NVIDIA RTX series (e.g., RTX 3090 or the newer RTX

090) are perfect for deep-learning applications. These GPUs are equipped with thousands of CUDA cores, which allow them to carry out matrix operations that are crucial for training deep-learning models. Furthermore, newer GPUs in this series also include Tensor Cores, specifically optimized for AI workloads, further enhancing performance.

Key Considerations:

• Power Supply: High-end GPUs are incredibly power-hungry, often needing 350W or more. Make sure your workstation has a sufficiently powerful power supply unit (PSU), ideally 850W or above, to accommodate multiple GPUs.

• Cooling System: High-performance GPUs produce a lot of heat during demanding tasks. A workstation must possess an efficient cooling solution, which we will elaborate on later in this guide.

• Scalability: If your deep-learning projects grow, having a workstation that can accommodate multiple GPUs (2) is advantageous for accelerating training times.

The GPU is the core of any deep-learning system, as its performance directly correlates with the pace at which models can be trained, making it the most crucial component of your workstation.

[omarvektrapc12]

Introducing the Vektra Ai Quantum 5U Workstation, meticulously engineered for professionals in machine learning, deep learning, and data science. This robust system combines top-tier components and cutting-edge technology to deliver unparalleled performance and reliability for your most demanding tasks.

[imagine-darksiders]

Transformers Prime: Optimus + Reader. Chapter 1.

So, I read @lovinglonerhybrid 's post here. And it absolutely had me in a chokehold, so this is based off that premise. I'm in the UK so please excuse my ignorance of American states lmao.

So, there is a part 2 to this, but I'm going away for 4 days and wanted to get some of it posted before then.

You've broken down fifteen miles short of Jasper's city limits in the dead of night. Deciding to hike in to town, you feel the earth rumble beneath you, and over the horizon, something enormous approaches...

Chapter 1: 9352 words.

-------

It’s a rare and covetous thing, to find even a single moment of peace in the midst of an intergalactic war.

The gap from one of those precious moments to the next seems to grow wider and wider every time, until their frequency is so negligible, it becomes hard to recognise them for what they are anymore.

For everything Earth could have offered Optimus Prime, he hadn’t been expecting it to relinquish the gift of peace so willingly. But he’s glad – more than glad – to accept them when they come, even if he’s only stealing glimpses of tranquillity on the sand-swept road leading out of Jasper.

Low-beam headlights lazily trace over the faded tarmac ahead of Optimus’s tyres as he trundles along Highway 49, one of only two roads that surround the small, sleepy city of Jasper. It’s a very routine patrol, one he obligingly excused Bumblebee from taking after his poor scout all but begged Optimus to give it to someone else, beeping out promises that he’ll take double shift tomorrow night, if need be.

All this on the back of Miko announcing another of her ‘slumber parties’ at the base, much to Ratchet’s noisy chagrin and Optimus’s private amusement. And, of course, when Bumblebee found out that Rafael would be staying the night too… Well…

‘You’re too indulging,’ their old medic had admonished from his workstation, the broad expanse of his back turned to the Prime, ‘He ought to learn he can’t always have his way.’

But it was a harmless indulgence, and Prime was more than happy to take over the patrol in this instance.

Besides, he had an arguably selfish reason for doing so.

If he’d admitted as much out loud, Ratchet would have scoffed and sent a pulse of chiding dismissal crashing into Optimus’s EM field. ‘You don’t have a selfish component in your body,’ he might say.

But this… Optimus muses, gazing skyward as he trundles down the highway in vehicle mode, letting the crisp, night air slide through his grill and cool his powerful engine… This is the appeal of a solo patrol.

Every now and then, there are times when the Decepticon activity goes quiet, Fowler has nothing to report, and Optimus can almost pretend that he’s just another Cybertronian enjoying a long, quiet drive through the Mojave wilderness. And while he remains ever vigilant, keeping every sensor poised outwardly in a constant surveillance of his surroundings, the old bot still permits at least one sense to wander.

Somehow, it’s always his sight.

Oftentimes he catches himself doing it. Other times, on nights that are quiet and still and clear like this one, there’s a wire-deep longing that overrides his logic gates, and the Prime won’t notice that he isn’t keeping his processor and his optics on the dusty road ahead of him. He’s too busy stealing long, pensive looks at the stars above him, scattered like a-hundred-billion souls sprawling across a curtain of crushed velvet.

It’s out there… somewhere… riding a lonely orbit on the furthest reaches of the galaxy’s Centaurus arm.

Cybertron.

Home.

Their first home, he amends gently, depressing his accelerator to speed up when he realises he’s starting to crawl. Earth is as much their home now as Cybertron ever was.

Sagging on his suspension with a low hiss, Optimus drags his hidden optics back to the road ahead, and all at once, he nearly lurches to a halt, his exhaust pipes sputtering out a hollow sound to betray his surprise.

There, parked several feet from the road a few hundred yards ahead of him, is a vehicle.

Prime’s senses sharpen to a startling focus.

Pumping his brakes, he slows down again, and the roar of his engine fades to a fluctuating hum.

A Decepticon…?

He doesn’t feel anything trying to breach his EM field, nor does he pick up on any resistance when his scanners hone in on the vehicle – ‘Ford. F250. A Pickup truck.’ Year….? Optimus’s focus narrows to a pinprick… ‘Eighty-seven.’

It’s red - a faded, dusky red like some of the sun-baked sandstone at Red Rock Canyon. As Prime’s massive form rumbles on through the night, looming closer and closer to the mysterious truck, his lights reflect off something situated above its rear bumper, the presence of which quells his flaring codes and eases his rigid frame.

A number plate.

Thick, black numbers and letters stand out against the white rectangle, though it isn’t the sequence that alleviates Optimus’s suspicion, it’s their mere presence.

No Decepticon he knows would ever suffer the ‘indignity’ of having a human number plate stapled to their bumpers.

Primus, even the Autobots have foregone the accessory after Fowler gave up trying to keep Bumblebee from losing his, Ratchet from ‘misplacing’ his, and Bulkhead from bending his irreparably whenever he transformed. Optimus had given it a go, for a time… mainly because he was growing worried that their overworked liaison would quite simply combust if he had to intercept one more phone call from ‘concerned civilians’ who were reporting a semi-truck driving through Jasper without its registration.

The Prime’s number plate came to its own crumpled end when he sat down on his berth one evening without removing it first.

One genuine, slightly sheepish apology to a very fed-up liaison later, and Optimus was informed that he and his team no longer needed to wear the plates.

So, the presence of one on this truck is a good sign. It’s less likely to transform and cause an incident.

That does, however, open up an entirely new avenue for concern to creep in.

A crash, perhaps?

Several dark skid marks indicate that it must have veered off the road after a hard, panicked brake.

He can’t pick up any biological signatures either. Even when he casts a wider net, all his sensors catch are the heat signatures of a few tiny, Earthen mammals scurrying about over the sand before they dart into various rock formations when he rolls by. But just because he isn’t picking up the presence of a living human, it doesn’t negate the possibility of a human being inside…

Frame suddenly taut, Optimus trundles to a cautious halt on the road alongside the truck, his engine idling like some great, murmuring beast in the quiet of the desert.

A throaty hum seems to escape his smokestacks as he peers down at the smaller truck, contemplative… considering… Then finally, relieved. There doesn’t appear to be anyone inside, judging by what his headlights illuminate through the cab windows.

What is it doing out here?

It definitely wasn’t here yesterday when he made the drive into Jasper. It isn’t a vehicle he recognises either, and he’s been doubly vigilant of late regarding all the civilian cars, bikes, trucks, vans, and even agricultural vehicles in and around the town.

Privately, he’s been compiling a catalogue of them all, for his own reference.

If there’s a threat to his human charges lurking about in their hometown, Optimus needs to know about it. A Decepticon disguised as a civilian vehicle would be an effective method of infiltration.

Casting one more, cursory ping out into the night to check that he’s definitely alone, he at last begins to unfurl himself into his bipedal mode. Metal plating slides away from his grill, pulling back and rolling along the body of the semi as he rises onto newly revealed pedes. The mechanical whines, whirrs and buzzes are terribly loud and alien amongst the desert’s natural ambiance, but soon enough, the air falls still once again, and a monolithic Cybertronian stands in the place where a Peterbilt used to be.

Soft, cerulean light spills over the abandoned truck as Optimus settles his optics upon it, easing his enormous frame down into a crouch and draping one arm across his knee with a ‘clunk.’

At first glance, he hadn’t noticed anything especially odd about the truck save for its unexpected presence. Leaning sideways, he casts an optic over the front bumper and finds nothing out of place, no damage to indicate a crash, no broken headlights or crushed bonnet.

It’s the same story with the truck’s bed. Only when Optimus hauls himself upright and treads carefully around it to inspect the other side does he notices the glaring problem.

The whole vehicle is canting onto its offside front tyre, a tyre that sports a rather sizeable puncture, considering how flat it is. And from the looks of it, this one was only ever meant to be used as a temporary spare. A quick glance into the truck’s bed reveals what he assumes must be the original tyre, flat as well, with the silver head of a nail jutting from the centre tread block.

Optimus clicks his glossa softly for the owner’s run of bad luck.

Right away, he sends a ping to his team, advising them to be wary of stray nails along this stretch…

He receives several pings in return. Immediately comes Bumblebee’s frustration, buzzed over the airwaves like a sulking sparkling who’s been told his toy was broken. Given the Scout’s inclination to race at top speed all over these roads, Optimus doesn’t doubt he’s just vexed at the shuddersome notion of having to slow down.

Arcee and Bulkhead respond in kind as their leader absently moves his attention to something strange obscuring part of driver’s window, letting their concern wash over his field.

‘Popped a tyre, Boss?’ Bulkhead’s message hits his comm, informal and probing, but with the warmth of care behind it.

Optimus is quick to send a pulse of reassurance back through their shared channel. He’s fine. If one little nail was all it took to take a Prime out of commission, they’d all be in serious, serious trouble.

The channels go quiet after Arcee and Ratchet send their short, concise responses, and once again, Optimus is alone on the road, peering down at a small sheet of paper that’s been taped to the inside of the truck’s front window.

Gradually, he furrows his optical ridges until they almost click together into one, solid line, the apertures inside each optic whirring and shrinking as he reads the words scribbled on the paper.

He recalls the first time he encountered the languages of Earth as they were written. The looping letters, graceful and elegant, chasing one another across the front of the letter Agent Fowler gave him as part of an unofficial welcome to the United States.

Optimus had held the paper so delicately between two of his digits, blinking down at the dark ink soaked into repurposed cellulose fibre. It was beautiful.

When he remarked as such, Fowler made a noncommittal comment that you could tell a lot about humans from their handwriting.

Optimus would sometimes find himself glancing over the children’s homework when they left their books out unattended on the table in their recreational area.

Jack’s neat and sensible cursive. Miko’s chaotic, glittery script that rose and fell and ventured outside the lines because she was usually paying more attention to her music than the words she wrote in her textbook. And Rafael, of course, with his quick, almost frantic stokes of the pen as he tried to scribble his thoughts down as fast as his brain could make them, only to end up losing his confidence halfway through a sentence, doubled back, drew a single line through the words, and started again on a fresh page.

This handwriting though… written in blue, splotchy ink and stuck with a piece of scotch tape to the truck’s window, makes Fowler’s words ring true in Optimus’s processor.

He can tell a lot about the human who wrote it.

‘Please don’t steal/break into my truck,’ it reads. The word ‘please’ has been underlined several times. ‘Not worth much, it’s all I’ve got. Tyre is flat, spare tyre too, so can’t get far anyway. Walking to town to find help bcos phone died and I don’t have a charger. Be back soon. Thanks.’

The ink has run in several places and rendered some of the letters illegible, as if water has been dropped on them from above.

Optimus isn’t naïve. He’s seen the children cry, more times than he can bear.

Then underneath all that, in much smaller writing stuffed underneath the first message like an afterthought they forgot to leave enough space for…

‘P.s, if the truck is still here in 3 days, assume I’m dead.’

With a sudden groan of his metal frame, Optimus braces a servo on his knee and hurriedly pushes himself to his pedes once again, helm swivelling sideways to stare down the length of the road.

The truck’s nose is pointed in the direction of Jasper, but the town itself is still about a fifteen-mile drive…

Surely they wouldn’t make the journey on foot…

But if the note is any indication, then…

His processor flashes again to the children; Miko in particular, and the alarming disregard she has for her own safety. The boys are guilty of that as well, though to a lesser degree.

Suddenly, there’s a very high likelihood that there might be a human wondering through the vast Mojave, alone. Worse still, Bumblebee had reported just last week that there’s been an increase in Decepticon patrols in the area around Jasper. No doubt Megatron has been ramping up his efforts to locate the Autobot base. Their growing presence in the vicinity of town makes these roads particularly treacherous…

Optimus ex-vents roughly, more troubled than frustrated.

Blue optics narrow at the road ahead, and once again, the peace of the desert night is filled by the sounds of living metal collapsing back in on itself.

A powerful engine roars to life. Somewhere nearby, a startled jackrabbit darts beneath the safety of a sagebrush, hiding herself amongst its silvery leaves.

Unblinking, her wild eyes stare after the great, thrumming beast as it moves on down the road.

—————-

You’ve had a lot of ideas in your life.

Some good. Some bad. Some that have paid off, but most that have gone nowhere at all.

Perhaps you were growing tired of going nowhere…

What else would have possessed you to up and move all the way to the middle of Nevada state on the back of a job offer that came from a man your uncle purported to know?

‘Oh yeah, Terry? Did a job with him a few years back for some cattle baron out in the sticks. ‘Course, Terry always wanted his own dairy… Want me to tell him you’re lookin’ for work?’

Turns out, Terry did end up getting that dairy he always wanted. And as it happened, he was looking for a farm hand.

Does it count as nepotism if you’re fairly sure your uncle had only met your future employer once?

Beyond a certain point, you simply couldn’t care less.

A job is a job, even if it is out here in the desert near a town you’d never heard of a month ago.

Dust-caked trainers trudge to a weary halt in front of a large, green road sign.

The moon, thankfully, hangs fat and luminous in the cloudless sky. So at least you don’t need a torch to see, not now that your eyes have had time to adjust the darkness cloaked over the desert.

With your run of bad luck, you half assumed the heavens would have opened by now and given the Mojave a nice, little dose of rain.

“Well,” you mutter aloud to yourself, peering up at the green sign with a grimace, “Could be worse…”

‘Jasper – 10 miles,’ reads like a slap to the face.

Still… It’s better than the fifteen miles.

You must have walked at least five already, dragging your legs behind you like extra baggage that doesn’t want to cooperate.

It has to be beyond midnight now. Well beyond, you suppose.

You’ve been walking for the better part of two hours, slow and sluggish and exhausted. The journey getting to Nevada had been tiring enough, then as soon as you crossed state lines, your tyre caught a puncture going over a particularly nasty pothole that had snuck up on you.

After an hour spent in the blazing sun jacking up the truck and changing to the spare, you set off again for another several hours of travel. Then, twenty miles out of Jasper, just as you dared to celebrate being home-free, the unthinkable had happened.

Who hits a pothole and drives over a nail in the same, damn day? Apparently, the same person who forgot to buy a charger adaptor for the truck.

No charger? No phone.

No phone…? No calling for help…

Your chest expands and deflates with a bone-tired sigh, turning your gaze back onto the long, dark road ahead of you. Tears sting at the inside of your eyelids, and for a moment, you consider letting them fall, if only to ease some of the pressure building up behind your temples. But crying hysterically about the unfairness of the world hadn’t un-punctured your spare tyre, so why would it help the situation now.

“Come on,” you coax yourself, hauling one leg out in front of the other. Rinse. Repeat. “Not far now.”

Just a few more hours…

The going is slow, tough, draining. Even the dark shapes of rocks start to look enticing as you pass them, letting your eyes slide over to them as you wonder just how safe it would be to fall asleep in the desert by the side of a road.

Ever since you broke down a few hours ago, you haven’t seen one, single vehicle out here.

‘Which,’ you hum, pursing your lips and tipping your head back to peer up at the bleary sky far above you, ‘Isn’t so bad…’

The stars are numerous, and startlingly clear out in the wilderness. The moon as well seems brighter here, unobscured by clouds. She makes for a quiet companion on your journey towards Jasper, her starry brethren endlessly stretching out to each corner of the horizon.

Suddenly, you feel very small. A hopeless traveller trying to find port in a sea of sand and rock.

Swallowing roughly, you hike your tattered rucksack high onto your shoulder and tear your gaze from the stars.

It’s quiet out here, save for the rustle of sage bushes disturbed by the warm breeze, and the skittering of rocks as night-time animals go about their hunts.

Perhaps that natural silence is why the sudden introduction of an entirely new sound unnerves you so much.

You jerk to a halt, ears straining to hear something approaching from the distance. Underneath the thin, worn soles of your shoes, you start to feel it; the road thrumming with gentle vibrations, growing stronger every second.

Lighting quick, you whirl around to face the way you’d come, hands flying up to grip anxiously at the straps of your rucksack.

You’d have thought you’d be excited to see those headlights rise up above the horizon line. At last! A stroke of luck! A potential ride! Potential help.

Instead, it’s as though the sudden appearance of two, dazzling lights blooming into view as they crest over the hill finally jar some sense back into your dizzy head.

The haze of fatigue lifts slightly, pushed away by little bursts of adrenaline as your brain fights to wake you up to an unconscious threat.

You’re alone out here. Defenceless, phoneless. You don’t know the area. Nobody knows you’ve broken down… You try so hard to think the best of people, but now that you’ve had one doubt, a hundred others start to scurry around in your brain, demanding attention.

You can see the vehicle, or their lights at least, but you doubt they can see you yet, this far down the road. You wonder what it is. Car? Truck?

… Alien spacecraft? Despite yourself, you let out a snort at that. Isn’t that infamous military base supposed to be in Nevada? The one hiding alien activity?

Right. Sure.

Despite your scepticism however, a thrill of fear rushes down the length of your spine as if to say, ‘Oh? But are you sure sure?’

 Gulping audibly, you take a few steps sideways off the road, stealing a glance at a cluster of large rocks that sit conveniently just several yards to your rear.

You have a decision to make.

Maybe you’ve been alone on the road for too long, and isolation has bred a paranoia in you that’s so deeply rooted, you can’t shift it at a moment’s notice. If the sun was out, perhaps you’d be less apprehensive, but the night, no matter where you are, makes everything seem so much more… treacherous. It hides things. People, motivations, monsters.

And though it pains you to do so, you swiftly decide to err on the side of personal safety.

The vehicle is closer now, and your blood trembles as the roar of a loud, formidable engine thunders over the tarmac. Yet you’re still certain it isn’t close enough to have caught you in its high-beams.

On sluggish legs, you haul yourself about and make a clumsy dash for the rocks, clenching a fist around one strap of the rucksack and using your other hand to grab the closest rock and swing yourself behind it. Dropping to your backside, you flatten your spine against the cool, solid surface, eyes wide, heart beating hard against the cage of ribs keeping it from leaping up into your throat.

‘Coward,’ a voice in the back of your head scoffs, sounding suspiciously like your father. You shake it loose. Now is not the time to be bothered by old ghosts.

The thundering engine draws nearer, rumbling in your chest as it seems to creep towards your hiding spot at a pace even a glacier would be impressed by.

Around the corner of the rock, you can finally see the glow of its headlights smoothing over the tarmac, illuminating the sand and brush all around you. Hurriedly, you tuck your toes right into the shadow cast by your rock, keeping a breath held hostage behind clenched teeth.

“Come on… Come on,” you urge it frustratedly, aware that every second you spend not moving is another second towards sunrise. If you’re not on the dairy ready for work by then…

The vehicle rolls to a stop.

It stops.

The temptation to let out a frustrated scream is only held in check by your tongue getting stuck to the roof of bone-dry mouth.

They saw you. They must have seen you. There’s no way they could have known you were here otherwise.

Idiot!

Wasting time on the decision has only taken it right out of your hands in the end.

A bead of sweat escapes your hairline and rolls down the side of your face, following the curve of your cheek. Should you run? Keep hiding? Did they stop by coincidence? If they meant no harm, they’d have seen you hide and kept on driving, wouldn’t they? Stopping is suspicious. It conveys a desire to engage.

And then something really strange happens.

“Excuse me?”

And… Well, you’re… not entirely proud of the choked gasp that jumps out of you, nor the way you flinch as if you’d been struck.

When did they – He? It’s a low voice, deeper than anything you’ve heard in a long while, full of bass but soft like distant brontide.

When did he get out of the vehicle? You didn’t hear a door open, nor close.

You nearly jump out of your skin when he speaks again.

“I’ve frightened you…” Despite how gentle the timbre is, his voice is loud, like he’s speaking all around you, not just behind you. “I apologise,” the stranger continues, “That is the last thing I meant to do.”

What the Hell is he talking about?

There’s a long, unpleasant stretch of time until he speaks again.

“Was that your… Ford?” he asks, like he’s testing the word on his tongue, “Up the road?”

Shit. You’re starting to regret leaving that note. He must have read it and knew someone would be walking into town, alone and vulnerable.

The vehicle's powerful engine is still idling, strong and steady, buzzing along the ground and up through the soles of your feet.

It goes against your nature to ignore someone when they’re talking to you, but there’s still a part of you clinging to the hope that he’ll just give up and move on if you don’t respond or show yourself. Perhaps he’ll think you were just a figment of an overtired imagination…

Of course, instead, he persists. “Please.”

Jesus, he almost squeezes the word out, oozing dejection.

“You have nothing to fear from me… I’m a friend.”

A friend indeed. You huff quietly to yourself. You don’t even know him. He doesn’t know you. He’s trying to coax you out of hiding after watching you flee from his vehicle. Hardly the foundation for a good friendship. Still, you have to wonder why he doesn’t just come around the rock to stand over you if he’s so keen.

After another few seconds of stubborn silence on your part, the voice speaks again.

“Will you at least step back from the rock?”

What?

“There are scorpions on it, and I fear you’ll get-“

You don’t think you’ve moved so fast in quite some time. One moment you’re pressing yourself to the rock, and the next, you’re scrabbling to your feet with gusto, lurching away from your prior hiding space and spinning around, skin already crawling.

Sure enough, a pair of giant scorpions are scuttling around on the flat top, their tails held aloft, proud and large in the moonlight.

“-Hurt,” the stranger finishes.

Snatching your head up, you find yourself staring right into the vehicle’s headlights, and you instantly grunt with discomfort, raising a hand to shield your eyes from the light.

“Oh.” There’s a pause, the vehicle’s engine skips, and the lights suddenly dim, plunging you into almost darkness save for the dim glow of residual light. “Forgive me. Is that better?”

“Much. Thanks,” you respond automatically, only to turn rigid once you realise you’ve spoken aloud.

Well. He’s already seen you. No point pretending you can’t talk either…

Again, the stranger’s vehicle makes an odd noise, it’s engine hums gently, and as you lower your arm to seek out the man you’ve just opened a line of conversation with, you finally see what you’d been hiding from.

A monstrous Peterbilt sits squarely across the width of the road, entirely alien in the barren, rocky landscape. Smokestacks on either side of its cab reach towards the sky, glinting silver in the moonlight. It looks red under the meagre glow, with lighter panelling on the main body and dark, blue accents on the wheel trims and storage compartment. The grill is, in a word, massive, standing taller than you are, sporting a logo you don’t recognise on the front.

All in all, it’s a hell of a truck. Powerful, you imagine. Expensive too.

You try not to let your mouth hang ajar.

“Where-” Your voice cracks, still dry. “Ahem…! Where are you?”

Glancing around, your hackles start to rise. You can’t see the speaker anywhere. Which is why you let out an embarrassingly shrill yelp when his voice rumbles directly from the semi.

“I’m right here,” he assures you, polite enough not to show his amusement whilst you flap your mouth open and closed.

No, you shake your head. No, that is too weird. “What, are there like… speakers on the outside of your truck or something?”

There’s the tiniest of pauses, followed by a simple, concise, “There are.”

Oh. Well, then. That answers that burning question.

“Okay? So, um… Can I… help you?” you ask awkwardly, screwing one side of your face up.

The man seems to hesitate, allowing a pregnant pause to hang in the air between you before he replies, “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Somehow, your expression twists even further south, and you begin casting your eyes over the semi, squinting through its dark windshield to try and catch a glimpse of what’s on the other side.

“I saw your truck on the side of the road,” the unseen man continues, “I feared you might have been hurt in a crash, so, I stopped to check that you weren’t still inside the vehicle. Then I found your note.”

He falls silent, and the air is dominated once again by the purring of his semi’s engine.

“Okay?” you prompt, still unsure of his motivations.

“It said you need help.”

He trails off, waiting. You’re promptly struck by the idea that he’s trying to guide you to some conclusion he hasn’t yet revealed. Finally, just as you start to grow restless, he forges ahead, “These roads can be hazardous for a lone hu-“

Suddenly, the truck’s engine revs, drowning out his voice for a second and sending you leaping backwards, startled.

“- A lone traveller…” he clears his throat just after the roar of its exhaust cuts out. Then, “Ah, If I may be so bold...”

All of a sudden, the passenger side door unlatches and swings open, and you’re presented with a clear invitation into the darkened cab. “May I offer you a ride into town?”

You wonder if he can see you turn stiff at his suggestion. Your body all but pleads on hands and knees for you to accept. What’s the worst that could happen, after all?

Well. You’ve watched several documentaries and movies that give you a pretty good indication of what ‘the Worst’ entails, thank you very much. You don’t like that he’s inviting you into his truck without showing his face to you yet. You’d like to gauge the person you’re speaking to. Get a bead on him. Is he big? Strong? Tall? Could you overpower him if it came down to it? Does he look like he’s hiding a weapon on him?

All these questions only serve to dry the moisture in your throat.

“I… That’s… very kind of you,” you admit, wringing your hands together as you take a small step away from the semi, “But I’m sure it’ll be okay, it isn’t that far.”

“At an average speed of three miles per hour, you will reach the outskirts of town in just under three and a half hours.”

You blink, caught off guard. ‘And they said we’d never need to use equations after we graduated.’

“Maths guy, huh?” you cock a hip, laying a hand across it and shooting the truck’s windshield a tentative smile, “Maybe I walk at four miles an hour.”

“Two and a half then,” he quips back just as smoothly, the door to his semi still hanging open. When he continues, you can’t help but notice that the cadence of his baritone voice rumbling through the speakers has turned to something a little more sombre, quieter, like he’s trying to impress upon you the gravity of a situation you don’t yet know about. “But time and distance aside, I do not wish to leave you to walk into Jasper by yourself, particularly at this time of night.”

He speaks like he’s been to elocution lessons. Every word seems to be carefully selected, every vowel and consonant articulate and refined.

It’s disarming. He’s disarming. But you’re still not convinced.

“Listen… Thank you, again. But…” It feels rude, like you’re committing some kind of faux pas in turning your back on the semi, yet you can’t shake the nagging voice at the back of your head, telling you that there’s something not quite right about the man in the truck. Not bad, just… off.

“It’s a kind offer,” you tell him again lamely, turning on your heel. And so, you recommence your weary march for Jasper, tossing one last sentiment over your shoulder, “But I’m sure I can make it on my own. Take care, okay?”

You almost expect him to argue, but all you can hear is the now familiar drone of the semi’s almighty engine. For several paces, you can feel a pair of eyes watching you, scrutinising and pensive, if a little baffled by your short yet polite dismissal.

When you make it another ten feet, heaving your tired legs after you over the tarmac, your ears perk up to the sound of an engine revving.

Smokestacks chugging, the massive truck pulls out of its standstill, unseen behind you.

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you keep your gaze fixed to the ground ahead and raise a hand, flapping it about in an apologetic farewell as you meander further off the road and onto the sand, giving him plenty of space to get past.

You start to frown when you make it twenty paces without being overtaken by the truck.

That frown only grows deeper when the engine keeps churring away behind you, rubber tyres crunching tiny particles of sand under their treads as it crawls along in your wake.

Is he…?

Tearing your eyes off the toes of your shoes, you send a fleeting glance over your shoulder, surprised – but not much – to find the nose of the Peterbilt creeping slowly along in your peripheral vision, keeping pace with you.

Your frown eases back, and you quirk a brow at him instead, calmly asking, “What are you doing?”

And just as easily, the voice returns, “If you will not allow me to drive you, I will happily escort you to your destination.”

You can’t help yourself.

“Ha! ‘Escort.’” The snicker jumps out of you faster than you can raise your hands to press your fingertips against an unbidden grin. “Sorry,” you immediately try to amend, “You just sounded so serious.”

“… I… am serious?”

Letting your hand flop back to your side, you give your head a shake, still grinning. You really do meet all sorts on the road.

“Regardless, I’m sure you have far better things to be doing with your time.”

How the truck matches your walking speed without his engine faltering or sputtering, you’ll never know.

A strange noise gurgles from its exhaust, almost perfectly reminiscent of a troubled hum.

“On the contrary,” the driver responds, pulling forwards a little until only the grill overtakes you, and for a moment, you worry he’s about to drive across your path, “There is nothing at the moment that concerns me more than getting you safely where you need to go.”

Huh. Of all the genuine, stubborn…

“Look.” Your shoes scuff up a cloud of sand as you draw to an abrupt and decisive halt, turning bodily towards the truck. Hands splayed on your hips, you glare at the windscreen, aiming approximately for the driver. A second later, he must have hit the brakes because the semi lurches to a stop as well, hissing noisily.

Still, he doesn’t step out.

“You seem like a nice guy,” you start, trying to keep your chin raised and your tone stern. You fail, of course. Your voice cracks nervously, but at least you try. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you finally elect to stop beating around the bush and just address the elephant in the room – or desert, as it were.

“But I don’t make it a habit to get into random trucks with strangers.” You make it a point not to directly accuse him of having ulterior motives, but you hope you’ve at least driven home your main concern. At best, he’ll grow offended that you’d think him capable of such a thing and – hopefully – move on. At worst… Well. You brace yourself for that, teeth grit so tightly, your jaw starts to ache as you flick your eyes over towards the truck’s driver-side door, waiting.

The truck in question does something odd then. It… sinks? At least you think it does, lowering on its axles by a few inches like the wheels have just deflated. It’s difficult to tell in the dim moonlight though, and it’s over so quickly, you can’t be sure you saw anything at all that wasn’t just a trick of the desert.

How long have you been awake?

You’re busy calculating the hours you were driving when the stranger’s voice is kicked out over the speakers again.

“You assume I mean you harm…” he utters.

And just like that, the stern, rigid scowl is instantly wiped off your face.

He sounds…

…sad.

Not offended. Not angered by your thinly-veiled implication.

Just sad. Dispirited, even. As if it’s only just occurred to him that you might have perceived him as a threat.

It’s almost painful when the pair of you dissolve into an uncomfortable silence that lasts for several beats of your rapid-fire heart.

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, your brows drift apart whilst you try to think of something to say. Trouble is, you’re afraid that speaking again will only make things worse.

You have no idea what’s going through his head. What if his dejected tone is followed by something worse?

“I’m sorry,” you backtrack, pressing your lips together and chiding yourself for faltering, “It’s nothing personal, just… I-I should probably get going before I fall asleep standing up.” You give a stilted laugh, but it soon turns into an awkward sound made at the back of your throat, lips pulled over your teeth in a grimace.

Dipping your head, you swallow thickly and grip the straps of your rucksack again. But just as you make to turn away, the semi’s wheels abruptly twist towards you. It’s ever so slight, just enough that the truck rolls a few paces in your direction before it stops again, its grill pointed straight at you.

With an audible gulp, you go to take another step back, staring at the metal in anticipation. Your retreat is soon halted by the mellow rumble of his voice.

“I understand your hesitation. And I know that the word of a stranger may not hold much weight,” he begins slowly. The Peterbilt inches forwards again. “But I can assure you, you have nothing to fear from me…”

Shifting on your feet, you let go of your bag and clutch instead at your elbows, brows tipped up indecisively. He’s persistent, you’ll give him that. He also speaks with a candour you’ve never encountered outside of a film or a storybook. Frank and forthright in a way you’ve never been privy to. Is that why you’re hesitating? Is that why he seems ‘off?’ Because his level of sincerity doesn’t have a place in your world?

Perhaps you’ve been spending so much time by yourself, it’s turned you distrustful. Maybe you’re just getting cynical. Looking back on your journey here, you realise that only other person who you’ve spoken to was a disinterested server who took your order at a drive-thru… That was four days ago. How long before that did you listen to someone who wasn’t the people on your truck’s radio?

Why is it so suspicious that this trucker wants to help? Hell, you’d be concerned as well if you saw some poor bastard hiking alone through the desert at night without a friend in the world.

Christ, you need some perspective.

The driver must see the conflict painted like a brand across your expression.

“Would it reassure you to know that this vehicle is operated entirely remotely?” he pipes up.

You blink once. Then again to wake yourself up a little more, pulled from your inner turmoil. “What?”

“This vehicle,” he tells you, “It is an unmanned vehicle.”

Curiosity overtakes suspicion faster than you can uncross your arms and stare at the grill dumbly, face opening up in surprise. “Wait. You mean it’s one of those self-driving things?”

“In a sense.” The semi’s engine rumbles softly, and the not-driver adds, “I am what you might call… the safety driver.”

Now that is curious.

You don’t even realise you’ve taken a step closer. “Really? But I thought that sort of tech was still in testing?”

“It is,” he replies, “We are, however, attempting to advance to field-tests, to see if these vehicles can autonomously haul freight in areas with sparser populations, to minimise the risk of collision.”

“Hence why you’re driving it out here in the middle of the night,” you realise aloud, raising an inquisitive brow at the windscreen, “So you’re really not in there? You’re driving it from somewhere else?”

“Would you care to see for yourself?” he asks kindly.

Your wide eyes flit to the passenger door when it eases open once again, though this time, it seems far less foreboding than before.

Tugging a loose piece of skin between your teeth, you give the silver steps leading to the door a scrutinising glance.

That does reassure you…

Slowly, still at least a little wary, you coax your legs to move, and they begrudgingly carry you onto the road. You approach the semi-truck with all the caution of a doe crossing an open meadow.

As you venture closer, its engine kicks up a notch, emitting a steady, gentle purr as if the vehicle itself is pleased with your acquiescence.

Suddenly, as you move along to the open door, you’re dazzled by a light flickering on inside the cab, bathing what you can see from this angle in a calm, golden hue.

From down here, it looks… just like an ordinary interior.

And lo and behold, as you stand on your tiptoes to see in, you find the driver’s seat is eerily devoid of its occupant.

You let out a breath that emerges shakier than you would have liked it to.

“Wow,” you laugh, impressed.

Maybe just a quick peek…

A vast chunk of apprehension breaks away from your chest and vanishes into the ether as you shuffle towards the steps, raising an arm and stretching your fingers across the space to the grab handle that sits invitingly just beside the open door.

This side of the truck is bathed in silver moonlight, and it’s only now that you’re this close that you happen to notice something you hadn’t before.

You almost wince when you spot them.

Although shiny and speckled with only the lightest dusting of desert sand, the metal panelling on the semi is covered in signs of wear and tear.

Enough to give you pause, at least.

For a moment, you’re taken aback, turning bodily away from the open door and cocking your head at the myriad of scratches that criss-cross their way up towards the semi’s roof.

All the paint in the world couldn’t hide some of those shallow nicks and lines that have been scraped out of the metal. In any case, something big must have scuffed it. Perhaps another driver in their own Peterbilt? Or perhaps it’s all damage sustained in testing the vehicle’s automated capabilities.

Clicking your tongue, you absently raise a hand to stroke your fingertips gingerly along the length of a particularly prominent scratch by the door.

“Oh dear,” you tut softly at the side of the truck, “You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?”

Without warning, the engine that had been buzzing so gently suddenly ramps up and starts to vibrate firmly beneath your fingers, so strong you can even feel it judder the ground through the soles of your feet.

Recoiling like you’ve been zapped, you whip your head around to peer through the open door, half expecting the driver to admonish you for touching his vehicle.

As swiftly as it started however, the thrumming engine dies down, and the truck returns to its soft, benign idling. “My apologies,” comes that gentle voice again through the speakers, “Just an overactive combustion chamber.”

“Is it... safe to ride in?” you retort, giving the back of the truck a sidelong glance.

“You will find very few vehicles safer than this one,” he tells you patiently, “I will not allow any harm to befall you, as I would not allow it to befall any of my passengers.”

Your shoulders jump with a silent laugh. “Befall,” you parrot, fighting a smile, “I love the way you talk.”

“… You do?” His speakers buzz with a pleasant hum.

Fingers flexing anxiously, you reach out once again and slide them around the grab handle beside the door, finding that it’s unexpectedly warm under your palm.

“So, I just… get in?” you ask, only to cringe immediately, realising you probably sound like a fool who’s forgotten how to get into a truck.

Before you can rebuke yourself harshly though, the absent stranger offers his response. “Do you require assistance?”

“No, no,” you rush out, placing one foot on the first, silver step and hoisting yourself up off the ground, bringing yourself level with the cab’s seats.

Your eyes grow wide with wonder as you take in the interior.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe, suddenly hesitant to pull yourself up those last few feet.

“Is there something wrong?”

“It’s just… It’s so clean!”

Laid out before you is a perfectly ordinary truck cabin. Soft, grey leather covers the seats, with the same dark colouration on the roof, doors and most of the glovebox, interspersed by a rich, black steering wheel. The soft light, you discover, is emitted by multiple strips of blue neon LEDs that the driver must have fitted underneath the radio dials and dashboard, casting the truck’s interior in a cool, soothing glow.

But most astonishingly, for as much as you search, you can’t spot a single thing out of place. It’s absolutely immaculate. There isn’t one receipt stuffed in the door pockets, no traces of sand or gravel dirtying the footwells, no loose change tossed into the centre console…

Dumbfounded, you glance into the back, but all you find it a dark, grey panel and a shelf set back into the semi’s rear wall, meant for use as a bed, you surmise. It’s empty, unsurprisingly. Not a blanket or a pillow in sight.

Finally, your suspicions are put to rest. This truck doesn’t look lived in at all. He really is operating it remotely.

“God, it looks brand new in here,” you marvel aloud, suddenly hyper-conscious of the abysmal state of your old pickup. The scratches on this semi’s exterior play briefly on your mind but you brush your musings aside, too fatigued to consider the contradictions of a worn exterior but an immaculate interior.

Instead, you feel a frown crease the skin between your brows.

It really is immaculate in here…

Glancing down, you scowl disdainfully at your filthy shoes, the tank-top that’s stained irreparably by dropped food and greasy finger-smears, and trousers that are tattered and worn at their hems.

“Is everything all right?” the ‘driver’ asks again. His voice must emerge from the speakers on each door, low and warm, filling up the cabin.

“My shoes are dirty,” you admit out loud, your grip on the handle turning slack until you sink a few inches back to the first step, “I’m dirty. I-I don’t want to get sand and crap all over your truck.”

“I don’t mind.”

Spoken with more consideration than you’ve heard in a long, long time.

You pause at once, brows tipping up in the centre of your forehead.

A deep inhale through your nose brings with it the unobtrusive scent of leather, with the faintest undertone of adhesive sealers, giving the interior that ‘new truck smell’ that so many drivers try to replicate artificially.

Comparatively, it’s been several days since you passed a rest stop that had showering facilities. Those that did asked for a hefty charge. You’d glanced down at the handful of coppers in your centre console and decided you could go without. Now, you’re starting to regret that decision. Every now and then, whenever you raised your arms to stretch or flip the visor down in your pickup, you’d catch an unpleasant whiff of yourself wafting out from under your light, cotton shirt.

Embarrassed as you are to confess that you’ve been severely neglecting your personal hygiene, you swallow past a lump in your throat and croak, “I… haven’t exactly washed for a couple of days… I wouldn’t want to make your truck smell…”

And in a tone so kind it threatens to brings a tear to your eye, the stranger answers consolingly, “I think your scent is perfectly fine.”

It’s so damnably genuine, you can’t even find it in yourself to point out that he isn’t here to smell you, so his point is moot.

“I…” One more cop-out strikes you. “I don’t have any money,” you murmur truthfully, ashamed, “I can’t pay you for the fuel, or-“

“-I ask for nothing in return but your company,” is all he says, cutting you off as gently as his profound voice will allow.

And just like that, you’re out of viable excuses. Or perhaps your body has noticed the comfortable seats right in front of it and you don’t have enough fight left in you to deny it a sit down. Besides, any reasons you come up with to dip are likely to be met with a counterpoint.

Even so, you can’t help but hesitate for one more question, hand clasping and unclasping around the grab handle. “Are you sure it’s okay? I’m not going to get you in trouble or anything am I?”

The next sound that hums through his speakers is so soft and rich, you think it’s the truck’s engine playing up again, at least until the stranger cuts the noise off by saying, “You do not look like trouble to me.”

If he only knew.

The sound prior, you realise, was a chuckle, the first one you’ve heard out of him yet. Something in the measure of it settles the last of your nerves, only slightly, just long enough to have you throwing caution to the wind. With a final heave, you pull yourself the rest of the way inside, sliding gingerly into the comfortable passenger seat. You never notice how the metal below your foot shifts microscopically, lifting you closer to the cab.

It takes a lot of restraint not to let your eyes drift closed, nor to slump backwards into the wondrously giving material on your spine.

Instead, you sit stiffly with your rucksack keeping you upright, legs pressed together, hands folded neatly in your lap. If you make any kind of mess in here, you’ll be mortified.

After a moment, you remember to close the door, but just as you turn and peel a hand off your thigh, you jolt, staring agog at the door as it swings slowly shut with a dull ‘click.’ All of its own accord.

“Full remote access,” the voice pipes up as the engine below you roars to life, and then you’re moving, and all you can do is stare through the window at the desert drifting by whilst trying to ignore the uninvited ache in your chest.

“Seatbelt.”

His gentle prompt spurs you to reach over and grab the fabric near your shoulder, tugging it across your body and fumbling a little to slot it into place. Suddenly, you feel an invisible pull on the belt, and the metal buckle finds its way into the socket on your next pass.

‘Must be magnetic,’ you muse distractedly.

“Are you comfortable?”

Blinking back the moisture in your eyes, you turn to glance at the empty driver’s seat. It’s bizarre, and more than a little unsettling to see the steering wheel turn itself around as the truck pulls back onto the road, driven by unseen hands.

When you don’t immediately respond to his query, the man continues just as patiently as before. “If it is too cold, I can turn up the heater. Or… perhaps you are too warm…” He hums to himself, thoughtful. “You have been exerting yourself.”

You instantly become aware of the light sheen of sweat that hasn’t quite dried on your forehead. Puckering your face up into a solemn smile, you shake your head and at last respond. “Not to worry. It’s very comfortable in here.”

What follows is a poignant moment of hesitation before the voice speaks again. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but… You do not seem comfortable…”

The open-ended statement fades into silence, and you’re left casting nervous glances around the cabin again. “How do you-?” you start, tugging your shirt further down your arms, “Can you see me? Like… in here?”

Again, there’s a pause, barely longer than a second, yet long enough for you to notice it.

“Cameras,” comes his measured response, “Both external and internal. They’re how I spotted you on the road.”

“Oh, I hadn’t even considered that… Of course.”

Suddenly self-conscious, you reach up and begin to paw uselessly at your dishevelled hair, humming though a thin-lipped smile. “I must look a sight,” you half joke.

“You look tired…” he replies diplomatically, and there’s nothing in it for you to be offended by.

Rubbing a thumb over the wrinkle slowly carving a home between your brows, you heave a dreary sigh. “It’s been a long journey.”

“I can only imagine… And… Where does it culminate, if I may?”

“Terry’s Dairy?” you offer, “Uh, it’s this little farm just on the outskirts of Jasper.”

The truck beneath you gives a reverberating thrum. “I know the pastures, but I’m afraid you will find they lay beyond the ‘outskirts’ of the city.”

Letting out a groan, you knock your head back against the seat behind you, staring bleakly up at the ceiling. “Of course… How far?”

“Only a few miles, to the East of Jasper. We’re coming in from the Northwest highway. I can get you there in twenty-five minutes.”

“Twenty- Oh, no, no. You really don’t have to do that,” you protest, shifting in the seat to frown at the empty driver’s seat in lieu of anywhere else to look, “Just drop me off in town and I’ll walk the rest. You’re already going out of your way for a stranger.”

“I am dropping you off at your destination and not a mile before,” he tells you steadily.

His uncompromising tone brooks no argument.

You stare at the spot a person should be for several, long moments, debating how much you could push an argument. He’s already coaxed you into his truck, his powers of persuasion are rather good. What chance do you have, sleep-deprived as you are?

Conceding sullenly, yet appreciatively, you let your back touch the seat, settling into it a little less hesitantly. “You won’t be taking no for an answer, I assume?”

He only lapses into a stubborn silence, an answer in and of itself.

That quiet is broken, however, when you suddenly let out all the air from your lungs, a smile growing across the width of your face as the breath escapes your nostrils in a sigh. “Thank you for this… Really. You’re saving me a lot of grief.”

The blue neons on his dashboard seem to flare a bit brighter for all of a second before they dim again. “I am glad to be of service,” he replies warmly.

“Oh my god,” you blurt without warning, leaning forwards in the seat and staring through the windscreen with wide eyes, “I’m so sorry, you’re being so nice and I’m so rude – I never asked your name.”

“Nor did I yours,” he points out, “You may call me Op-“

Suddenly, a burst of static buzzes through the radio. You shoot it a funny look.

“Optimus,” the stranger admits over the static with a hesitance you pick up on right away, drawing your gaze from the dash, “My name is Optimus.”

“Optimus?” you repeat incredulously, a small smile quirking at the edges of your mouth, “Wow… You must have had creative parents.”

“I appreciate that it might seem… an unusual name…”

“It is,” you agree pleasantly, “I like it. Makes you sound cool. Unique. My parents just stuck me with Y/n.”

At once, Optimus echoes your name, and you’re jarred by the sound of it coming from someone else’s lips, reverberating around the truck. It’s been a while since anyone used it.

“Y/n,” he says again in his velvety timbre, “It’s a fine name. I like yours too.”

[himluv]

Thursday Bangers - 6.5.25

Y'all, I am so excited for this one! I was tagged by @woundedsoul12 and @serensama to play this week. The lyrical prompt for this week is:

Baby I’m so into you Darling if you only knew All the things that flew through my mind “Fantasy” - Mariah Carey

These lyrics led me to some new territory, but I am so so excited about it! I hope y'all like it! (gently tagging @karinamay @pixiedurango @derivaderci-says)

Now, then. please enjoy:

This New Life

I don’t really belong here, yet. At Weisshaupt. The Wardens, well… They are a grim order and my smiles and optimism seem to be an irritant to many of them. So, I sit alone in my designated corner of the armory. My workstation – little more than a side table overflowing with vials and mortars and all manner of ingredients for making… well, anything, really – at least feels familiar. A place where I can tinker and think. A place where I can feel useful. Safe. 

The point is, I am alone, musing over a recently retrieved artifact, when Evka enters the armory. We haven’t spoken much since our arrival at the Fortress. She’s been avoiding me, I think. Perhaps for the best. I’ve caused her enough trouble already. 

The First Warden was not pleased to learn she’d put me through the Joining unsanctioned. He’d reprimanded her, in front of several high ranking Wardens, and that was before she’d told him about our… adventure in Eichweill. 

No, I have not been a good influence at all. 

But, she is here now, perusing the axes and hammers and doing her best to glance at me discreetly. Oh, Maker! She’s doing it again. I think she thinks I don’t notice. But I do, always. 

How could I not notice Warden Evka Ivo?

Ever since those dreadful, moaning days of slow death, since she sat me up and pressed a chalice to my lips, I see her face behind my eyelids. I think endlessly of smooth skin, warm eyes, such conviction and kindness and strength–

“Antoine?”

I jump. It can’t be helped. I never expect her to talk to me, even when we’re the only people in the room. Like now. 

I clear my throat. “Désolé.” I lift the device, a rather clever construct designed to hold… well, something. I haven’t discovered what just yet. “I was distracted.”

“I can tell.” Evka smiles.

Oh, her smile! So rare and soft and directed at me?! I’m blushing. Oh, no. Please don’t let her notice I’m blushing. Keep it together, Antoine.

“I asked what you were working on?”

“Ah.” I clear my throat. “I, uh, don’t know.”

She crosses her arms, weight shifting back onto one foot. “You don’t know?”

Great. Just great, Antoine. Now she thinks I’m an idiot. I sound like an idiot.

“Not precisely,” I say. I hold out the device, a sphere of gold and silver bands, clearly meant to spin and whirl. “It’s ancient Elvhen.”

“But, Dernel said he found it in the Deep Roads?”

Now I smile. “Yes! Quite the mystery, non?”

“Huh,” she says. “So, what’s it do?”

“No clue!” I’m grinning now. “It’s supposed to move–” I flick the bands with one finger, spinning them slowly “–powered by magic or perhaps some enchantment.”

“Okay,” she drawls, ever the skeptic. But, she’s still wearing the hint of a smile. “So, it spins.”

“Yes.”

She lifts an eyebrow at me. “And that’s it?”

“No.” I take the sphere back, tucking it against my chest protectively. “Or, well, probably not.”

She sighs. Am I boring her? Get to the point, Antoine!

“I think it’s some sort of… container.”

She eyes the orb, its gaps and ornate carvings. The thing is as much air as metal. “Seems like it’d do a pretty bad job of it.”

“If it were to hold something physical, yes!” I hold the sphere up to my face, frowning as I consider it. “But… what if it held something… else?”

I expect her to dig in, to dismiss me like so many of the Wardens here do. I’m the strange little City Elf, the stray with a nasty habit of making things catch fire and stumbling into trouble. A Warden merely by chance, not conviction. 

But, Evka leans closer, her hands on the table as she peers at the device. “Like what?”

Her voice, low and soft and just a little hoarse. I could listen to it for hours. She could say anything and everything and I would tether myself to every syllable. And now, she’s speaking to me with curiosity? Maybe even…awe?

I might catch fire.

I clear my throat then poke and prod at the sphere, seeking out any discrepancies in the metal. Evka is so close her breath is hot on the backs of my fingers. And then, I feel it. A thin, raised ridge beneath the pad of my middle finger. 

“Aha!”

Evka flinches at my outburst and then we’re both blinking, reeling back from the sphere. It’s floating now, a delicate thrum of power between it and my palm. The bands move slowly, until they spin steadily to diffuse the pale flicker of green flame now housed in the center of the device. 

“Light,” I murmur. And through the whirl of the metal, I see her face awash in light and soft with wonder. She laughs and I am struck with the truth.

That I would gladly hunt down the components of her laughter like alchemical ingredients, until I get the recipe just right. Until I can make her smile and laugh at will, any time she needs a dose of joy. 

The truth is, I’m ruined. Utterly hopeless for her hazel eyes and that clever smile. I know it. And, as I smile at her and our eyes meet through the device, I can’t help but think that this strange new life might be less grim if only she knew it, too. 

[kenzidaydreams]

The Space Between (part 3)

Jayvik x female!reader

Content: Touch Aversion, Use of Y/N, Mutual Pining, Slow-Burn (kinda), Polyamory, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, me making up science stuff, mutual care

Summary: Y/N learns that touch can mean safety, especially when she’s in Viktor and Jayce’s arms.

Word Count: 900

Author's Note: Hi! This is the final part of The Space Between. I hope y’all enjoyed reading it, idk how to open up my requests but I’m gonna figure it out and if anyone has one, please send it in!!! Also, I’ve just been writing fanfic for myself in my notes app for a while now, so I got more shit to post if y’all want it lmao.

Part 1 Part 2

ーーー

Jayce started leaving notes on her workstation. Nothing dramatic—just scribbled observations or half-jokes in the margins of her schematics. “You’re the only one who noticed the voltage echo. I’m stealing your brain.” Sometimes he added little sketches: a spark crystal with a happy face, a tiny doodle of her with safety goggles too big for her face.

She kept every one in a drawer in her desk.

Viktor showed affection differently. With precision. Deliberation. When her hand ached from holding a soldering wand too long, he gently took it in his and rubbed the muscles loose. When her hair tangled during late-night experiments, he combed through it with a patience that made her want to cry.

**

In the weeks that followed, it became routine.

Not just the experiments or the long hours or the notes passed between hands—but them. Something built not on urgency, but on trust. On choosing softness again and again, even when the world outside demanded steel.

No one spoke the word relationship aloud. It didn’t feel necessary. What they had was lived, not labeled.

It was the quiet nights, the shared meals, the shared cot. Y/N would nestle next to or between them now without hesitation, fitting perfectly like a missing piece finally found.

Touch had become safe. Familiar. Craved.

And when her thoughts spiraled—when the past crept in like smoke under the door—she never had to speak it.

Jayce would reach for her hand, anchoring. Viktor would draw her close, resting his forehead gently against hers. They didn’t ask her to explain. They just stayed.

**

That next night, they didn’t sleep in the cot.

Jayce, bold as always, suggested they go back to his quarters. “The cot is fine,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “but I’d rather not wake up with Viktor’s elbow in my ribs again.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “That was your knee in my spine.”

Y/N snorted. “I vote for beds. Plural or otherwise.”

Jayce’s smile faltered for just a second—unsure.

Then she reached out, took both of their hands, and gave a small nod.

“Let’s go home.”

Jayce’s bed was large enough for all three, barely. She lay in the middle, Viktor’s arm tucked under her head, Jayce’s hand resting lightly at her waist.

“Is this alright?” Jayce whispered, his voice softer than she’d ever heard.

She turned toward him, nose brushing his.

“More than alright,” she said, and kissed him.

Not with fire, with certainty. Slow, deep, and sweet.

Jayce froze, then melted. His hands tighten on her waist, grounding himself in her touch like it was more important than air.

When she pulled away, Viktor was watching—eyes dark and tender. She turned toward him, heart pounding, and cupped his jaw gently. He leaned into her palm like it was a vow.

He kissed her with warmth and reverence, lips brushing hers like he couldn’t quite believe it was allowed. She leaned into it without hesitation.

After, she laid between them in stunned silence, heart almost bursting.

They didn’t speak again that night. Words were unnecessary. She fell asleep with Viktor’s heartbeat under her hand and Jayce’s breath at the back of her neck.

The next day thunder rolled across Piltover and the lab hummed with soft light. Jayce stood at the window, watching the lightning dance. Viktor sat beside her, working one-handed on a schematic with his other hand entwined with hers.

She watched them both and felt her chest swell. “I love you,” she said. It slipped out, quiet. Unintentional. True.

Jayce turned immediately, eyes wide, and Viktor stilled, lips parting slightly in surprise.

But neither hesitated.

Jayce crossed the room in two strides, kneeling to kiss her hand. “I love you, too.”

Viktor turned her palm in his, brushing a kiss to its center. “Without question.”

**

The physical affection grew—not in urgency, but in presence.

They kissed her cheeks, her temple, her shoulders. Not always with passion—sometimes just in greeting. Sometimes just because they could.

They never rushed her.

Not even when her hands trembled with want and fear all tangled together. Not when she whispered, “I don’t know how far I can go,” voice barely there, eyes filled with uncertainty.

Jayce kissed her fingers and murmured, “Wherever you stop, we’ll be right there with you.”

Viktor rested his forehead to hers. “Love is not a threshold to cross. It’s a path. And we’ll walk it at your pace.”

She hadn’t expected her tears.

But they didn’t recoil. They just held her as she cried, whispering sweet nothings.

**

Do love continued to bloom like ivy—persistent, winding its way around everything.

The relationship wasn’t perfect. There were days when Viktor’s work consumed him, when Jayce got snappy under pressure, when Y/N doubted her place between them.

But they talked. They listened.

They made space for each other. For her.

And in time, the ache that had once lived beneath her skin—tight and coiled and defensive—unwound.

It didn’t disappear. But it softened.

They were all still learning. Still growing. But Jayce and Viktor? They were her home.

And she no longer flinched.

She reached.

[redheadspark]

1 & 19 from the Hurt/comfort prompts with Azriel🫣🫣🫣

A/N - So good for Azriel! Thanks for requesting this, anon!

Swear

Summary - On the eve of Battle against King Hybern, you and Azriel use your bond to talk

Warnings - just a mix of angst and fluff

“You have to be strong,”

“I don’t think I can, Madja,”

“You must, now more than ever,”

You clenched your fingers tightly into a ball as you were looking down at the workstation that was in front of you at the medical tent.  The open field that was not too far away was already filled to the brim with soldiers on both sides of the war that was about to erupt, bloodshed was about to happen, and that could only mean death and despair within the hour.  Inwardly you were somewhat glad that you weren’t an Illyrian soldier or a soldier in general.  Being Madja’s Apprentice and a Healer in training, you had your own tent to tend to for the wounded.  You trained for something like this for centuries, no longer practicing on dummies and on Illyrian soldiers from the camp.  

This was real, and you were thinking of someone else at the point.

Made move on from your workstation to her own at the main tent, leaving you to your own time to prepare and to mentally be ready.  Within the hour you would be able to hear the screaming, the clashing of weaponry, and constant bodies pouring into your tent for help.  Madja wanted you it would be chaotic and stressful, but she also knew you were ready for this since you were under her aid and guidance.  She was tough and knew more than you could ever learn in your lifetime, and yet she chose you to be her second in command.  

Your mate though, was out there on the battlefield.  He had to be out there, and as much as you begged and pleaded for him to not be there in the middle of it all, he had to fulfill his duty.  It was hard enough that you knew he was on dangerous missions or spying deep in other Courts to get information for Rhysand, that was fine with you since you weren’t close enough to think of the possibility of him getting hurt. 

Yet he was simply over the hill outside your tent.

Reaching down into your pocket, you took out a single silver necklace that had a simple yet elegant ring that was on the chain.  You held it in your palm, feeling the weight of the metal against your palm and how it shined in the sunlight that was streaming into the tent from the open flap. 

Your wedding ring.

You made the choice some time before to hide it in your pocket, simply because you were afraid of loosing it.  However, in that moment when you felt the mating bond humming deep within you, you placed the chain over your neck and felt the necklace against your chest as you hide it under your shirt.  

My love….

You heard his voice, sounding so calm and true as you were feeling the hum of your mating bond growing stronger and bolder by the second.  It always get that way when you two would talk together though your bond, and it was always intense with you.  For as long as you two were mates, speaking to him like this would always give you butterflies.

Azriel, You said in the bond, feeling that fluttering of warmth within your stomach.  You had to know that he was okay and safe, that he was ready for what was going to come.  It seemed silly to question it, Azriel was a fighter and a skilled one at that.  Still, you worried for your mate. 

I can feel it too, He voiced to you, you take in a long breath, You don’t have to hide your tears from me. It’ll be okay.  

You realized that you were crying, a few drops were hitting your shirt and apron as the rest were landing on the workstation.  Azriel knew how to calm you, even when you two were not physically together.  His words alone were enough to bring you clarity, and the pearls of wisdom he would give you in those tougher times made you love him all the more.  

He would reassure you that he would always come back to you when he had to leave for a risky mission or to spy deep undercover in a neighboring court.  He felt your fear that you would be a widow, no matter how many years he’s been the Spymaster for Night Court.  

On the day he would leave, he would hold you close in his arms for several minutes.  You felt him breathe you in to remember your scent and the feeling of your skin along his own, you would do the same.  A simple hug meant more to both of you than anything, because you both wanted that hug to be the last loving thing you two would remember from each other if you were ever ripped apart from each other.  Either by distance or death, your last hugs to one another were engrained in love.

Even that morning in your shared bed, Azriel holding you like a precious jewel as you two were bare under your sheets and simply watching each other in love and deep affection.  You thought of him as beautiful, the sun sinking in his ink-black hair and brightening his hazel eyes.  His shadows were simmering along his skin,   his eyes trained on you.

He reached over to frame your face in the palm of your hand, you nuzzling into the touch as he finally spoke for the first time that morning.

“I’ll destroy anything that so much as thinks of harming you,” He vowed, you feeling that truth etched into your skin as he leaned over to nuzzle his nose into yours, “I’ll come back to you, I swear.”

“And I you,” You whispered in reply, Azriel leaning in to finally kiss you senseless.

How do you know?  You had to ask him in the bond, hearing the lightest of a chuckle from him.

Because I know we are meant to be together in this life, for all of our lives, He said back in reply, sounding beyond sure of himself as you finally smiled.  You had faith that Azriel would come out alive from this battle, that you would too, and that you two would reunite and have your life together.  In your small and cramped but well-cozied apartment that was on the top floor, waking up together on the lazy days with your coffee and tea.  Those smaller moments seemed more sacred now, with fighting for in this battle that could change the course of the future.  

So you held onto your necklace, knowing that the vow that Azriel made to you that morning would ring true in your heart.  This battle must be won, and deep down you know that it would be won with your Spymaster on the front line. 

The End

Hurt and Comfort Prompt Session

[sugatrapp]

「 O b s i d i a n 」

•─────────────•°•❀•°•─────────────•

Part I

Pairings: Severus Snape x Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: Professor Greeves’s infatuation with the potions master reaches a breaking point when he begins spending more time with his assistant.

Warnings: Lovesick reader ~ Jealousy ~ Angst ~ Use of “they” pronouns ~ Non-specified gender of reader

A/N: The last name Greeves is given but reader is otherwise not described.

AO3

Masterlist

Ko-Fi

•─────────────•°•❀•°•─────────────•

Fridays in Advanced Phylactery Making held a special place in Professor Greeves’s heart. Watching awe light up their students’ eyes after separating the metal from their molds never failed to light a fire of pride in them. The hollow pieces were dim and bare bones, but it was a steppingstone to material that would prove useful beyond their studies.

Sanding was next. Each student was equipped with sheets of wet sandpaper as they hunched over their tables and ran them over their soon to be amulets. Greeves had to correct a few eager ones well on the way to sanding a hole in the frames. It was understandable; they’ve been waiting since fifth year to start crafting. Two whole years of learning theory and writing papers on proper amulet usage left plenty of time to weed out bad apples and encourage those with a genuine interest. Much to their surprise, only two students dropped the course while leaving a majority of thirteen.

They couldn’t ask for better students. It was every professor’s dream to have an engaged, well-behaved class every day. They were the talk around the staff room, including from the potions master. One Monday evening while both professors were heading off to dinner in the Great Hall, he expressed his disbelief after hearing of their students’ accomplishments and quick comprehension.

“Some of the seventh years can hardly brew a Wiggenweld potion, let alone craft a talisman,” he grumbled.

It was a normal day in the Hall. The students talked among themselves while forking down their meals. Greeves noticed a little too late that the only available seats were at his usual end of the table. They struggled to contain the warmth rushing through their face and their trembling hands. Talking with the reclusive dungeon bat was rare in and of itself, but sitting near him during mealtimes was unheard of for them. Even in the three years they’d been at Hogwarts, the opportunity had presented itself only one other time, much less desired back then.

Now, as they piled food onto their plate while continuing to speak about their classes, Greeves was aware of their lingering gaze. It wouldn’t surprise them if he could see the hearts shining in their eyes. His deep drawl caressed their soul with feather light fingers, leaving it a purring mess. His obsidian pools drew Greeves in further into their depths each time their eyes met. They seared their skin when they weren’t looking. And his hair, sleek and majestic, aroused the urge to run their fingers through it.

To say they were smitten was an understatement.

His perfect lips were saying something, yet no words reached their ears.

They wiped the serene smile stretching across their face, attention planted firmly back in the present. Hopefully they weren’t as obvious as they were back then. After a few laps around the rows of tables, the clock hanging above the door signaled the end of class and the end of the school week.

“Great work today everyone. Please bring your projects to my desk and don’t forget to clean your workstations,” they looked pointedly at the student notorious for leaving her area in a whirlwind. She blushed before sweeping her metal shavings into a bin. The rest scrambled to collect their things and turn in their work.

“Next week we will learn how to infuse them with magic, so make sure to begin reading the section in your textbooks,” they called to their retreating forms.

Excited chatter settled over the group, continuing down the hall. While they pondered their plans for the weekend, Greeves had their own to attend to. They opened their bottom desk drawer, retrieving a small drawstring bag. They turned it over in their hand then stowed it away in their pocket with a deep breath. Very big plans indeed.

An embarrassing bounce plagued their steps on their way to the Great Hall. Their stomach growled angrily at their insolence, empty since the lackluster biscuit and jam breakfast they had. They couldn’t entirely blame waking up later than usual. No, the nerves from haunting thoughts of a certain dark-haired man are partially to blame.

Before he grew to tolerate them, Severus hadn’t made it easy to get close to him. Asking him a simple question about his day seemed like a crime. Greeves could admit they didn’t trust others easily either, but there came a time when they had to realize not everyone had bad intentions. They didn’t know why he was so cautious. All they knew was they wanted him to take a chance on them.

The usual cacophony of chatter greeted them as they entered the Great Hall. A couple of students waved at them while they walked down the aisle, which they reciprocated with a smile. It eased their mind slightly from the task at hand.

It’s not a big deal, they thought, just say you want to talk to him about something privately. But would that be too forward? Too weird? Would he want to talk to me at all? They were so lost in their head that they didn’t realize the seat beside him was already occupied. They almost choked on their next breath. There she was, Clara—his newly appointed potions assistant—munching away on grapes while talking to him. Her animated manner of speaking was hard to ignore. Some days it was infectious to a degree.

Today was not one of those days.

When Clara first joined the Hogwarts staff, Greeves didn’t mind her jovial company. It made grading and trips to Hogsmeade more interesting. The stories she told of her muggle life in America fueled their desire to visit it one day. She made an honest effort to get to know each of her colleagues. Though not everyone appreciated her chipper attitude. Severus scoffed at any mention of her. He gave her the treatment he gave every newcomer: one-word answers and avoidance like they were diseased ridden. Clara didn’t heed their warnings about his standoffishness, pacing furiously in their classroom one day with a frown that didn’t fit her face.

“I mean, he didn’t even let me finish what I was saying!”

Greeves recalled similarly their time as a newbie. They didn’t fully accept him brushing them off either, but they learned when not to push him too hard. Clara, not so much.

“Don’t be too upset,” they patted her shoulder before going back to putting up supplies. “He’s like that with everyone.”

“But I want us to be civil at least. He won’t even give me the time of day!”

Greeves smirked, vaguely remembering having the same conversation with Professor McGonagall.

“He’ll come around eventually. Just don’t bombard him so soon, okay? Ease into it.”

She paused her frantic movements to ponder their words then nodded, a determined expression replacing her frown.

“Okay. Thanks, Professor.”

They wouldn’t have bothered if they knew it would lead to that. Their heart pounded against their chest harder the closer they get to the head table. He didn’t look annoyed or even mildly disinterested. He was actually engaging with her. They rounded the table, pausing to address them.

“Hello Clara,” it came out more strained than they intended. “Professor.”

Greeves barely paid attention to her cheery response and focused their attention on him instead. He glanced over for a second and gave a polite nod.

Ouch. It felt like their every move was being ridiculed and scrutinized as they took the available seat next to Professor McGonagall further down the table. They greeted the older woman and made a bit of small talk between bites of pasta. They went into autopilot mode. They didn’t fully comprehend what they or Minerva were discussing. All they could linger on was the fact that Clara had waltzed in and wormed her way into Severus’s good graces much faster than them. Much faster than they had heard from the other professors.

A sudden giggle reached their ears, startling them from their trance. They looked in that direction, regretting it immediately. Clara was cackling at something he said. But what really left their heart heavy was the expression on his face. His fine lines were smoothed out, the corner of his lips raised in a half smile, and a glint in his eyes that reminded them of stars on a moonless night. They never saw him look so…placid.

Greeves sighed, long and defeated. They turned back to their plate where they’d been pushing and prodding at their food. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea to talk to him after all.

“Are you alright, dear?” Minerva interrupted their spiraling thoughts.

They blinked, quickly forcing a smile when the question registered.

“Of course, Professor. Just thinking about the assignments I have left to grade.”

They took another bite of food to sell the lie though grimaced afterwards. It had gone cold. Minerva took one look over her shoulder at what they had been transfixed on before a knowing smirk tugged on her lips.

“This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with a certain professor, would it?”

“No-No, not at all!”

Even they didn’t believe the lie. Their half-hearted denial fell on deaf ears.

“You should tell him how you feel.”

“And if he doesn’t feel the same?”

She placed a warm hand on their shoulder. “Then you’ll know, and you won’t be tormented by constant what-ifs.”

They were still unsure, yet groups of students heading for the exit let them know they didn’t have long to decide. From the corner of their eye, they saw Severus taking his leave, his cloak billowing behind him. Clara was nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps Minerva was right. It made sense for them to get along. It would be counterproductive if they despised one another while working together so closely. Or maybe Greeves was setting themselves up for heartbreak. Maybe they were closer than typical colleagues. Either way, they knew they had to do something.

They had to know for sure.

They thanked Minerva for the advice before heading off to their chambers to freshen up.

•─────────────•°•❀•°•─────────────•

Unfortunately for them, patrol duty didn’t wait or care about their prior plans.

The halls were calm apart from the stragglers they caught sneaking around with firecrackers. It was even worse since they now had to serve them with a lengthy detention sentence on Monday. After escorting them back to their respective common rooms, they realized they weren’t far from the potions’ classroom. Past curfew or not, Greeves could count on Severus doing some late-night grading or reading. They figured a slight deviation wouldn’t hurt.

They fished the drawstring pouch from their pocket, a faint blue glow emanating from it in the dim lighting. On they walked toward the dungeons, feeling the gradual shift of temperature to a biting chill. They gave themselves a pep talk the entire way that did nothing to slow their doubts.

The door came into view, left cracked open which he only did when he expected them to drop by. Did he notice their not-so-subtle staring at dinner? Had he been aware of their affection for him the whole time?

They bit their lip as they approached the door, raising their fist to knock when a voice that wasn’t his slashed their resolve.

“It’s refreshing to know someone who’s into the same things as I am. You wouldn’t believe how much I was teased for being a teacher’s pet.”

Clara, Greeves frowned. What was she doing here? They willed their heart to quiet for fear of anyone hearing, leaning closer to hear his response.

“It’s nothing against you personally. Others only fear and envy what they don’t understand.”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

“My early days were no walk in the park either, but you can’t dwell on the past lest you prove them right. You have a brilliant mind and potions are a viable medium, personal bias aside of course.”

“That means a lot, Severus.”

Heels clicked further away before a pin drop silence settled in. With feathered steps, they inched the door open enough to see what was happening. The moment their eyes focused, they gasped and covered their mouth with both hands. The pouch hit the ground with a muffled clack. They…

A hellscape realized was the only thing close to describing the scene. Their blurry forms pulled away from each other as they questioned the noise, one of them starting towards Greeves. They forced their legs to work, casting the disillusionment spell then taking off running. Patrol forgotten, they didn’t stop until they reached their chambers. Only when the door was closed and securely locked behind them did they allow the building sob to escape. They slid down the doors length until they were on the floor, hiding their face behind their knees.

At least they finally got an answer.

•─────────────•°•❀•°•─────────────•

TAGLIST

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✨Leave a comment below if you would like to be added to this series' tag list! ✨

[deadgirlwalking91]

new guitarspear fic

'thank you for the venom', chapter one: 'if this is what you want, then fire at will'

Summary

“Is that all it takes to make you moan? You’d be such a freak in the sheets, Lieutenant.”

“Hilarious. Respectfully, Sir, go deep throat a cactus.”

***

Despite working together for years, Adam and Lute can't stand each other.

He thinks she's got a stick up her ass.

She thinks he's an idiot.

When Lute goes behind Adam's back to Sera and proposes they change their training regime for Extermination Day, Adam is hellbent on making her life miserable - until he learns it's in his best interest to work with her, not against her.

The problem is, neither of them counted on unexpected feelings getting in the way of their jobs, which makes things... tense for them.

What happens when one day, they accidentally take things a little too far?

***

Chapter One

Adam & Lute’s Office, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

Lute knew she’d messed up this time.

If she had an ordinary boss, she might only cop a slight reprimand for going over his head – an uncomfortable conversation, promises of ‘I’ll never do it again’, waiting for time to pass until the awkwardness of the situation wore off and they could go back to business as usual.

Unfortunately, her boss was far from what most would consider an ordinary angel – both in title and temperament. Which consequently meant his reaction to her undermining him would be… hostile, to say the least.

“I can’t fucking believe you went to Sera without talking to me first!” Adam bellowed, pounding his fist on his desk. Old coffee cups, abandoned paperwork and scattered stationary threatened to spill over the edge, littering the already cluttered floor around his workstation. “Fucking low blow babe, even for a kiss-ass like you.”

Don’t rise to his anger. Keep a cool head. Explain your case.

“Sir,” Lute laced her fingers together and placed them on the surface of her own desk, ready to state her case for taking her proposal directly to the High Seraphim and bypassing her superior. In contrast to her Commander, her own workspace was neatly arranged, not a hint of messiness to be found. She cleared her throat. “I tried to talk to you about this a week ago, and you dismissed me.”

“You haven’t said shit to me.”

‘Yes I have,’ she thought to herself, resisting the urge to retort back and begin a verbal tennis match. She knew she’d win – after all, she was much smarter than Adam, and could hold a sentence without swearing, cursing or a sexual innuendo. Stooping to his level would just escalate the situation further than where it needed to be, and if it got to that level she was certain things would get ugly. Fast.

“I’m positive we have had this conversation, Sir.”

“Nup. We haven’t.”

Lute inhaled slowly and deliberately through her nose, trying to supress her already-rising frustration. He was being particularly petulant today, and she found her patience with him was quickly wearing thin. Squaring her shoulders, she continued. “Sir, we were on our way to the eight o’clock agility training session. I remember it clearly as you were complaining that you had a meeting with Sera later that morning. I thought it would be an opportune moment to mention it to you as it would be fresh in your mind when you met with her.”

Adam snorted and leaned forward onto his elbows; the golden facial expression on the screen of his mask fixed into a jeer. “And you think that was a good time to approach me about one of your lame ideas? I thought you were smarter than that. What’s my first rule of working together, sweetie?”

Don’t throw a knife at him. Don’t threaten to disembowel him – as much as you want to. Stay calm, Lieutenant.

“With all due respect, Sir –” Lute growled, her professional tone wavering. “I hardly think that putting limits on when I can and cannot converse with you is conducive to creating a professional working relationship with you.”

“Firstly, we don’t have a professional working relationship, babe. It’s pretty fucking black and white, actually – I’m your boss, you listen to me. It’s not that difficult a concept to grasp.” Lute opened her mouth in anger to protest, but Adam held up a single finger, signalling for her to wait. Dumb move. That single gesture just fuelled the intense rage that was quickly building inside her.

“Secondly, the rule is don’t talk to me about important shit before nine o’clock. Chances are I won’t remember it because I’ll be half asleep, and I’ll give even less of a fuck about what you’ve got so say because you’ve pissed me off before I've had my morning coffee.”

“I’d rather not talk to you at all,” Lute said through gritted teeth. “But, I unlike you, actually care about Extermination Day, and if we continue how we’re currently track-”

“And I, unlike you,” Adam said mockingly in a high-pitched voice that was supposed to sound like Lute’s, “couldn’t give a shit about how many Sinners we slay next Extermination Day, or whatever the fuck it was that you ran to Sera about. The only thing that matters is that we show our faces in Hell on Extermination Day and slaughter some demon ass. That’s it. Those fuckers are scared shitless of us anyway, so it doesn’t matter how many we kill, we'll always have the upper hand. It’s called working smarter, not harder, babe.”

He cannot be serious right now. Does he not realise that our kill rate is slipping, year on year? How this might affect us long-term? That Sinners might start to fight back once they figure out that we’re starting to let our guard down?

“So what you’re telling me,” Lute started, now barely able to contain her vitriol, “Is that you don’t give a flying f-”

“Exactly.” Adam stood up and smirked down at Lute, the smug look of satisfaction on his mark now too much for Lute to bear.

Fuck you, you arrogant prick.

“Conversation’s over. Get back to actually doing your job, Lieutenant, instead of wasting my time with your insignificant, petty bullshit. Don’t fucking pull a stunt like this again.”

Adam strode towards the door of their shared office, pausing briefly as his hand rested on the door handle, his smirk intensifying. “Oh, one more thing.”

“What?” she snapped, head now in her hands. She couldn’t even physically look at him.

“I’m pretty sure we just established that I’m your superior, so a bit of respect would be nice to hear, Lieutenant.”

“What, sir?” Her hands pulled in frustration at her silvery-white bangs that had fallen into her eyes.

“Be a good girl and finish that overdue paperwork for me, would you? I’ve got more important shit to do. It’d be a good reminder for you of what your job actually entails.”

That’s it.

Lute had tried to play nice. Tried to do the right thing and raise her suggestion in a polite, professional manner. Took an alternative avenue once she realised her attempts at improvement were going nowhere. She’d even attempted to sit calmly through his dressing-down without reacting to his bullshit. But now?

She’d finally snapped.

Agilely leaping over her desk so she was in front of his, she picked up one of the multiple long-forgotten mugs that cluttered the surface and hurled it in his general direction.

Lute hadn’t really expected for it to hit him – the act of picking up the mug and throwing it had been born out of built-up frustration and anger at her imbecile boss, a need to expel some of the hatred that had built up over the course of their most recent conversation. The fact that it had connected with the side of his head and shattered into at least a hundred tiny ceramic pieces?

Just a bonus, really. It was just a damn shame it didn’t leave a mug-sized hole in his head.

‘Good. Hope it fucking hurt.’ She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction, taking in his surprise as he lifted a hand to his head and checked for blood. Time to let him have it.

“If anything,” she hissed in a low, dangerous voice. She was now moving towards Adam, one hand clenched by her side, the other pointed threateningly at his face. “Let me get this one thing through your thick head – though more than anything right now, I’d love to drive my sword between your eyes, carve up your tiny, pathetic excuse for a brain and force feed it back to you raw.”

Adam opened his mouth to respond, his surprise at her tone quickly turning to fury, but she didn’t give him the courtesy. He needed to hear this – graphic acts of violence and all.

“Shut it,” she snarled. “Shut the fuck up and just fucking listen for once, as difficult as that is for you. Because I’m not your fucking secretary. I’m not your assistant. I’m here to do my job – which is to provide training and mentorship to the other Exorcists, because you’re too damn incompetent to do it yourself.” Her normally restrained voice grew louder. “Perhaps if you focused more on doing your job, instead of screw-”

“Geez,” Adam drawled, “You’re a fucking little mouthy cunt, aren’t you?” He gripped the wrist of Lute’s outstretched arm, rage etched all over his mask, which had started glitching ever so slightly. Not a good sign.

Ouch. Lute may be the better aim of the two, and more agile, but Adam was had the upper hand when it came to brute strength. She was positive that his hold on her wrist was going to bruise – that was going to be fun to explain once it was noticed. She continued to stare him down, never daring to break eye contact or even blink. She couldn’t let him think he’d won. Even if he did have her arm in a death grip.

She’d rather fall to the depths of Hell than admit defeat to him.

Rap-rap-rap.

“Adam? Lute?” a soft voice called from behind the door. “Is everything alright? I heard something break just now.”

Sera.

Seizing her moment, Lute yanked her wrist from Adam’s grasp and made towards her desk once again.

“Come in, Your Highness,” she called in an uncharacteristically chirpy voice. “Adam accidentally dropped his coffee mug, and it broke, which is what you must have heard. I was just showing him the best way to clean up the mess.”

Adam shot her a filthy look and stomped back to his desk, muttering incoherently under his breath – though Lute was sure she heard the word bitch at least twice.

The handle clicked, and Sera poked her head through the gap between the door and the frame. She frowned at the scattered ceramic pieces that lay forgotten on the floor.

“Are you two… having a disagreement?” she asked concernedly, her large, almond-shaped eyes noticing the glowering looks the two angels were shooting each other. “I thought I could hear shouting.”

“Yeah, we’re fine Sera,” Adam waved his hand dismissively at Lute. “Lieutenant here was just running some ideas past me for next month’s training plan and got a bit carried away.”

‘As if he hadn’t completely flown off the handle just minutes ago’ Lute thought angrily to herself but feigned a smile and nodded politely. Going toe-to-toe with Adam in private was one thing, but she prided herself on keeping her composure around the Seraphim and other senior angels in Heaven. They didn’t need to know about their little disagreement.

Or the hundreds of disagreements that had occurred before this one. None had been quite this heated, though.

This was the only one that had almostended in violence, though. That was a first.

“Oh, excellent.” Sera moved into the room and shut the door behind herself. “What do you think, Adam? Your Lieutenant has some brilliant ideas, which I personally can’t wait to see executed over the coming months. Her presentation to me was very promising.”

The look on Adam’s face was positively feral now. Lute relished this moment and made a mental note to file this look away in her memory bank – seeing him quietly seethe in the presence of his direct superior, knowing it was in his best interest to keep his cool was something she was going to enjoy. To rile him up further, she propped an elbow on her desk, rested her chin in her hand and shot him a quick, satisfied smirk.

Cop that, asshole.

“Yeah,” Adam grumbled, suddenly busying himself with the paperwork on his desk. “They’re good.”

“Well,” Sera clapped her hands together and smiled at Lute, who bowed her head in respect in return. To hear that her proposal was highly regarded by one of the most senior angels in Heaven was praise beyond what she ever expected to receive for her work.

It was certainly more than what her direct boss had ever given her.

“That settles that, then. Lieutenant, if you could please come with me, I’d like to add a couple of things to your training program that I’ve thought of.” Lute nodded and rose from her desk once more, gathering her bag and notes. Noticing that Sera had turned to open the door once more, Adam quickly shot Lute a one-fingered salute to bid her farewell. Lute simply mouthed, “get fucked” in return.

“Oh, Adam, I see you’re working on the monthly training incident report that I asked you to turn in a week ago,” Sera said as he hastily went back to pretending to review his work. “Make sure it’s on my desk by five o’clock, please. I need it for a meeting tomorrow with the other Seraphim.” She turned and glided out the door, Lute only a few footsteps behind – though she took care to accidentally bump Adam’s shoulder with her own as she trailed behind Sera.

“Kiss-ass.”

“Dick.”

Lute closed the door with a little more force than necessary – just for good measure, knowing it would infuriate Adam to no end. Just to rub her victory in a little more. Because, after this round?

The score was Lute – one, Adam – zero.

Laughing to herself, she was sure she could hear Adam cursing her with language colourful enough to paint an entire rainbow as she strolled down the hall to Sera’s office.

Bring it on.

***

The Common Room, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

The Training Centre common room was abuzz with idle chatter and echoes of laughter as Lute entered later that morning, determined to continue her work far, far away from Adam. No formal training sessions had been scheduled for that day – the result of his poor timetabling skills, Lute was sure of it.

She would have expected the Exorcists to be using their ‘free’ time to hit the gym, or initiate sparring sessions with one another. Perhaps use the opportunity to enhance their weapon skills or, if they were particularly ambitious, simulation training. Slaying holographic demons was almost as satisfying as the real thing. Just a lot less bloody.

The reality was, on personal development days, the Training Centre turned into a goddamn sorority house. Hundreds of incredibly beautiful women congregated together in the common room, not a helmet or uniform in sight as they lazed about in their casual clothes. Some were huddled together in small groups, hands wrapped around mugs of steaming coffee or tea, giggling at whatever the latest gossip happened to be - usually centred around Adam’s latest squeeze. Others congregated around tables, playing card games (the most popular one lately, Lute had noticed, was an extremely competitive game involving red, green, blue, yellow and black cards that seemed to invoke a lot of shouting and name-calling).

The sight of it all never failed to give Lute a thumping headache. This wasn’t a fucking kindergarten, this was supposed to be work, dammit.

It wasn’t that she was against fun. She knew how to enjoy herself. There was nothing better than cosying up on the couch after a long day at the Training Centre with a hot chocolate, blanket and comforting book. Or an intense, two-hour gym session, sweating her frustrations away – a ritual she religiously undertook every single day, no excuses.

Sometimes, when Lute really wanted to spoil herself, she’d have a bubble bath. Now, that was wild.

Sighing, she located one of the more comfortable, vacant armchairs and slumped into it, allowing her eyes to close for just a moment. Normally she’d redirect the Exorcists to go and use their time more productively but after her earlier verbal sparring match with Adam, she needed a moment to relax before she got stuck into the fresh paperwork Sera had assigned her.

Sera loved paperwork.

Only three more days until I can start to turn this shitshow around.

“You look like hell.”

Lute chuckled softly. Without looking, she knew exactly who had greeted her in such a matter-of-fact way – it was the only person she’d allow to do so without punishment. Opening her eyes, she was graced by the presence of a petite angel perched on the arm of her chair, her soft red, almond-shaped eyes crinkled into a look of concern. She handed Lute a mug of steaming, black coffee which she graciously accepted with a wry smile. This morning’s events called for extra caffeine to get her through the rest of the day.

What an angel.

“Thanks, Vaggie. Rough morning in the office again.”

“Ugh. What did he do this time?”

One of Lute’s favourite things about Vaggie was how she was certain she was the only other Exorcist in the lounge who openly hated Adam as much as she did. Probably because she was one of the only other soldiers who he hadn’t taken to his bed over the years. They both often joked that he was the sole reason Vaggie was a lesbian, that the First Man was so repulsive that he alone caused her to swear off all men.

Lute didn’t have her sexuality as an excuse as to why she’d never slept with him. She just straight up hated him. Plus, it would be highly unprofessional. And he was a cretin.

Did I mention that I hate him?

“He found out I took my proposal to Sera.” Lute took a long sip from the cup, the scalding liquid almost burning her tongue. Perfection. “Then proceeded to lose his shit because he forgot that I’d tried to talk to him about it before I approached her. He thought that I’d undermined him.”

Vaggie rolled her eyes. “Typical. How did it end? Did he threaten to leave you in Cannibal Town next Extermination Day again?”

Speaking of cannibalism, I threatened to feed his own brains to him. That’s normal, right?

“Um, not quite.” Lute began, taking another sip of coffee. “I might have accidentally-on-purpose thrown a mug at his head.”

Also totally normal.

“I’m so proud of you. Did you make him bleed?”

“Sadly not, but there’s always next time.”

Vaggie grinned, clinking her own mug against Lute’s. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Amen. He then called me a mouthy cunt and I’m about ninety percent sure one of us would have caused grievous bodily harm to the other if Sera didn’t walk in at that exact moment. The cherry on top is that she came to tell him we’re going ahead with my plans.” She set her empty mug down on a nearby table and grinned up at Vaggie, who had now crossed her legs and somehow still managed to stay perfectly balanced on the arm of her chair. Tiny little thing, she was. “You should have seen his face, Vaggie. It was glorious. I’m surprised he didn’t self-combust in anger.”

“If only.” Vaggie downed the rest of her drink. “So, if Sera’s approved the plan – congrats, by the way, we need to celebrate - when do you start whipping us into shape?”

“Monday morning. We’re going to announce it in here during the morning address, before we move into the training rooms.” Lute surveyed the Exorcists lounging about. “Don’t know how the girls will take it, though. Can’t say I’ve scheduled too many days like this.”

“It won’t be easy at first,” Vaggie warned. “They’re too used to this kind of freedom.”

“I know, and if Adam undermine-”

“UNO!”

Lute and Vaggie whipped their heads around simultaneously at the sudden high-pitched squeal, Vaggie almost losing her balance and toppling off the armchair in the process. A group of five Exorcists were at a nearby table, playing the colourful card game that seemed to be all the rage.. One was grinning madly as she clutched a single card to her chest.

“What even is that?”

Vaggie’s eyes widened.

“Seriously? You’ve never played Uno? I know you’re a hermit Lute, but come on.”

“No,” Lute admitted, “Who would I play with anyway, besides you?”

“Fair point. But – and I say this with love – I’m worried that you’ve thrown yourself into your work a little too much lately, especially with this new program you’ve created. You need to relax a little.”

“What does it look like I’m doing now?” Lute grumbled. “If I’m not training, working, or exercising, I’m relaxing.”

“Lute,” Vaggie laughed. “I could see how tense you are as soon as you walked in here – and to be honest, you’d be uptight even if you didn’t have a crappy morning. This isn’t chilling out. Relaxing is letting your hair down, getting a drink after training with the girls. Playing cards,” She nodded towards the group of angels, the girl who was holding one card now picking multiple others up from a pile, cursing her friends as they all giggled amongst each other. “Try it, you might enjoy it. It’s actually pretty fun, once you get the hang of it. I absolutely annihilated Scout the other week, she wouldn’t talk to me for three days.”

“Maybe. It’s probably blurring the lines between me being their superior and being their friend, though.”

“Oh yeah,” Vaggie said dryly. “And you don’t think them taking turns being Adam’s flavour of the week blurs any lines, do you?”

Dammit. She’s got a point.

Lute screwed up her nose in disgust.

“That’s different. I’m professional, he’s… not.”

“I’m not saying sleep with them, geez.” Vaggie rolled her eyes and slid into a standing position. “I’m just suggesting maybe try being friendly with the other girls, that’s all.”

“Fine. Once the program’s under way. If they don’t hate me for kicking their asses and making them actually work.”

“You may be a hardass, but nobody’s gonna hate you.” Vaggie held out her hand, motioning for Lute to take it. “Come on. Let’s grab lunch, I’m starving.”

Would it be so bad if I let my guard down… just a little?

Lute took her friend’s hand, allowing herself to be pulled up off the seat. She grimaced slightly at the tenderness in her wrist where Adam had grabbed her – no doubt there’d be a bruise there tomorrow.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Vaggie slung her arm around her friend’s shoulders as they walked towards the cafeteria together. “Buckle up, buttercup. Shit’s about to get interesting.”

***

Chapter Two

[budgetgameruae]

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[strljaem]

“i’ve appreciated the way you appreciated my hard work”

as an oxford student.

The sun was barely a smudge on the horizon when I left my dorm, the sky painted in shades of gray that mirrored my mood. Oxford’s cobblestone streets were slick with morning dew, each step sending a shiver through my shoes. As I crossed the quad, I felt the centuries of history staring down at me from the towering spires, their solemn stone faces whispering tales of brilliance and struggle.

I walked briskly to my first class of the day—Discrete Mathematics. It was a small lecture hall, but the pressure within was anything but diminutive. Rows of students sat hunched over laptops, the blue glow of their screens casting a ghostly light on their faces. The quiet murmur of hushed discussions floated through the air, mingling with the faint scent of coffee from the communal pot in the corner.

The professor's voice cut through the room, each word carrying a weight that seemed to sink into my chest. The content was dense, complex, and required more concentration than my caffeine-addled brain could muster at this hour. I scribbled notes, trying to keep up, but the pace was relentless. I glanced at my classmates; they were absorbed, their fingers flying over keyboards, their eyes fixed on the projection screen where diagrams and equations blurred into a dizzying dance.

Between classes, I made my way to the computer lab, where the steady hum of computers filled the air. Here, the stress became palpable. Students hunched over their workstations, faces creased with concentration. I saw friends exchanging worried glances, their voices hushed as they discussed the latest assignment—another mountain to climb, another impossible deadline. It was a constant grind, a relentless barrage of tasks that seemed designed to test our breaking points.

I felt the weight of my laptop in my bag, the weight of the assignments stacking up like a Jenga tower on the brink of collapse. My calendar was a sea of red, each block of time filled with deadlines, study sessions, and meetings with professors. I couldn’t afford to slack, not with the constant reminder that everyone here was exceptional, and the competition was fierce.

As I left the lab, I caught a glimpse of the ancient college buildings bathed in a faint morning light. They were beautiful, but their beauty felt distant, almost mocking. I wondered how many students before me had walked these same paths, felt the same stress, and questioned whether they could ever measure up to the legacy of Oxford. I took a deep breath, knowing that I had to keep pushing, even as the assignments threatened to drown me in a sea of anxiety.

I entered the next class, slipping into a seat beside my best friend, Emily. The lecture hall was buzzing with energy, the usual chatter and rustling of notebooks echoing off the stone walls. Emily looked up and gave me a quick smile. "Hey," she said, sliding a stack of papers into her bag. "You survived Data Structures, huh? How brutal was it today?"

"Brutal doesn't even begin to cover it," I replied with a dramatic sigh. "The assignment load is insane. But hey, at least we've got coffee to look forward to afterward."

Emily chuckled, flipping open her laptop. "I'm holding you to that. Double espresso, here I come."

I nodded, taking out my own supplies and arranging them neatly on the desk. The lecture was about to start, and I was mentally preparing myself for another hour of high-intensity learning. But as I looked toward the door, the chatter died down, and everything seemed to shift into slow motion.

The lecturer walked in, and I had to blink to make sure I wasn't imagining things. He looked quite young. Maybe we weren’t that much gap in age. I’m 21, he might be around 24?? He was tall and carried himself with a confidence that was almost ethereal. His attire was impeccably stylish—tailored navy trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a slim-fit blazer that looked like it was made for him. He had a casual elegance about him that set him apart from the other lecturers, who usually wore more traditional academic robes.

But it was his eyes that really caught my attention. They were a striking shade of brown-black, so vivid they seemed to capture the entire spectrum of my life. They were deep and expressive, capable of conveying a world of meaning with a single glance. As he scanned the room, his gaze met mine for a fleeting moment, and I felt my heart skip a beat.

His hair was another story altogether. It was jet black and fell in soft waves that framed his face, adding to his allure. It seemed to move with a life of its own, bouncing gently with each step he took. I had never seen a lecturer like him before—someone who could blend intelligence with such effortless style.

I felt a strange flutter in my chest, a mix of nerves and curiosity. It was unlike anything I'd felt in a classroom before. The room was silent as he reached the podium, his presence commanding attention without a single word. As he spoke, his voice was smooth and rich, filling the hall with a calm authority. I couldn't help but be drawn in, mesmerized by his every word.

Emily nudged me, a smirk on her lips. "What's with that look? Someone's got a crush on the new lecturer, huh?"

I rolled my eyes, trying to play it cool. "Oh, please. I'm just... appreciating the scenery, that's all."

But deep down, I knew that this lecture was going to be different, and not just because of the content. This lecturer had a way of making everything seem more intriguing, more exciting. And as I took notes, I couldn't help but steal glances at him, my mind racing with questions and my heart pounding in a way I hadn't expected.

Then he spoke, and my world stopped spinning. “Good morning, everyone,” he said in a husky, deep voice that seemed to reverberate through the lecture hall. “My name is Mr. Na Jaemin, but you can call me Mr. Na. I’m the new lecturer for this course.” His voice was so smooth, so rich, that it seemed to wrap around each word, adding an almost hypnotic quality to everything he said.

The chatters around the lecture hall faded into silence. My attention was glued to him, the way his words seemed to flow effortlessly from his lips. It was as if he had this magnetic pull, drawing all eyes to him without even trying. I felt my brain shutting down, like it was too overwhelmed to process anything but the sound of his voice.

He continued to speak, introducing the course and outlining what we could expect in the weeks to come, but I barely registered any of it. I was too busy watching the way his lips moved as he spoke, the way his eyes lit up when he glanced around the room. It felt like the whole world had narrowed down to this moment, to this lecture hall, to him.

Emily nudged me, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Are you listening to anything he’s saying, or are you just lost in those eyes?”

I gave her a weak smile, my voice barely a whisper. “What? Oh, yeah, totally listening.” But I wasn’t, not really. I was caught in a trance, and it felt like I might never want to break free.

The class ended, just like that. I snapped out of my daze when Emily nudged me again, laughing softly. I looked down at my notebook—blank, not a single word jotted down. This was unusual for me. Usually, I'd be scribbling furiously, trying to capture every important point. But today? Nothing. The entire lecture passed in a haze, and now Mr. Na was gone, leaving me in a whirlwind of confusion.

Emily was packing her things, a grin stretching across her face. "Looks like someone wasn't paying attention," she teased, stuffing her laptop into her bag. "Did you even hear anything he said? Or were you just too busy daydreaming about those eyes?"

I gave her a sheepish smile, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "What? No, I was totally listening. Just... you know, processing." I tried to sound convincing, but even I didn't believe my own words. My brain was still replaying Mr. Na's entrance, his voice, and those captivating blue eyes.

Emily laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Right. Processing. Sure, we'll go with that." She finished packing and slung her bag over her shoulder. "Come on, let's grab that coffee. We can work on our assignments together before the next class. You might need a little help catching up."

I sighed, closing my notebook and shoving it into my bag. "Yeah, coffee sounds good. Let's get out of here." I stood up, my legs feeling slightly wobbly, as if my entire body was still reeling from the effect of Mr. Na's presence. It was like I had been hit by a tidal wave of charm, and I was just now starting to find my footing.

We made our way out of the lecture hall, the chatter of other students gradually filling the hallway. I spotted a couple of our friends and waved them over. "Hey, we're heading to the coffee shop. Wanna join us?"

They nodded, and we all headed toward the exit, the crisp Oxford air hitting my face as we stepped outside. It was refreshing, grounding me a bit after the surreal experience of the lecture. Emily leaned in close, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "So, love at first sight, huh?"

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help but smile. "Oh, come on. Don't start with that."

She laughed, shaking her head. "I'm just saying. I've never seen you this spaced out after a lecture. I mean, you've got a reputation for being the note-taking queen."

I chuckled, finally feeling some of the tension ease from my shoulders. "Yeah, yeah. Just had a lot on my mind, that's all." But even as I said it, I knew the truth. Something about Mr. Na had thrown me off balance, and it was going to take a lot more than a coffee to get me back on track.

The night settled over Oxford, the city’s ancient architecture casting long shadows under the dim streetlights. I was back in my dorm, a small but cozy room with a single bed tucked into a corner. The walls were adorned with posters and notes from various classes, but tonight, none of them held my attention.

I sat on my bed, my laptop propped up on my legs, pretending to study. My eyes kept wandering, staring at the ceiling or through the small window that offered a glimpse of the college quad. The usual buzz of student life filtered through the walls, faint voices and laughter from the common area down the hall, but it all felt distant.

All I could think about was Mr. Na.

His face appeared in my mind, as if etched there permanently. Those striking blue eyes, the kind that seemed to see right through you, and the way his fluffy black hair framed his handsome face. His voice—deep, smooth, and soothing—kept playing in my head, each word lingering long after he'd left the classroom.

I closed my laptop, knowing full well I wouldn't get any more studying done tonight. Instead, I got ready for bed, changing into my pajamas and brushing my teeth. As I moved around the small room, I couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to see Mr. Na again the next day. Would he remember me? Would he smile in that way that made my heart skip a beat?

As I climbed into bed, I felt a mix of excitement and nerves. It was ridiculous—I had only just met the man, but something about him had completely thrown me off my usual routine. I was known for my discipline, my focus, but now all I wanted was to be in his class again, to hear his voice, to watch him command the room with that effortless charisma.

I pulled the blankets over me, my mind racing with what-ifs. What if he taught more classes? What if I had the chance to talk to him after a lecture? I knew it was all a bit fanciful, but I couldn't help it. There was something about him that made me feel like I was in the middle of a daydream.

As I closed my eyes, I hoped I would dream of him. Maybe we’d be in a classroom, his voice echoing off the walls, or maybe it would be something else entirely. The possibilities seemed endless, and I drifted off with a smile, eagerly awaiting what tomorrow might bring.

The next morning, I woke up with a sense of excitement that felt almost tangible. It washed over me in waves, making my hands tremble with anticipation. I got ready for the day, my thoughts racing through the upcoming lectures, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mr. Na again. Would he remember me? Would he say something that made my heart flutter?

As I walked down the hallway, I was practically bouncing on my toes. My backpack felt lighter, and even the morning chill couldn't dampen my mood. But then, as I turned a corner, I saw him. He was standing at the far end of the corridor, talking to a student—a girl with long, dark hair and a bright smile. They were laughing together, his voice low and warm, and her laughter light and melodic.

My heart skipped a beat, then sank like a stone. I felt a sharp pain in my chest, a sudden burst of anger and jealousy that was as unexpected as it was intense. He was smiling at her, really smiling, like he was genuinely enjoying their conversation. And I hated it.

It was ridiculous, I knew that. He was my lecturer, not someone I could claim ownership over. Yet, the sight of him laughing with her felt like a punch to the gut. I had no right to be upset, but the feeling was there, sharp and cutting. I told myself to calm down, to not let this childish jealousy take over, but it was hard to ignore the tightening in my chest.

"Get it together," I muttered under my breath, forcing myself to look away. "You're just being stupid. It's just a crush. A stupid, ridiculous crush."

I tried to push the feelings down as I headed to my first class. It was him—Mr. Na. As I entered the lecture hall, I was determined to focus on the lesson, to act like everything was fine. But the sight of him earlier still lingered in my mind, and I had to take a deep breath to steady myself.

He walked into the lecture hall, calm and composed, like nothing had happened. Like he didn't just tear my heart into pieces with his smile. I clenched my jaw, refusing to let my emotions get the better of me. This was a classroom, and I needed to act like an adult. This wasn't high school; I couldn't afford to be distracted by a silly crush.

As the lecture began, I forced myself to take notes, to focus on the content. I wrote down everything he said, my pen moving quickly across the paper. The childish thoughts and jealousy were pushed to the back of my mind. I needed to be mature, to concentrate on what mattered—my studies, my future.

But even as I pretended to be focused, a part of me couldn't help but glance at him from time to time, wondering what it was about him that had such an effect on me. I told myself it was just a passing fancy, that I would get over it soon. Yet, deep down, I knew it wouldn't be that simple.

It had been a few weeks since the initial flutters and jitters of my crush on Mr. Na. I'd decided to focus on my studies, to keep things professional, and, frankly, it was working. The excitement had faded, and he was just another lecturer in my eyes—at least, that's what I told myself. I was more focused, my notes were detailed, and I was catching up on all the assignments. But then, one day, everything shifted.

Mr. Na stormed into the lecture hall, and everyone knew something was wrong. His usual calm demeanor was gone, replaced by a furious energy that crackled in the air. He was wearing glasses today—thick-framed and sleek. With them on, he looked even hotter than usual. He wore a white tee, a black tie, and slim-fit black trousers. But it wasn't his style that caught my attention. It was his mood. He was angry, really angry, and he made sure everyone knew it.

He slammed a stack of assignments on the table, the sound echoing throughout the hall. "What is this?" he exclaimed, pointing at the pile of papers. "These are ridiculous! This is not what I expect from Oxford students! You are capable of much better than this!"

His voice was loud, sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife. I could feel the tension in the room; everyone was on edge. Mr. Na paced back and forth, his eyes blazing with frustration. He was passionate about his subject, that much was clear, but his anger made it seem like he was ready to combust.

He grabbed a book and banged it on the table for emphasis. "This isn't high school! You're here to learn, not to slack off and turn in half-baked work. I want perfection. I demand it!" His voice echoed off the stone walls, sending shivers down my spine.

I was just staring at him, mesmerized by the intensity of his rage. It was understandable—I'd be mad too if I were in his shoes. He cared about the quality of our work, and he wasn't shy about expressing his disappointment. But still, it was unnerving to see him like this.

The lecture hall was silent. Dead silent. No one dared to make a sound. Mr. Na continued his tirade, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk searching for prey. And then he called my name.

I felt my heart skip a beat. The room seemed to close in around me as I stood up and walked toward him. My hands were sweating, my pulse racing. He looked up at me with those piercing blue eyes, and I knew I was in trouble.

He opened my book and paused for what felt like an eternity. The silence stretched, and I could hear my own breathing, heavy and ragged. I was sweating bullets, my nerves frayed to the breaking point. What would he say? Would he tear me apart like he did the others? My mind was a whirlwind of fear and anticipation.

Finally, he spoke.

Mr. Na opened my book and paused for a moment that felt like an eternity. His eyes scanned my work with a critical yet calm focus. But then, something changed. The corners of his lips lifted into a smile. It was subtle, but it transformed the entire atmosphere in the lecture hall. The tension seemed to melt away as he began to speak.

"Excellent work," he said, his voice warm and filled with genuine praise. "This is exactly the kind of detail and sophistication I expect from my students. Thorough, precise, and insightful. Keep it up." He continued to speak, listing the aspects of my assignment that he found impressive, and I couldn't help but feel a surge of pride. This was the recognition I needed after all those late nights and long hours.

Around me, I could hear the murmurs of approval from my classmates. Emily gave me a discreet thumbs-up, and even some of the usually more reserved students nodded in acknowledgment. It was a rare moment of triumph, a fleeting victory in the midst of the rigorous grind.

But not everyone was pleased. I caught a glimpse of the girl from the hallway, the one Mr. Na had been smiling and chatting with earlier. She was sitting at the back with her group of friends, and her expression was anything but approving. She was glaring at me, her eyes narrowed in a mix of jealousy and disdain. Her friends seemed to pick up on her mood, sharing looks and whispering among themselves.

The intensity of her stare was unnerving, but I tried to ignore it. After all, Mr. Na was praising me in front of the entire class, and I didn't want to let anything spoil the moment. But the girl's glare was like a laser, sharp and unyielding, as if she was trying to burn a hole through me. What was her problem? Did she think I was trying to steal the spotlight? Or was she just angry because her own assignment didn't meet his expectations?

Mr. Na continued with the lecture, his voice steady and authoritative, but I could feel the eyes of that girl on me the entire time. It was hard to focus, but I reminded myself that I had earned this praise, and I wasn't about to let anyone take it away from me. I took a deep breath and returned to my notes, pretending not to notice the looks from the back of the room.

Emily leaned over and whispered, "What's with her? She looks like she's ready to explode."

I shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. "Maybe she didn't like the critique. Or she's just having a bad day." But even as I said it, I knew there was more to it. The girl's glare held a bitterness that couldn't be explained away by a bad grade. It was personal.

As the class continued, I resolved to stay focused and not let the jealousy get to me. But I knew I'd have to keep my guard up. Mr. Na's praise was a double-edged sword—it brought recognition, but it also attracted unwanted attention. And from the looks of it, I had just made an enemy.

I couldn't believe it. Mr. Na had just highly praised my work in front of the entire class. The very same Mr. Na who, not long ago, had made my heart race with a single glance. The same man I had spent sleepless nights thinking about, only to force myself to focus on my studies and let those feelings fade away. But now, here he was, smiling at me like I had done something extraordinary.

A mix of emotions swirled within me. There was the undeniable sense of pride—I had worked hard on that assignment, and it was gratifying to have my efforts recognized. But there was also something else, a lingering echo of the crush I thought I had put behind me. Hearing his voice, seeing that smile, it all felt strangely familiar, like a forgotten melody that suddenly played again.

It was almost surreal. I had once daydreamed about moments like this, where he'd acknowledge me in a special way. And yet, I had moved on, hadn't I? I had decided to focus on my studies, to let the feelings of my "first love" fade away into the background. But now, standing there in the lecture hall, it all came rushing back.

It was as if my heart couldn't make up its mind. I was thrilled to have impressed him, but part of me was uneasy, knowing that these lingering feelings might lead me down a path I had resolved to avoid. This was a classroom, not a romantic novel. I had to keep my emotions in check.

And yet, his words of praise echoed in my mind, refusing to be ignored. His voice had a way of making everything seem brighter, more vivid. It was like being drawn into a familiar orbit, one that I had consciously left behind. The challenge was to keep my focus on the important things—my studies, my future—and not let the swirling emotions distract me from my goals.

As I sat back down, I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. I couldn't let a moment of praise from Mr. Na throw me off course. But the memory of his smile, the warmth in his eyes, lingered like a whisper I couldn't quite shake. It was a reminder that first loves, even those you thought you'd moved on from, had a way of reappearing when you least expected them.

The class ended, and the lecture hall erupted in a flurry of activity. Everyone was gathering their books, shuffling papers, and heading for the door, eager to get on with their day. I was packing my things slowly, my mind still processing what had just happened. Mr. Na's words of praise echoed in my ears, leaving a warm sensation in my chest.

Emily was already at the door, her bag slung over her shoulder. She waved at me, gesturing for me to hurry up. "Come on! I've got another class in a few minutes," she said, her voice carrying over the din.

I waved back, indicating for her to go ahead. "You go. I have a couple of hours free before my next class. I'll head to the library and do some research." She nodded and left, her footsteps disappearing into the crowd.

I was almost done packing when I heard it—my name, called softly but with a tone that instantly caught my attention. It was Mr. Na, his voice like silk and velvet, low and smooth. It was the kind of voice that could stop anyone in their tracks, and it certainly did with me. My heart skipped a beat, and I turned around to find him standing at the lecturing desk, his eyes locked on me.

He'd taken off his glasses, letting them dangle from his shirt's neckline. The look suited him, adding an edge of casual confidence to his usual professional demeanor. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd been running his fingers through it in frustration, but it only made him look more appealing. I couldn't help but think that he had never looked this hot before.

"Could I talk to you for a moment?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of invitation. The lecture hall was mostly empty now, with just a few stragglers left gathering their things. I nodded, unable to find my voice at first. It took me a second to remember to breathe.

I walked toward him, my bag slung over one shoulder. My steps were hesitant, like I was walking into unfamiliar territory. What could he possibly want to talk to me about? The compliment earlier had already thrown me off balance, and now this? It was like a whirlwind of unexpected events, and I wasn't sure if I was prepared for whatever came next.

As I approached the desk, I noticed how his eyes seemed even browner up close, a shade that could just warm up the cold weather of Oxofrd. I tried to act casual, to hide the nervousness that made my palms sweat. But the way he looked at me, with that gentle yet intense gaze, made it hard to keep my composure.

As I reached the lecturing desk, Mr. Na was already watching me with those striking brown-black eyes, a slight smile on his lips. He motioned for me to stand closer, his voice low but clear enough to be heard over the diminishing noise of the other students leaving. It felt like the whole room had shrunk to just the two of us, the rest of the world fading into a blur.

"I've been keeping an eye on each of my students," he began, his tone serious yet warm. "It's part of my job to ensure everyone is progressing and engaged." He paused, letting his words sink in. His gaze was steady, sharp, like he was reading every detail in my expression. It was the kind of look that could pierce through walls, the kind that saw everything.

"But you," he continued, his voice softening, "you caught my attention. You've been fully focused in class, your work is consistently excellent, and you ask insightful questions. I'm proud of you." The way he said it, with that mix of authority and genuine warmth, sent a shiver down my spine. It was as if he saw me, really saw me, beyond the grades and assignments.

I felt my cheeks flush, heat rising to my face. His words were more than just a compliment; they were a validation, an acknowledgment that my hard work wasn't going unnoticed. The silence between us grew, stretching into a long pause. He seemed to be waiting for my response, his eyes holding a gentle yet expectant gaze.

It took me a moment to find my voice. My mind was racing, struggling to come up with something intelligent to say, something that wouldn't sound too awkward or forced. My heart was pounding in my chest, the pulse echoing in my ears. This was more than just a simple "well done"—it felt like he was reaching out to connect on a level that went beyond the classroom.

Finally, I snapped back to reality, realizing that he was still waiting for me to respond. I cleared my throat, trying to sound composed despite the whirlwind of emotions. "Thank you so much, Mr. Na," I said, my voice steady but with a hint of nervousness. "It means a lot coming from you." I wanted to say more, to express how much his words had impacted me, but I didn't trust myself to speak without betraying the rush of feelings I was experiencing.

He nodded, a smile spreading across his lips. "Keep it up," he said, his voice carrying an encouraging warmth. "I have high hopes for you." With that, he turned back to his lecturing materials, leaving me standing there, my heart still racing, trying to process what had just happened. The tension was still there, but now it felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted. I took a deep breath, knowing I had to keep my focus and live up to the expectations he'd just set. But the warmth from his words lingered, a quiet reassurance that seemed to fill the room even after he had turned away.

As I turned to leave the room, my cheeks were flushed with a warmth that spread through my entire body. I couldn't help but glance back at Mr. Na, watching him as he gathered his materials for the next class. He was so composed, so self-assured, and yet his words to me were gentle and full of praise. I felt a surge of pride and a touch of something else I couldn't quite place—gratitude, perhaps, or a rekindled admiration. Whatever it was, it made me walk a little taller as I headed for the door.

But as I stepped out into the hallway, my confidence faltered. The same group of girls who had been glaring at me earlier during Mr. Na's praise were standing off to the side, throwing me dirty looks. There were four of them, and they seemed to be waiting, as if I had unknowingly stepped into their territory. Their ringleader was the girl from the hallway, the one who'd been laughing with Mr. Na before. Her arms were crossed, and her eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

It was one against four. A part of me wanted to turn around and find another way out, but I knew that would only give them what they wanted—a sign that I was afraid. Instead, I kept my cool, squaring my shoulders as I walked past them. I was taller than most of them, which gave me a slight advantage. If nothing else, I could use my height to project confidence, even if I felt like my stomach was doing somersaults.

As I passed by, the ringleader couldn't resist a snide remark. "Look who's suddenly the teacher's pet," she said, her voice dripping with sarcascastic mockery. Her friends snickered, each throwing me a glare that felt like daggers.

The ringleader, the girl who had been talking to Mr. Na in the hallway earlier, was hard to ignore. Her outfit was designed to draw attention—a cropped top that showed off her midriff and tight jeans that hugged her figure. She had a confident, almost cocky air about her, and her long, black hair cascaded over her shoulders in waves. It was the kind of look that seemed intended to impress, and judging by the way she stood with her arms crossed, she knew she was being watched.

When I saw her speaking to Mr. Na earlier, she had been all smiles and charm, clearly trying to make an impression. And why wouldn’t she? Mr. Na’s laughter had been genuine, his eyes lighting up as she spoke. But now, it seemed like her pleasant demeanor had melted away, replaced by a scowl that she aimed directly at me.

It was almost laughable. Trying to impress Mr. Na with ridiculous grades and revealing outfits? Keep on dreaming. This was Oxford, not a fashion show. I knew I had earned Mr. Na’s praise through hard work and dedication, not by batting my eyelashes and hoping for the best. If this girl thought she could gain favor with him by dressing provocatively and flashing a smile, she was in for a rude awakening.

But even so, the sting of jealousy was unmistakable in her eyes. It was like she had expected Mr. Na’s attention to be hers alone, and my success had disrupted her carefully laid plans. I wasn’t going to let her or her gang of friends intimidate me, but I knew I’d need to keep my guard up. People like her could be unpredictable when they felt threatened. And I had no intention of becoming her next target.

I took a deep breath, refusing to let them get to me. "Jealousy doesn't suit you," I replied, my voice even and calm. I kept walking, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. My heart was pounding, but I knew I had to maintain my composure. The last thing I needed was a confrontation in the hallway.

As I turned the corner, I could still hear them laughing, but I didn't look back. I had more important things to focus on, like my studies and the praise Mr. Na had given me. Besides, I wasn't about to let a group of mean-spirited girls ruin my day. I walked with my head held high, reminding myself that I had earned my place here. If they wanted to throw shade, that was their problem, not mine.

A few weeks turned into months, and life at Oxford settled into a steady rhythm. The initial excitement of my first encounter with Mr. Na had given way to a determined focus on my studies. I was no longer the daydreamer I once was; instead, I was known for my diligence and attention to detail. I threw myself into my coursework, attending every lecture, meticulously taking notes, and diving deep into research projects. It paid off in ways I hadn't anticipated.

When the results for the first mid-term test were released, I was nervous but hopeful. The rumors had been circulating that this would be the most challenging exam of the term, and many students were on edge. I opened my email, my heart racing, and saw the score: 4.00 GPA. It was perfect. I couldn't believe it. All those sleepless nights, the endless hours in the library, and the pressure I had put on myself—it had all been worth it.

The list of top students with a 4.00 GPA was proudly announced in every student's email inbox, on Oxford's main board, and even in the daily campus newsletter. It was everywhere, and my name was the first on the list. I was thrilled but tried to keep my excitement in check. I didn't want to come across as boastful, even though I was bursting with pride.

I immediately called my parents, who lived far from Oxford, and their voices were filled with joy and pride. "We're so proud of you!" my mom said, her voice cracking with emotion. My dad chimed in, "That's our girl! We knew you could do it!" We talked for a while, discussing my studies and the vacation we were planning for the next summer holidays. It felt good to share my success with them, to hear their enthusiasm for the future.

Emily and the rest of my friends congratulated me with genuine happiness. "You're amazing!" Emily said, giving me a big hug. "We need to celebrate! Let's throw a party after all that studying and cramming. You deserve it!" I agreed, grateful for the support of my friends. It was nice to know that I wasn't alone in this journey, that I had people who cared about me and wanted to share in my achievements.

But even as the celebration plans took shape, I was already looking ahead. I had set my sights on something bigger—a Ph.D. I knew the road ahead would be challenging, but I was ready for it. The 4.00 GPA was a significant milestone, but it was just the beginning. I was determined to push further, to explore new horizons, and to make a mark in the world of computer science.

Oxford had given me the tools, and I intended to use them. The party was just the beginning of a new chapter, one that would lead me to greater heights. I was excited for the journey ahead and eager to see where it would take me.

The end-of-semester party at Oxford was the event everyone had been looking forward to. It was held at a grand hotel, a place known for its opulent decor and lavish events. The hotel stood tall and regal, with its stone façade and large glass windows reflecting the city lights. As we approached, I could hear the soft strains of music floating out from the ballroom, the distant hum of voices and laughter filling the night air.

The entrance was adorned with elegant drapes and twinkling lights, leading into a grand foyer where guests were mingling, dressed in their finest. The ceiling was high, with elaborate chandeliers casting a warm, golden glow over the entire space. The floor was polished to a mirror-like shine, reflecting the movements of the guests as they moved about, greeting friends and lecturers alike.

I had chosen a long, flowing evening gown for the occasion. It was a deep emerald green that complemented my skin tone and brought out the color of my eyes. The dress had a delicate lace overlay that added an air of sophistication, and it cinched at the waist to give me a flattering silhouette. I wore my hair in loose curls that cascaded over my shoulders, and my makeup was subtle but accentuated my features. A pair of silver heels completed the look, adding just the right amount of sparkle.

As I stepped into the ballroom, the environment was alive with energy. A live band was playing soft jazz, adding a touch of elegance to the evening. People were chatting, laughing, and dancing on the grand dance floor at the center of the room. The lecturers were there too, dressed in their finest, mingling with students and colleagues.

The decorations were exquisite. The tables were adorned with white linens and elaborate centerpieces, and the walls were lined with ornate tapestries. The hotel staff moved gracefully among the guests, serving hors d'oeuvres and champagne. The entire scene felt like something out of a fairytale, a perfect setting to celebrate the end of a long semester.

I moved through the crowd, greeting my friends and exchanging pleasantries with my lecturers. It was a night to remember, a moment of relaxation and celebration after months of hard work and intense study. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits, and the music provided the perfect backdrop for an evening of fun and camaraderie.

The host of the party stepped onto the stage, tapping the microphone to get everyone’s attention. The room fell into a quiet murmur, then silence as all eyes turned toward the stage. The moment everyone had been waiting for—the announcement of the "Main Girl" of the batch, the one who excelled in academics and co-curricular activities—was finally here. The tension was palpable, the air buzzing with anticipation. Everyone was hoping to hear their name called, and you could feel the excitement mixed with nervousness throughout the grand ballroom.

I wasn’t expecting much, so I was busily chatting with my friends, enjoying the night. It was a party, after all, and I was here to celebrate the end of a long semester. But then, suddenly, I heard my name. It took me a moment to register what had just happened. Was that really my name? I turned to see everyone looking at me, their eyes filled with surprise and admiration. The applause started slowly, then grew louder, echoing through the ballroom. People were cheering and clapping for me, their voices filled with genuine joy.

I was in disbelief. I stood, my legs feeling wobbly as if they might give out beneath me. The cheers grew louder, and my friends rushed to my side, hugging me tightly. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, the emotion of the moment washing over me. It was overwhelming, but in the best way possible.

As I hugged my friends, I glanced across the room and saw Mr. Na standing in the corner among the other lecturers. He was clapping for me, his smile wide and genuine. There was a look of pride on his face, a mix of happiness and satisfaction that warmed my heart. I felt a surge of gratitude, knowing that his encouragement and guidance had played a significant role in my success.

I made my way to the stage, still in a daze from all the attention. The host handed me a small crown, a symbol of my achievement, and I bowed in front of everyone, feeling the heat of the spotlight. The applause was deafening, but it felt like the perfect culmination of all my hard work. I had worked tirelessly throughout the semester, and now I was being recognized for it. The cheers, the clapping, the smiles—it was a moment I would never forget.

The party ended with a burst of applause and cheers, the ballroom slowly emptying as students and lecturers headed back to their dorms. The energy of the evening had been palpable, but now it was time to say goodbye and pack for the summer holidays, which started the next day. The hotel lobby was filled with laughter and goodbyes, everyone sharing stories from the night and making plans to meet up during the break.

I waved goodbye to my friends, hugging them and kissing them on the cheek, thanking them for one of the best nights of my life. "This was amazing," Emily said, squeezing me tightly. "We'll have to do it again soon!" I nodded, feeling a mix of excitement for the holidays and sadness that the semester had come to an end. It felt like a chapter closing, with so much more yet to be written.

Some of my friends were waiting for me, asking if I wanted to walk back with them to the dorms. I appreciated the offer, but I had other plans. "I need to use the bathroom," I said with a sheepish smile. "I think I drank a little too much tonight." They laughed, waving me off and heading toward the exit.

The hallway leading to the restrooms was quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling ballroom. The lights were dimmer here, casting soft shadows on the walls. As I made my way to the restroom, I passed a few lingering partygoers, their laughter fading into the distance as they left. It was a moment of solitude after a night filled with noise and celebration, and I welcomed the brief silence.

Inside the restroom, the sound of running water echoed off the tiles, a soothing white noise after the chaos of the party. I took a moment to collect myself, splashing some cool water on my face to calm my nerves. It had been an incredible night, filled with unexpected surprises and moments I knew I'd cherish forever. The memory of the announcement, the cheers, and the crown made me smile. But now, it was time to return to reality and prepare for the journey ahead.

As I washed my hands, the soothing sound of running water helped to calm my nerves after the night’s festivities. But then I heard the chatter of a group of girls entering the restroom. The voices were familiar, but I tried to push the recognition aside. I knew exactly who they were—the same group that had been giving me dirty looks earlier at the party.

I quickly grabbed my bag and headed toward the exit, hoping to avoid any confrontation. But as I turned the corner, I bumped into them, nearly knocking one of them over. It was the same girl, the one who had tried to outshine me in front of Mr. Na, the one with the revealing outfits and the fake smiles. Her friends crowded around her, their expressions already set to mock me.

"Well, well, well," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Look who it is. The 'Main Girl' herself." Her friends laughed, nodding in agreement.

I tried to ignore them, to keep my composure, but it was hard. The words stung, each one like a sharp needle pricking my skin. I decided to fight back with a simple comeback. "Just shove all your jealousy up your ass, instead do something better? something like getting better on your academic performances, yeah?" I said, looking her straight in the eye. It was a small victory, but it seemed to hit a nerve. Some of the girls glared at me, while others whispered angrily among themselves.

The main girl pretended to keep her cool, but I could see the anger in her eyes. She hated that I had the spotlight, that I had earned the admiration of our lecturers, especially Mr. Na. It was a constant reminder of her failure to stand out, and she couldn’t hide her resentment.

One of the girls in her group was holding a cup of iced chocolate. Before I could react, she flung it at me, the cold liquid splashing across my dress, my hair, and my face. The others burst into laughter, their voices echoing off the bathroom tiles. I closed my eyes in embarrassment, feeling the sticky mess dripping down my dress. It was humiliating. The beautiful gown I had chosen for the night was ruined, and my hair was a tangled, chocolate-covered mess.

The laughter grew louder, the girls enjoying my discomfort. I felt a surge of anger and shame, but I knew that reacting would only give them more satisfaction. I opened my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to keep my composure despite the overwhelming humiliation. It was one of the worst moments I had ever experienced, and I knew it would be etched in my memory for a long time.

The laughter and mockery filled the restroom as the cold, sticky chocolate dripped from my hair and dress. The girls continued to sneer, their eyes gleaming with a mix of cruelty and triumph. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but beneath the humiliation, I felt a surge of anger bubbling to the surface.

I bent down and grabbed the half-empty cup of iced chocolate from the floor. Without hesitating, I threw it back at the main girl, the contents splashing across her shirt and into her hair. Her eyes widened in shock, her mouth forming a perfect "O" as she staggered backward, hitting the wall. Her friends gasped, their mocking laughter turning to disbelief.

I didn't wait to see her reaction. I stormed out of the bathroom, my footsteps echoing in the hallway as I rushed toward the exit. My heart was pounding, a mix of adrenaline and indignation fueling my steps. I could still hear the girls' voices behind me, now raised in anger and surprise, but I didn't look back. I had given them a taste of their own medicine, and I wasn't about to stick around for the aftermath.

As I pushed through the door and into the hotel lobby, the cool air hit my face, a refreshing contrast to the heat of my anger. I knew I would have to deal with the consequences later, but at that moment, all I wanted was to put as much distance between myself and those girls as possible. It was a relief to be away from their toxic presence, even if it meant walking through the lobby covered in chocolate and embarrassment.

I took a deep breath, focusing on the warmth of the party and the support of my friends, reminding myself that I had earned my place at Oxford. No amount of mockery or bullying could take that away from me. I was determined to hold my head high, even as I left the hotel, the night air offering a sense of calm after the storm.

I was glad to find a quiet corner in the hotel lobby where I could clean up the mess from the iced chocolate. It was a small alcove behind a decorative pillar, and I felt relieved that no one had seen me storming out of the restroom. My bag had a pack of wet tissues, thankfully, and I pulled out several to wipe away the sticky mess on my dress and hair. The chocolate had splattered everywhere, and I was trying to salvage what I could without making things worse.

As I was cleaning up, I heard a voice call my name with a hint of curiosity. It was deep and husky, the kind of voice that could make anyone stop in their tracks. I looked up, and there he was—Mr. Na. My breath caught in my throat. I was in disbelief. Why now, of all times?

He was dressed in a sleek black tuxedo that fit him perfectly. His black hair was slicked back, giving him a polished and sophisticated look, yet his eyes were soft and kind, with a hint of worry. He looked at me with an expression that was both gentle and concerned, as if he was unsure of what he had just walked into.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low and gentle. It was the kind of voice that could ease anyone's nerves, but at that moment, I felt a rush of embarrassment. Of all people to find me in this state, why did it have to be him?

I stood there, holding the damp tissues, my face flushed and my heart racing. I could see the reflection of the chandelier lights in his eyes, and it made him look even more striking. His tuxedo was impeccably tailored, emphasizing his broad shoulders and trim waist. Despite the sophistication of his attire, his gaze conveyed genuine concern, as if he truly cared about what had happened.

I tried to smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace. "Yeah, I'm fine," I said, my voice shaky. "Just a little accident, that's all." I gestured to my chocolate-stained dress, trying to play it off, but it was hard to hide the embarrassment.

Mr. Na took a step closer, his eyes scanning the scene. "Are you sure? That looks like more than just a little accident," he said, his tone soft but firm. "Do you need any help? Maybe a jacket to cover up or something?" His concern was genuine, and it made me feel both grateful and self-conscious at the same time. I knew he was trying to be kind, but his presence only made me feel more aware of my disheveled state.

I pushed my hair back, trying not to cry from the sheer humiliation of it all. My hands were still damp from the wet tissues, and my heart was racing. I kept my eyes down, focusing on the chocolate-stained fabric of my dress to avoid meeting his gaze. I didn’t want him to see the embarrassment in my eyes, or worse, the tears threatening to spill over.

“It’s fine, really,” I said, trying to sound casual, but my voice cracked slightly. I was still in disbelief that it was Mr. Na standing there, concerned about me. This was the same Mr. Na who was fierce and strict during lectures, who could command a room with a single word. But now, he was completely different, his demeanor soft and caring.

He took a step closer, his expression gentle but still filled with worry. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low and soothing. “It’s okay if you’re not. I can help you find something to cover up, or we can find someone to give you a ride home.” His kindness felt almost surreal, given how he usually commanded respect with his strictness and high expectations in the classroom.

I shook my head, trying to muster a reassuring smile. “Really, it’s fine,” I said, my cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. “It’s just a little mishap, that’s all. I can handle it.” I didn’t want him to go out of his way to help me, not when I was feeling so vulnerable and exposed.

But he didn’t seem convinced. His eyes lingered on my chocolate-stained dress, then returned to my face, where he seemed to read the emotions I was trying to hide. It was strange to see him like this, so different from the stern lecturer I was used to. His voice was calm and understanding, his usual intensity replaced by a softness that made me feel like I could trust him.

Mr. Na looked at me with concern, then glanced at my chocolate-stained dress. He hesitated for a moment, then without a word, he removed his jacket and gently draped it over my shoulders, covering the worst of the mess. I felt the warmth of the fabric and the comforting scent of his cologne. It made me feel a little more secure, even as my eyes welled up with tears. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, but the anger and humiliation were hard to contain.

He gestured for me to follow him, his touch light but guiding. "Come on," he said softly. "Let's find a place where you can clean up." He led me away from the crowded parts of the hotel, toward a quieter bathroom in a different wing. It wasn't the same one where I had encountered those mean girls, which was a relief.

He waited outside while I cleaned up, his presence a calming influence in the otherwise empty corridor. I used the wet tissues to wipe the chocolate off my face and attempted to tidy my hair as best as I could. The stain on my dress was mostly hidden under his jacket, but I could still feel the sticky residue on my skin. It was uncomfortable, but knowing that he was just outside made it easier to deal with.

When I stepped out, Mr. Na smiled gently. "Feeling better?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern. I nodded, trying to keep my emotions in check. I didn't want to break down in front of him, not after he'd been so kind to me.

He led me back to the hotel lobby, which was now almost deserted. It was late, and most of the guests had already left. I glanced outside, hoping to find a taxi, but the streets were empty. Mr. Na noticed my hesitation and offered, "I can give you a ride home if you need it. It's no trouble."

I hesitated, not wanting to impose, but the thought of walking back alone in my current state was daunting. "Are you sure?" I asked, trying to hide my excitement. He was my crush, after all, the one I had fallen out of love with, or so I thought. But now, those old feelings seemed to be resurfacing, and I could feel my heart racing.

"Of course," he replied with a reassuring smile. "It's the least I can do. Besides, I'd feel better knowing you got home safely." His words were simple, but they carried a weight of sincerity that made me feel at ease. I nodded and agreed to the ride, my excitement bubbling beneath the surface.

As we walked toward his car, I couldn't help but think about how much had changed. I thought I had moved on from my crush on him, but now, it felt like those feelings were emerging again, stronger than ever. It was a mixture of excitement and nerves, a reminder that sometimes, even when you think you've moved on, the heart has a way of finding its own path.

The car was immaculate, with a faint scent of leather and a hint of cologne, matching the scent of his jacket. I slid into the passenger seat, feeling the coolness of the upholstery against my skin. It was a luxurious vehicle, clearly well-maintained, reflecting his meticulous nature.

Mr. Na got in on the driver’s side and started the engine, the soft purr breaking the silence of the night. The dashboard lights cast a gentle glow, illuminating his face in a way that made his features stand out even more. The air inside the car was warm, a stark contrast to the cool night outside.

As he drove through the mostly empty streets, I felt a mix of emotions. Part of me was still embarrassed about what had happened, but another part was grateful for his kindness. The soft music playing on the car radio, combined with the gentle motion of the car, created a surprisingly relaxing atmosphere. I kept glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, trying not to be obvious, but he seemed focused on the road, his expression calm and composed.

“Do you live far from here?” he asked, breaking the comfortable silence. His voice was gentle, lacking the sternness he often had during lectures.

“Not too far,” I replied, giving him directions. I felt a bit nervous, unsure of what to say or how to act. This was my strict lecturer, the one who usually commanded the classroom with an iron will, yet here he was, giving me a ride home like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The conversation was light and casual as we drove through the quiet streets. He asked about my studies and how I was planning to spend my summer holidays. I answered with simple responses, still trying to gauge the situation. There was something about the way he spoke, the softness in his tone, that made me feel at ease despite the awkward circumstances.

As we approached my dorm, I pointed out the building. Mr. Na pulled up to the entrance and parked the car. Before I could thank him, he turned to me with a smile that seemed to light up the dimly lit interior.

“I’m glad I could help,” he said, his eyes meeting mine with a gentle gaze. “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I want to make sure my students are taken care of.”

His words were kind, but they also carried a weight that I couldn’t quite define. I thanked him, my heart racing from the unexpected kindness and the warmth of his smile.

But just as I was about to step out, he reached across and gently pulled my hand. His touch was light but firm enough to stop me from leaving. The sudden contact sent a jolt through my system, my heart skipping a beat as I looked at him in surprise. There was something in his eyes—an intensity I hadn’t seen before.

“Wait,” he said, his voice low and steady, but I could hear the underlying tension. He didn’t let go of my hand, his fingers wrapped gently around mine. The moment felt electric, the air between us charged with something I couldn’t quite define.

I was in disbelief. What was he doing? This was Mr. Na, the stern lecturer who was always so composed, so in control. And now, he was holding my hand, looking at me with an expression that seemed to speak volumes. The tension between us was palpable, the space within the car suddenly feeling much smaller.

“There’s something I need to say,” he continued, his eyes locked on mine. His grip on my hand tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to let me know he was serious. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I can’t ignore it anymore.”

My mind raced. What was he talking about? Was he about to say what I thought he was going to say? The possibility seemed impossible, yet the intensity in his gaze suggested otherwise. I could feel my pulse quickening, my breath catching in my throat. This wasn’t just a casual conversation—it was something more, something that could change everything.

“I like you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than just as a student. I know this is unexpected, but I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer.” His words hung in the air, the silence that followed heavy with anticipation.

I was stunned, my mind struggling to process what he had just said. My first reaction was disbelief—this couldn’t be real. But his eyes were sincere, and the way he held my hand suggested that he meant every word. I felt a rush of emotions—confusion, excitement, uncertainty—all swirling together in a dizzying whirlwind.

“What?” I finally managed to say, my voice shaky. It was all I could think of, my thoughts racing too quickly to form coherent sentences. The tension between us was almost unbearable, the space in the car feeling like it was closing in. I knew that whatever I said next would have consequences, that this was a moment that couldn’t be taken back.

Mr. Na waited, his gaze unwavering, his grip on my hand a constant reminder of the connection between us. I had no idea what to do or say, but I knew that this was a turning point—one that would change everything.

He held my hand, his grip gentle but firm, and I could feel the rising tension between us. His eyes were soft yet intense, conveying a mix of emotions I couldn't quite decipher. He took a deep breath, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I appreciate the way you appreciate my hard work," he said, his words measured but filled with sincerity. "I know I can be strict in class, but you were always fully focused. You worked hard, and it showed in your academic performance." His eyes never left mine, and I could feel my heart racing as he continued. "And the way you smile when I pull out those silly jokes during lessons—it flutters my heart. It really does."

I stared at him in disbelief and nervousness. This was the same Mr. Na who commanded respect in the classroom, and yet here he was, speaking to me like we were equals. It was almost surreal, the way his demeanor shifted from stern to affectionate. The tension in the car grew, a palpable charge in the air, and I knew he was waiting for my response.

He hesitated, as if unsure of how to proceed. "I'm sorry if this makes you uncomfortable," he said, his voice softening. "But we're not that far apart in age, and I just started my career as a lecturer earlier than most. I don't want to pressure you, so if you can't agree with my feelings, just ignore what I said. We can just stay as—" He didn't get to finish his sentence.

I leaned in and kissed him. At first, it was gentle, almost tentative, but then it grew more intense, our lips pressing firmly together. His surprise melted into warmth as he responded, the kiss becoming deeper, more passionate. The tension between us exploded into a rush of emotion, and I could feel the heat building as our kiss grew steamy.

We pulled away, both of us breathless, our faces close, our eyes locked. He smiled, his expression a mix of joy and relief. It was clear we both knew the signs—this wasn't just a fleeting moment. We liked each other, and the kiss had confirmed it.

He chuckled, breaking the silence. "I think you might need to take a shower," he said, gesturing to the chocolate stains on my dress. I laughed, the sound filled with warmth, and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

"Thanks again," I said, my voice filled with gratitude. "I'll see you soon."

"Goodnight," he replied, his smile never fading.

I stepped out of the car and waved goodbye, watching as he waited until I entered my apartment building. The night had taken a surprising turn, and as I made my way to my room, I knew that this was just the beginning of a story I couldn't wait to see unfold.

[r4d14t3lov3]

Intertwined

Kotallo knew right away that she hadn't eaten properly when Aloy entered the rec room and leaned heavily against his workstation. She was beyond tired, and in desperate need of rest.

He also knew she didn't want to hear about it and would need extra tender loving care tonight.

"Aloy," he started, but was immediately met with a stubborn sigh and arms crossing over her chest defensively.

She looked away and muttered an annoyed, “Don’t start. Please. Don’t.”

Kotallo moved closer, the armored pieces of their tassets touching but she kept her gaze determinedly averted. A moment passed in which he watched her shoulders rise and fall ever so slightly with each breath she took.

There was only one solution ─ close combat.

Kotallo eased his left foot between hers, intertwining their legs. As if on cue Aloy put her head on his shoulder, uncrossed her arms and wrapped them around him.

There she was, Kotallo thought, put his arm around her and kissed her hair.

“I’m just tired,” she began. “It’s been a long day, and somehow I had the hardest time fighting off that stupid Rollerback just outside of Salt Bite.”

“You didn’t sleep well either. And you left without breakfast.”

“I took the left-over slice of Blood Bread from last night…” Aloy mumbled.

“That’s not enough, my love. You have learned this lesson before.”

Aloy huffed a tired exhale. “Can we please just go to bed and snuggle. I never want to leave this embrace.”

Kotallo smiled. “As soon as you’ve eaten,” he said, took her chin between his fingers, then dipped his head and pecked a quick kiss onto her soft lips. “I’ll make us Mountain Caps,” he offered affectionately. “And there’s fresh Mountain Trail Bread from this morning.”

“Then we can cuddle?”

“If you promise to eat a proper breakfast with me in the morning.”

“I promise,” she smiled into his lips, and Kotallo let himself be pulled into a deep kiss.

“You know, Marshal…,” she whispered, when their lips parted.

“Hmm?”

“I love how you show your love.”

Kotallo’s heart burst with such joy and affection that he pulled her back into his chest, never wanting to let go either.

[iamsuperconfused]

Griffon of a Feather

@veilguard-appreciation-week (Day 5: Arlathan Forest, Wisdom, Bellara)

Bellara had returned to Arlathan, disappearing into the depth of the forest on a personal expedition within a week of trying to live a 'normal' life, whatever that was before the world changed.

Beside the small river, Bellara set her tent, her fire and her small workstation. She hunts for food, gather berries, uses her provisions parsimoniously, and soon a week passes. At the dawn of the second week, foot steps approaches her camp from the nearest path and she peeks out of her tent.

Eldrin raises a hand in greetings, accompanied by a red feathered griffon with a splint on one of its forelimb. "I thought I saw someone move around the paths lately! Do you mind the visit?" The griffon seems shy, hiding behind Eldrin's legs almost.

Bellara smiles and with a quick waves of her arm, invites Eldrin to join her by the embers of her fire. "I've been avoiding people for a while, but I think I'm ready for someone to share my fire." She digs into her bag and pulls out a gingerwort truffle, offering it as treat for Eldrin's companion. "What happened to him?"

"Oh, she's not the best flyer and took a bad tumble when she tried to land on top of my hut. She's been scared to fly since, so, I'm making sure she gets to see the sights from our vantage point." Eldrin takes a seat on the offered seat and the griffon tentatively enjoys the treat, rewarding Bellara with a happy squawk

"What's her name?" Bellara retrieve a notepad she got in minrathous, the same kind that Neve uses and scribbles something on it. It's the first time she's written this week.

"Hummingbeak is how the wardens named her, she tries the fly like a hummingbird, flapping her wings too fast, makes her flight uneven." Eldrin smiles.

Bellara blinks at Eldrin and then at the griffon. "My brother called me Vora'Shivan. Think I could help you with her recovery? I'd love to learn more about griffons and help you out!" Bellara said, feeling her energy, her interest returning.

"Rook thought you might suggest that." Eldrin smiles when Bellara's smile brighten. "Froegerick came in and checked on the griffons early last week. They thought you might be around here. Said to give you a week before checking on you." Eldrin says, reaching to pat her shoulder comfortingly. "They miss you." With a deep, longing sigh, Bellara admits wistfully "I miss my anchor too, I think I'll send a letter, maybe they can help me help this girl back in the sky!" "That sounds like a very wise choice to me" Eldrin says

(This was my first romance, my first playthrough. They/them Grey Warden Human named Froegerick Thorne)

[britt-kageryuu]

There were times Donnie wondered why some people watch some of the streams they did. He's literally just putting together the bases for a mod they were adding to a private MMO server. If it was for his model, he really didn't want to know how many fans simped over a 3D Model of him in a pair of deep lavander sweatpants, a black tank top, Atomic Lass slippers, and his usual decorated mask.

Shelldon was zipping about the studio with River following after, testing her newly upgraded body that could move much faster than previously. Their models would pop up every now and then when they got close to the computer workstations.

A notification goes of, which prompted him to check the prompter that listed the recent donations and subscriptions.

"Thank You, 'DancingintheWaves' for the $30 donation, 'We know Blue can speak Spanish, so do you and your brothers know any other Languages?' Why yes, we all have picked up some Spanish from Blue, and Señor Hueso, but on top of that we all have learned Sign Language," He pauses to make sure his hands are in clear veiw, "And before you ask for a demonstration remember this model only has 6 fingers. Jazz Hands!" He does a bit of jazz hands to emphasize this point.

" 'Aren't their any official altered Sign Language for those who lose fingers?' Maybe, but I don't think it's very well documented. Though I can show you the way to 'sign' my name," He forms what resembles D, then tapped his head before moving his hand away, "A simple D, and signing Smart. The others can show their own on their own time."

Another notification goes off.

" 'TerrapinTurnabout' thank you for the $10, 'Why did you learns Sign Language?' Well that's not an invasive question what so ever, he said with great sarcasm." Donnie knew this would be asked, but it's still not annoying, "Okay, when I was a little Turtle Tot, I tended to be very non verbal, so we learned SL so that I could at least 'tell' them what might have upset me. From there it became just another way me and Blue could plan pranks without anyone else hearing. Now it's just better to keep up with it just in case."

He pauses to double check what he just typed out, because at least once he accidentally typed what he was saying, and not the code for the program.

"The just in case moments include, Mandarin and Blues jobs, and the rare Red fan. As for me, there are just days were talking is to much. Now let's run a test of what I have so far!" Donnie hypes up only to see the program not do what he expected. And the stream goes on from there.

----------------

Masterpost

[chloessleepystories]

Sisters part 12

Chloe swung into action at the makeshift worktable in her own bedroom. She knew what she had to do, she just hoped she had the right tools. And enough time …

How had things gotten so far? All she’d wanted to do was turn her sister into a brainless slut … I mean, was that so wrong? Just … Just have a little fun with her. Show everyone she wasn’t that smart after all, and didn’t deserve all the scholarships, and the attention …

It was all so silly! She laughed to herself … it seemed funny that it had all seemed so important, at one time … What a silly girl she was!!

Chloe shook her head desperately with a gasp, and grabbed her headphones. She was running out of time.

Yes, it had started as a little fun. And then – well, it was hot making her sister submit to all the men. The boys. Kenzie had always acted like boys were beneath her, like dating was something she didn’t have time for or was too cool for …

Chloe knew why she, Chloe, wasn’t interested in boys, but she had never felt that her sister leaned the same way. Well, she’d shown her, hadn’t she? Kenzie loved sucking cock, now. Loved it more than reading books, which used to be one of her favorite things (hell, she barely remembered how to read now) but in addition to her newfound thirst to please men sexually, she was also addicted to her big sister’s pussy as well.

And for her part, Chloe felt more tender toward Kenzie than she had in years. Loved her, really. Loved going down on her, but loved making her happy, too. Was devoted to her sister. (Was that a function of the rivalry between them being gone? Or was it the subliminals acting on her subconscious?)

Turn it off, turn it off, goddammit turn it off before it was too late

But now … Kenzie was unhappy. Chloe needed to fix that.

Backing tracks, vocal synthesizer. Careful wording of the text. One hand holding the bulky headphones to her ear, the other adjusting levels. Her old homework desk had done all right as her first workstation for her recordings and experiments, but she was really wishing for the studio now. Couldn’t be helped.

But she knew this would be the perfect song to get through to her sister. One of Kenzie’s favorite songs, from one of her favorite movies, about loving sisters … If she could only finish her work before it was too late. Before the music claimed her too.

It’s too late it’s too late turn it off

Yes, of course she knew. Chloe could tell she was as affected by the songs as anyone else. It was harder to concentrate, and she was prone to fits of giggling, and it was probably only her deep awareness of the programming and how it worked that was letting her fight it this long. She’d been exposed to the music from the living room for probably two hours, the whole time she and her sister were playing. And every time she’d tried to turn it off … well, that’s when she really became aware that the compulsion to keep listening to the iPods was working on her.

When she’d been listing the effects of the subliminal tracks, she’d forgotten to mention the first one, the primary one that made all the others more effective. It was baked right in, right from the beginning: You love listening to this music. You don’t ever want to stop.

She put the big, noise-canceling headphones over both ears as she mixed and remixed the music. It cut out all the other distractions, and let her listen to the subliminals she’d created, the vocals, the new music … letting her concentrate.

She wondered what was happening in the living room now. She’d never meant for this to happen – for the music to ensnare her mother, her aunt … to make them slutty and stupid and oh so agreeable … God, it sounded like fun … No!

She wondered for a minute if it affected men the same way as women. She wondered if her father would turn giggly and dumb and horny …

She wondered, too, what would happen if a man like her father found out what the music did, and … used it against them.

What would happen if he learned the rules …

All you need to remember

Is obedience, pet …

Dave lay on the rug, naked, his wife straddling his head, her sister riding his cock. He’d cum at least three times, but was still hard, amazingly enough. And he’d missed the taste of his wife’s pussy – he was devouring it with gusto as he gripped her still-toned ass.

Above him, Lydia and Helen were making out with each other, massaging each other’s breasts, as he’d commanded, while wriggling on his cock and tongue. They were giggling, and moaning, and enjoying themselves immensely.

Dave lifted Helen off his face just enough to grunt, “Tell each other how devoted you are to pleasing me. How happy it makes you to be my sluts. And believe it, because of who is telling you …” He returned to sucking on her clit as Helen squealed her pleasure into her sister’s mouth.

“Omigod his cock feels so perfect in my pussy,” said Lydia, starry-eyed. “I love being sister sluts with you!”

“I can’t believe I ever wanted to divorce him,” Helen panted, pinching her sister’s nipples. “The only thing hotter than pleasuring his body, is watching him fuck you stupid! You’re addicted to his cock now, just like I am!!”

“I am!!!”

Turn it off turn it off turn it off you gotta find a way please I’m begging you just turn it off and we’ll figure out what comes next …

Chloe moved her largest speakers to be against the wall between their bedrooms, the headphones still over her ears. The speakers should ensure that, even without being able to put earbuds on her, Kenzie would be immersed in enjoyment of the new song as it blasted through the wall.

Had she always had a crush on her sister? Had that been behind this whole experiment? Or had that been created, and then fostered, by the experience, the enslavement and whoring her out and making her an obedient pussy licker … Or, maybe by her own exposure to the music, hypnotized to love and adore her sister, and wanting to obey her …

Impossible to say … and pointless to wonder now anyway …

There was something else she had to do … what was it?

Oh! Silly!! Can’t have two songs playing at once!! That would be SO annoying!!

And as if she had suddenly, finally, heard the whispered words from her subconscious, she walked calmly to the living room, in the perfect headphone-bound silence of her head, and turned off the Bose.

You’re gonna be dumber, dumber, dumber, cuz dumber is fu –

Click.

There. Now I can play the new song.

She turned, and watched the three naked adults sweating silently for a little while. Her eyes were a bit glazed. It was so mesmerizing to watch them. Mom was lying on her back on the couch, sucking Dad’s cock hard, while Aunt Lydia was going down on Mom’s cunt. Her aunt’s pussy, engorged and dripping, was waving at her, and Chloe licked her lips, watching it sway. How funny it was – like watching porn with the sound off.

Oh! Daddy was saying something. She took off the headphones … aahhh, now she could hear them moaning, gasping, slobbering …

“What are you doing, kitten?” he asked gently.

Chloe had to suck the spit back into our mouth to answer, and she realized she must have been drooling a little, her mouth hanging open for a while as she watched. “Turning off the music so Kenzie can hear my new song,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on her father’s long, thick shaft, slick with her mother’s saliva, as it stroked in and out of sight.

“Why don’t you go get your sister, and bring her here.”

“I’m …” She shuddered. Then looked into his eyes. They were warm, but firm, and held an expression she’d never seen on him before, only on horny teenage boys. Greedy, horny teenage boys.

“I’m trying, Daddy,” Chloe said in a small voice.

“Good girl.”

She whimpered. Then giggled. Then watched her aunt licking at her mother’s juicy cunt for a while, idly touching herself through her clothes. She could sort of hear snatches of songs going through her head, in the silence.

Her father pulled out of her mom’s mouth, slapping his cock against her cheek as he prepared to explode again. “Go on, now, kitten,” he said over his shoulder.

Chloe nodded, dazed, and left the room slowly.

I have to get my sister out of her room. That’s all that matters now. After that … We’ll figure out what comes next.

She walked down the hall, went to her workbench, turned everything on … then, still in a daze, and not quite herself knowing why, she put the headphones over her ears again. And reached for another iPod.

[blackevermore]

Tales In the Trade of Two Heirs ( Also on A03)

{ A Boy With Power }

Summary:

[Sequel to Trades In The Tales of Candy]

Years have passed since the events of the factory and those who live inside it. The small town has grown bored, if the man behind the wall wasn't going to do anything then maybe he should just leave. They thought. Unknown to them the candy man had found another grey hair, it was time to finally find an heir.

Notes: Hey....I'm starting over this book. It was shit balls that first run and now I'm older and wise and I know I can do better. And I will. Welcome aboard

Warning: (Look on A03 for the full list) None yet

Word Count: 5K

The silence that hung over Taylor and Wonka as they sat across from each other in the Inventing Room was starting to become suffocating. It had been a day since Charlie told Wonka he wasn’t going to join him and Wonka had undoubtedly taken it to heart. Taylor didn’t know how to interject and told her boss they had a bigger issue. She still felt like this was somehow all her fault. He had told her to go out and find a kid with no parents and Taylor found a child with a loving family. 

Wonka was too swallowed up by his rejection that he hadn’t noticed how on edge Taylor had become. To him, his feelings of finding an heir for his candy empire were a slap in the face. In the short time he had been in the same space with Charlie, he too had taken a liking towards the child. Charlie was full of life and a spark that Wonka found himself craving as if he were a child looking for a friend. Wonka did his best to keep his bigger emotions under control but now and then as he worked he would become frustrated and slam his pen down. 

“Sir?” Taylor called out, hoping that maybe Wonka just needed an ear to listen to his woes. 

“I don’t understand,” Wonka grumbled under his breath. Taylor caught it and waited for him to continue.

“I don’t understand how anyone would not take the chance.” Wonka rubbed his face with his gloved hands and pushed his hat slightly off his forehead.

“I offered him a life changing experience and he denied me. No one has ever so simply denied me. Me! I’m supposed to be the ultimate dream of a child’s whimsical dreams, and yet, Charlie Bucket picked something else over me!” Wonka took off his hat slammed it on the ground and turned back towards his workstation to slam his fist down.

Taylor took a moment to gather herself and then walked over to grab Wonka’s hat off the ground and dust it off. Wonka always had a bad reaction to being told no. From what Taylor learned it never got better despite his age. When he wanted something or was determined to have something the last thing Wonka wanted to be told was that he couldn’t. Taylor could never comprehend what Wonka's mind must have been spewing, but she knew that Wonka couldn’t continue being like this.

“You can’t tell a child they can’t have their family.” Taylor placed Wonka’s hat next to him and stood tall beside the workstation. It was best to not try and touch Wonka when he was like this.

“Why not!?” Wonka barked, slowly retracting when he realized how close Taylor was. He apologized but still held on to the anger in his voice.

“Because children need their families to love them and help them grow,” Taylor said, it was true but for both of them family was a very heavy subject.

“I didn’t have one. They all leave anyway.” Wonka words stung Taylor deep. She knew of his past and everything that had happened to him. It wasn’t Wilfred or Wesley's fault for being sent away but it was Wonka’s pettiness that kept him away from finding his brothers for so long. He felt abandoned by everyone, and throughout his most valuable moments in life, he dealt with the most terrible people. 

“Families are useless parts of life that never amount to anything.” Wonka didn’t care if what he said held any truth or not. This was how he felt in this moment, pain, rejection, and a slight case of jealousy.

“Families are important whether they are good or bad.” Taylor protested back. She had left her family behind to be with Wonka and there were so many times she wished she hadn’t. She was a child who was pretending to be an adult and despite her mother’s wishes, she left. She left her life behind, she had to due to being involved in some crazy shit, but she lived and never went back. Taylor understood why Wonka could hold such a grudge against life the way he did. But as of now, she wasn’t too sure if the behaviour that presented itself was adult Wonka talking or child Wonka.

“Families set the tone of what type of person you are going to be. Whether you are trying to change from toxic behaviours or if you were raised in a loving home. Charlie may be poor but he was given the best thing in life. A family that loves him.” Taylor continued, Wonka barely listened, choosing to block her out as a yapping nuisance. 

“Family doesn’t outweigh the wealth and fame I have.” Wonka lashed at Taylor and the young woman felt her anger spike. “I could give me so much more than his…p-parents could ever dream of!”

“Damnit William!” Taylor yelled and slammed her fist down on the table next to him. The older man jumped and turned towards her. 

“You may have had a fucked up childhood, which I remind you is not your fault, but you will not allow that broken side of you to be the reason you fail to understand basic human emotions. Charlie is a child. A CHILD. Imagine how he would have felt if you just took everything away from him. He would end up like you. Cold and nasty, only wanting to better yourself so you can forget your past. Until one day a child walks into your life and you have to come face to face with the reality that not everyone has to be as miserable as you are.” Taylor was panting, her vision was slightly blurry and her fist clenched a few times as she read Wonka to his core. Wonka was speechless.

“And before you even mutter ‘who are you talking to’, I’m talking to you, you oversized child.” Taylor sharply turned away from Wonka and headed towards the entrance of the room.

“If you truly want Charlie to be your heir then you will apologize. You will accept his family, and you will bring them into the factory as well.

With that Taylor was gone and Wonka was stunned in place, like a child who had just been scolded by their parent.

Taylor couldn’t sit still, she had to move, she had to bounce, she had to keep herself in motion the whole time she spoke to Jacques. Her session had barely started as Taylor spewed everything that had happened in the past couple of weeks. She had greeted Jacques with an apology for skipping her sessions, to which the little worker had raised a hand to tell her not to worry. 

Everything just came running out of her. For most parts, she was happy about her aid in the contest and how Charlie was surely the perfect fit. Then she spoke of Mara and how she still hadn’t told Wonka about the phone call, she knew now wouldn’t be a good time either. Then finally the topic of Wonka being an asshole about Charlie's rejection fired her up again.

“How does he expect a child to react?” Taylor asked aloud. Jacques looked over his glasses and shrugged.

“I know it was my idea for him to pick a child protege, but to ask them to leave everything behind is crazy. Children aren’t stupid.” Taylor's words echoed around her for a moment and then she huffed. Children weren’t stupid, not all of them, not Charlie. Charlie beamed with a sense of child wisdom that adults didn’t understand. He had given Taylor a glimpse of the young man he could become. And yet, deep down, Taylor was grateful Charlie denied Wonka. Children weren’t stupid, but some were gullible and native to what dreams could be like in real life. Charlie didn’t want a factory and all the wonders that came inside it, he only wanted to meet Willy Wonka and vocally tell him his appreciation. Taylor was not that smart when she gingerly took Wonka’s hand and left the States. It felt like a crazy book of adventure when she planted herself inside Wonka’s world.

“Jacques,” Taylor called out, hanging her head low as she finally stopped pacing and stood towards the factory entrance. “Was all of this a mistake?”

The little worker stared into the back of Taylor's head, wishing they could read into her mind. He took note of Taylor’s fingers as they twitched, curled into a fist, then unclenched. Taylor began mumbling under her breath something the little man couldn’t comprehend. 

“Jacques,” Taylor called out again but never continued with what she was saying. It felt like a grip on both of them as each person waited for the other to do something. 

Taylor finally turned around and sat down on the fainting chair and played with the ends of her hair.

“Maybe Charlie shouldn’t be the heir, I know Wonka wants someone to take over but-” Taylor trailed off and slumped over and buried herself in her knees. 

“I think Wonka has a battle he must settle with himself before anything else,” Jacques spoke. Taylor jumped up and narrowed her eyes towards the little man. The deep brass of the little worker's voice was not what she expected. Then again she didn’t expect him to speak English either. She knew a handle full of the Oompa Loompas could but she thought she already knew all that could. The factory was full of many secrets.

Taylor swallowed and nodded, “Yeah?”

“I think you need to take a vacation, go somewhere far, somewhere you can clear your mind.” Jacques took off his glasses and cleaned them on his little vest.

“I can’t,” Taylor protested and gripped her knees. The sheer idea of leaving felt like things would fall apart. 

“You won’t,” Jacques corrected her and wrote down something on his clipboard.

“You tell him everything.” It wasn’t a question but more of a statement and Taylor felt spiteful when she said it. Jacques said nothing and simply placed his pen and clipboard down on his lap.

“I thought therapy was private?”

“It is.”

“Then why does he have to know everything then?” Taylor shot up to her feet and grabbed the clipboard from Jacques’s lap. The little man did nothing but watch as she feverishly flipped through his pages. Her face contorted as she couldn’t read what was written other than her name and times and dates. Taylor gripped the ends of the clipboard till her knuckles were white then threw the clipboard onto the side table next to the giant chair Jacques sat in. Taylor sat back down again and played with the ends of her hair again.

"I miss my mom." Taylor finished, she could feel the trigger of emotions flipping throughout her being and it was starting to feel exhausting. Jacques was right she needed to get out of the factory and go somewhere else. No matter what happens in the factory, nothing will ever be normal. The walls were lickable to god sake and Wonka had even proudly told her that some of the doors were made out of his strongest chocolate. There were odds and ends all over the place that would eventually drive someone up a wall. The talk about family and parents made her miss her own. Her mom, her brothers, the family she loved were back in theStatess living life as best they could, while she was in England doing all the things good people shouldn't do. Taylor wished she told her mom everything that had ever happened. She knew her mom would flip out and probably demand she come home. But maybe her mom would understand why she stayed and would just ask Taylor to promise to keep safe.

Just then Taylor let out a pitiful laugh and got to her feet again. Jacques watched as she turned towards the candy room waiting for her to say something.

As she got to the door she stopped, “I’m sorry I have to leave, I need to tell him about the phone call, thank you, Jacques.” With that, she was gone and Jacques realized just how cold the foyer of the factory was.

When Taylor pushed in the door she was smacked in the face with a sugary hell that even to this day made her gag. Scrunching up her nose, she tracked down the pathway to head towards the farthest end of the room to call the elevator.

Toot Toot! 

Taylor stopped walking and turned back around towards the Chocolate River. In the distance, she could see a small boat coming from the tunnel and a very familiar top hat. The little boat was much different than the large pink one, it was white and covered in golden 'W's. It looked more like a ferry that could only seat four people. Or maybe a couple on a cosy date night. Taylor smirked at the idea of Wonka coming to sweep her off her feet but then complained about how heavy she was to get under her skin. She crossed her arms waiting for the ever so posh Wonka to make his grand entrance. Once he was in the middle of the river, he steered the boat closer to the bay and threw on the brakes.

Taylor walked over to the edge of the boat and leaned forward, “Sir.”

"Ah yes my favourite little brat, I was looking for you. Get in." His smile was bright and unbreakable, but there was something behind it. Taylor was unsure if she wanted to be around him when she was in such a foul mood. She still needed to speak with him about Mara but the way he smiled told her to hold off just a bit longer. Wonka hadn’t even noticed the change in her demeanour as he set about holding out his hand for her to take.  Once she was inside she took a seat next to the wheel and waited for Wonka to start rambling. They pulled away from the bay and started down the tunnel.

"I need your advice," Wonka said over his shoulder, Taylor cocked a brow. This was a very rare moment of Wonka asking her for help. "I've chosen to go out today and speak with Charlie."

“And?” Taylor said bitterly, Wonka was taken back but shrugged it off.

"I don't know how," Wonka whispered, his shoulders dropped for a moment and his eyes lowered in shame.

"Apologize." Was all Taylor could give him and that seemed to make Wonka falter as he drove the boat. 

"But what about his...ya know, his.... ugh!" Wonka groaned and threw his hands up for a moment before quickly putting them back on the wheel.

"You never had an issue saying family before." Taylor could sense Wonka was struggling and got up from her seat and took his hand in hers.

"I know." 

"Are you okay?" 

"I don't know." 

Silence took over the trip again and Taylor knew she had to say something. She squeezed his hand and pushed herself closer to him.

"For the small amount of time I've known that boy, he has never asked me for anything outrageous. The only thing he asked was for me to buy a newspaper from him so he could support his family in their next meal. After that, that's when I knew he was the one. I felt a pull to baby him and give him everything. I looked at Charlie once and I knew his mind worked similar to yours. He has an imagination that hasn't been unlocked. He had a spark." Taylor was confident in her words and Wonka could feel it.

"I saw it too.”

"But most importantly, that boy has love, he would never ask you for anything else in this world except his family." Taylor knew Wonka was hanging on to every word.

"That means they have to move in as well." 

"Of course." 

"That means I have to interact with them." 

"You'll grow to love it. Just like you grew to love me." Taylor leaned over to rest her head on Wonka's arm and Wonka smiled. He looked over and playfully shook his shoulder to get her off of him. 

"I've grown to tolerate you." He whispered and leaned down to kiss her on the lips. It wasn't a passionate kiss, just a simple peck that stayed longer than it should.

Taylor pulled away and frowned. She wanted him to just say it and stop being so difficult. Wonka must have gotten the hint and pushed a button for the boat to stall. He turned towards her fully and cupped her face and pulled her into a kiss.

“I love you,” Wonka whispered against her lips hoping Taylor would accept his affections. It worked and the girl gave in and returned his love happily. When they did pull away she held onto his arm and sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Wonka asked and Taylor tried to pretend she was okay and shook her head.

“Tired” She responded and curled into his arm. Wonka hummed and didn’t push further as he started up the boat again.

Mara would have to wait.

After the boat ride, Wonka informed Taylor that he would be busy and not to disturb him. She nodded and told him to call her if he needed her and they shortly parted ways. After leaving Wonka's side, Taylor went straight to Scarlet's room to see if the blonde was available. She knocked a few times and waited for the other to say something. A muffled voice told her to enter and Taylor was greeted by the blonde on the floor surrounded by colour yards of rope.

“Am I interrupting?” Taylor asked as she mindfully stepped over the rope and found a spot on the floor. Scarlet was in the middle of tying a knot on her leg with a black rope. 

The blonde shook her head, "If you were, I would have told you to come back later. I'm just doing some method control." Scarlet smiled up to Taylor then went back to focusing on the elaborate twists and turns of her rope knots. Taylor was curious about what she saw and got closer so she could see what Scarlet was doing. It was pretty, it looked a bit painful when Scarlet yanked on the rope to get it to press tighter on her skin.  Scarlet continued to loop the black rope around her right ankle then pull it back to anchor it in the ropes around her thigh. She then reached for a mint green rope to do it again creating a pattern. 

"Have you never seen Shibari before?" Scarlet asked, the way Taylor’s eyes were glued on her told her all she needed to know.

“No,” Taylor responded timidly. 

“You two never…?” Scarlet didn’t want to finish her question and Taylor quickly shook her head no. That was the most surprising thing Scarlet could have heard that day.

“Why are you tying yourself up?” Taylor picked up a dark red rope and wrapped it around her palm. The colour was nice against her skin.

"It helps me relax,” Scarlet had to think about what she would say next. She knew Taylor wouldn’t judge her but it was still something personal. “I was tied down to a bed for months, remember? This is just my way of gaining control when I feel like things are off. It helps me center myself.” Scarlet wasn’t sure what Taylor would say but what she heard was not one of them.

“You can do that? Control yourself with something like this?” Taylor held the rope up to Scarlet and the blonde nodded with a shrug.

“People cope in different ways, this is one of mine.” Scarlet finished her leg and moved to flex and Taylor slowly ran a finger over the bondage.

“What are you controlling when you do this?” Taylor asked.

Scarlet thought for a moment and then spoke, “I’m controlling my life. My decisions, what I truly want, each knot is me trying to figure it out.”

“Have you figured it out?”

“I have,” Scarlet smiled down at her work and then took the rope from Taylor’s hand. “What to learn?”

After a brief introduction of what the ropes were all for and how to tie a basic knot, Taylor and Scarlet were lost in conversation as they fiddled with the ropes. It wasn’t long before Taylor found herself tangled up in different colours of rope. They laughed at Taylor's lack of skill until the girl finally got the hang of it. Taylor could see the beauty in what Scarlet was doing. It was in a way relaxing as the compression felt like it did hold her together. Another hour went by and Taylor was now standing up while Scarlet wrapped a pretty blue rope around her.

“Did you speak with him?” Scarlet asked as she fiddled with a knot on Taylor’s waist.

“No.” Taylor sighed and tried to shift to get more comfortable.

“Are you going to?” Scarlet finished the last knot and stood back to admire her work.

“Yeah, but it will have to wait, he is going to try and speak with Charlie.” Taylor tried to take a step towards the mirror near the closet but stumbled forward. Her left arm had been tied down to her hip and thigh. She looked bewildered at Scarlet who waved her off and then offered herself as a crutch. Taylor hobbled over to the mirror and gasped.

“Scarlet I look like a Thanksgiving turkey in a BMDS club the night before dinner.” They laughed. Taylor looked over herself for a minute, genuinely impressed with Scarlet craft. This was just as impressive as it was attractive, Taylor quickly took note that she would love to learn how to do this.

When Taylor gave Scarlet the cue to begin untying her Taylor had a strange sense of release come over her. She could feel her body relaxing and everything in that short moment felt okay.

“How was your session?” Scarlet asked, breaking Taylor away from her thoughts which resulted in a groan. “Was it bad?” Scarlet peered up from the knot on Taylor's thigh.

“It wasn’t bad, just…okay,” Taylor answered slowly, not wanting to talk about it. Now that she thought about it she had been rude to Jacques when she snatched the clipboard away from him. In her right mind, she would have never done anything like that to any of the little workers. She told herself she would need to apologize the next time she saw him.

“You don’t have to talk about it with me if you don’t want to. That’s okay, ya know.” Scarlet was now working her way up through the rest of the knots when she suddenly stopped and looked at her friend.

“Are you okay?” Scarlet kept her voice low out of respect. Taylor could tell Scarlet was being genuine which meant she was not a part of the loop of Jacques’ reports. Taylor felt a spark of happiness that someone wasn’t being nosy, but then she also felt upset Wonka wasn’t keeping Scarlet informed.

“No,” Taylor began but kept her head held high. “I’m not okay but I’m doing okay. I’ll be okay.” Taylor gave Scarlet a promising smile and hoped she would believe her. She truly hoped the blonde wouldn’t try to push deeper.

“If anything happens let me know, okay?” Scarlet said.

“I will, I promise.” Taylor leaned over and kissed Scarlet’s forehead and then tried again to move her arm. When she was free she shook it out and stretched. With the satisfied popping of her ar,m Taylor shook off the rest of the rope and sat back down on the floor.

“I like this,” Taylor held up some other loose ropes. “I think I get why you do it.”

“Or you’re just a freak.” Scarlet joked and took the rope from Taylor’s hand to begin putting them away.

“Then what does that make you?” Taylor stuck out her tongue, Scarlet rolled her eyes and shoved everything back into the box under her bed.

“It makes me, me, and I know what I am. So what are you?” 

Taylor wasn’t sure why the question hung so heavy in the air. It wasn’t meant to make her think and yet she was beginning to wonder the same thing.

Just as quickly as the thought came it left when Taylor heard the sound of her phone going off. She gave Scarlet a quick ‘sorry’ and answered.

“Hello?” 

“Bedroom, now.” Wonka's voice was quick and so was the dial tone when he hung up.

“I have to go,” Taylor told Scarlet and quickly got to her feet and out the door. 

When she got to his bedroom door she gently knocked and turned the handle to step inside. Wonka was standing in his bedroom window clutching the ball of his cane tightly in his hand. Taylor slowly walked towards him and could see he was visibly shaking. His jaw clenched and his focus was unbroken to the world outside. She slowly crept up to him and when she finally made it to his side she didn’t say a word and waited for him.

Wonka’s eyes closed when he felt Taylor trying to release his grip on the cane. She could tell something was deeply affecting him. When she finally managed to get the cane out of his grasp he replaced it with her wrist, Taylor went stiff. Wonka then turned towards her, pulled her into a tight hug and buried his face in the side of her neck. Taylor awkwardly brought her arms up and comforted the candyman. She tried to think of what was going on but nothing came close to what he would tell her.

"Charlie has agreed to move into the factory along with his...." Wonka said. He sounded like he was on the verge of crying.

"Family?" Taylor finished for him.

"Yes." Wonka quickly answered, but it was shaky. There was another long pause. 

"He made me go see my father." Wonka's voice was airy, scared, hurt, and very much childlike. Taylor held her breath as she felt Wonka dropped to his knees to hang on to her tightly. His hat fell off and hit the floor with a thud behind him. Wonka began to cry and Taylor held on to his head and shoulder to pull him in. 

How in the world did Charlie get Wonka to actually agree to go and see his father? She could remember the sour expression Wonka had on his face when he was split in two when he told her about his upbringing. It was the face of a man who would prefer to forget the past. Taylor could only imagine Charlie being a force of change walking into Wonka's life. Charlie had made Wonka cry and that was scary. Wonka felt so heavy in Taylor’s arms but she would never let go of him. She tried her best to get him back up but struggled as the grown man chose to stay down. When she was finally able to get him on his feet she got him to his bed and he crawled into the middle and curled into a ball. 

Taylor could do nothing but watch as Wonka tried to cover his face and ears with his hands. She wasn’t prepared for this. This was not in her long list of things should had become accustomed to while living here. Wonka never cried, let alone had a breakdown to the point he was on his knees. This made Taylor anxious as she shifted on her feet and bit her lip to keep calm. So she waited; there was nothing else to do, she couldn’t tell Scarlet or call on an Oompa Loompa. Wonka called on her and she would stand by his side no matter what.

"H-He didn't even recognize me," Wonka said, still covering his face, back still turned towards Taylor. "He didn't even know who I was until he looked in my mouth." the last word slurred into another fit of tears. Wonka began to shake again and Taylor moved to place her hand on his back. He stopped and froze in place.

“He never came back for me.” Taylor knew Wonka wasn’t talking to her at this point. He was just speaking out loud his thoughts and Taylor was more than willing to listen.

“He never looked for me.” Wonka's shoulders finally dropped and he moved his hands away from his head. He then slowly turned his back and looked up to the ceiling.

“He kept newspaper clippings of everything I did.” Wonka's voice was hoarse, cracking when he spoke. “He kept track of me, not Wilfred, not Wesley, just me.”

“Why?” Taylor asked, she was curious as well, why only William?

“I didn’t ask, I was scared.” Wonka laughed nervously, it was a bit creepy, and slowly rolled his head to the side and Taylor's skin crawled as she saw how the whites of his eyes were bright red and the purple of his eyes were dull. His eyes were starting to get puffy and his pale face red.

Without saying another word Taylor kicked off her shoes and crawled into bed with Wonka and cradled him on her chest. Wonka let out a string of broken sighs and wrapped his arms around her. She ran her fingers through his messy hair and rested her cheek on top of his head. 

“Please stay,” Wonka mumbled. Taylor responded with a kiss on his head and nodded.

She would stay like this for as long as he needed. 

Mara would have to wait.