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lvrgurlblobbu · 3 months ago

Text

dolled up

“all dolled up just for me, my beautiful wife.”

zayne x fem!reader

⤿ part of snow angel series : )

⤿ cw: MDNI, p in v, thigh riding, cunnilingus, fingering, creampie, breeding kink, mirror sex, spanking, rough sex, sprinkle of brat tamer!zayne

⤿ word count: 5.2k

⤿ synopsis: zayne has been having a rough week due to multiple surgeries, meetings, and tons of paper works so one night, you decided to give him a little surprise : )

ao3

You were lounging in the living room, scrolling through your phone while the television murmured in the background. The house had been quiet the past few days since Hyacinth decided to join her grandparents—Zayne’s parents—on their four-day trip. A small smile tugged at your lips as her grandmother sent a photo of your five-year-old daughter beaming at the camera, cradling a tiny kitten in her arms. The caption read, “She wants to take the kitten home.”

You glanced at the calendar. They were due back in two days, and you couldn’t wait to hug her again and hear all about their little adventure.

You went through your other notifications, eyes scanning for your husband’s name. These past few weeks had been hectic for Zayne—back-to-back surgeries, endless meetings, and a mountain of paperwork waiting on his desk. The exhaustion was written all over his face, dark circles shadowing his eyes. You’d been gently urging him to take a day off, but being the workaholic he was, he always found a reason to decline. He insisted he couldn’t step away, not wanting to fall behind on his responsibilities.

You were about to take a nap when you heard the doorbell ring. You immediately sat up and padded toward the door. As you peeked through the peephole, you realized it was just a delivery. Opening the door, the delivery man gave you a polite nod and handed over an electronic pad for you to sign. You signed your name and thanked him, then took the medium-sized box into your hands. It wasn’t heavy, but it felt like something carefully packed. Closing the door behind you, you walked back into the living room and placed the box on the coffee table.

You felt your phone vibrate in your pocket. When you checked the notification and saw it was from a clothing brand, your lips curled into a small smirk. Wasting no time, you grabbed a cutter to unbox the package that had just arrived. As you peeled back the flaps, a smile spread across your face—it was the lingerie set you’d ordered online. Without a second thought, you picked up the box and made your way to your shared bedroom, eager to try it on.

It was a pastel pink babydoll-style nightdress made from sheer, lightweight fabric.The bust area features embroidered floral lace with underwire support and satin ribbon detailing in the center. It made your cleavage pop due to its padding. Thin double shoulder straps add a dainty touch, and the skirt flows gently down about a few inches from your intimate area, ending in layered ruffled hems for a soft, romantic look. It also came with a laced pink thong that goes well with the lingerie, as well as an accessory which is a pearl choker and a simple necklace with a small pendant.

And of course, being the little tease you are, you couldn’t resist. After slipping into the delicate lingerie, you sat on the edge of the bed, angled your phone just right, and snapped a mirror selfie. With a sly smile, you sent it to Zayne—who was still at work—along with a message that read: “When are you coming home? I miss you...”

It hadn’t even been five minutes when his reply came through.

“Sweetheart, you look gorgeous. However, I’m in the middle of an important meeting right now.”

You bit your lip, amusement dancing in your eyes. Switching to the front camera, you adjusted the angle and took another photo—this time showing only from your chest down to your thighs, the sheer fabric leaving little to the imagination. With a light tap, you sent it off.

Not long after, another message lit up your screen.

“I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, setting your phone down as you settled back on the bed. Mission accomplished.

***

You heard your front door and that signaled that Zayne is already home. With a soft giggle, you stepped out of your shared bedroom then went downstairs to greet him.

“Hello, my love—“ He was suddenly taken aback and his coat dropped to the floor when he saw you standing before him, wearing the lingerie you bought. He cleared his throat before speaking. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Hm? Why would I be? I feel perfectly fine..” You answered before placing a peck on his lips, “Welcome home.”

You caught the faint flush creeping up his neck, his ears turning a telltale shade of red as his eyes roamed over your figure. His gaze faltered, locking onto the curve of your hips—specifically, the absence of that laced thong you’d been teasing him with earlier. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, trying (and failing) to keep his expression neutral.

You bit your lip, barely containing a giggle at the way his composure unraveled.

“Hungry?” you asked, your voice low and teasing, the double meaning lingering in the air.

He gave a slow, slightly dazed nod.

You reached out and laced your fingers with his, giving his hand a gentle tug. “Come on, then.”

Guiding him to the kitchen, you revealed the small dinner setup you’d prepared—candles flickering, plates warm, and everything in place. The contrast between the tension in the air and the peaceful domesticity made it all the more intimate.

You both sat down to eat, the silence between you charged but comfortable, like a storm waiting just past the horizon.

As you finished, the two of you did your usual routine— wiping the table, washing the dishes, placing the leftovers inside the fridge.. However, the way his eyes flicker to you, the clenching and unclenching of his hand, his reddened ears, and deep breaths doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

Currently, the both of you are enjoying ice cream for dessert, the quiet clink of spoons filling the cozy air between you. The soft lighting casts a gentle glow, making everything feel just a little more intimate.

You glance at him, a small smile playing on your lips as you tilt your head.

“So, how are you, my love?”

He looks up from his bowl, his expression calm, almost unreadable. He gives a small shrug, stirring the ice cream around absently.

“Same old,” he replies casually. “Had three surgeries, two meetings and finished the paperworks that was sitting at my desk for days. How about you?”

He scoops another spoonful without looking at you, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—like he’s trying not to let on too much.

“It was fine, just missing our little girl. Your mother sent a picture earlier, Hyacinth is cradling a tiny kitten in her arms and she wants to take it home with her..” A quiet laugh slips from your lips, fond and wistful, as you glance at him.

“I have no objections to that,” he said smoothly—but just then, you noticed a small smear of ice cream at the corner of his lips. Instead of reaching out to wipe it away, you leaned in slowly, eyes locked on his, the air thick with unspoken tension. Your lips brushed the corner of his mouth as you licked the bit of ice cream off, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

When you pulled back, a playful smile tugged at your lips.

“You missed a spot,” you whispered.

His eyes darkened slightly, jaw tightening just a fraction as he stared at you, that neutral composure starting to crack.

“[Name].. Love..” He muttered, gaze locking into yours. “What?” you respond, a small smile curling on your lips.

“You’re being such a tease..”

“I am not…” you denied with mock innocence as you hopped off the stool, deliberately swaying your hips on the way to the fridge. Bending down slowly, you opened it with an exaggerated hum. “Hmm, what should we—ah!”

You yelped softly as a sudden, firm smack landed on your ass. Glancing over your shoulder with a smirk, you found him standing behind you, eyes dark with intent.

“Oh?” you teased, scooting your bare ass back until it pressed against the hard outline of his clothed crotch. You gave the slightest roll of your hips, just enough to feel the sharp breath he drew in behind you.

Before you could even process his next move, strong arms wrapped around your waist, and in one smooth motion, he hoisted you over his shoulder.

“Hey—!” you started, laughing, but his voice cut through, low and full of heat.

“I’ve had enough of this teasing, my love…” he growled as he began striding purposefully toward the stairs. “Let’s see if you can hold onto that attitude of yours.”

You gasped, heart pounding with anticipation, the fridge long forgotten as he carried you up to your shared bedroom like a man on a mission.

As you both enter your room, he strides towards your bed before gently tossing you to lie down, the mattress dipping beneath you as he looms over, eyes dark with intent. You used your arms to anchor yourself as you stared at him..

“Hm??” You teased, brow raising at him as hig gaze trails from your face, to your chest, and down to your exposed cunt. Then you felt his fingers teasing your folds which caused you to whimper..

“Z-Zayne..” you whimpered as he began to massage your wet folds..

“Yes, my love? Wouldn’t want your effort to go to waste, hm?” He whispered as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “My wife waited for me to come home dressed like this, all dolled up just for me. I am a lucky man.” He muttered before his lips met yours, melting in a passionate kiss.

His lips moved against yours with slow, deliberate tenderness, savoring every second like he’d been starved of your touch. Then, you felt him insert his finger inside your pussy which made you moan, he used it to deepen the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips to taste you fully—hungry, aching, possessive.

A soft moan escaped as he pressed closer, his body flush with yours, the weight of him grounding you in the moment. He pulled back just slightly, his lips brushing over yours as he whispered, “You have no idea what it does to me, seeing you like this… knowing you’re mine.” he whispered as his kisses trailed down your neck, nibbling on your sensitive skin. Hard enough to the point he’s certain that it’ll leave a mark.

Then he pulled back slightly, taking in the sight of you— face flushed with lust and desire, lips kiss-swollen and parted, chest rising and falling with every shallow breath. His eyes roamed over you, dark and hungry, as if trying to commit every detail to memory.

“God, look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, admiring the way it trembled beneath his touch. “So beautiful… and all mine.”

“Z-Zayne— ahh!” You arched your back as you felt him fasten the thrusts of his fingers in your wet heat, back arching as you gripped the sheets.

“That’s it, say my name.. My love..” He mumbled as his kisses went down your pussy, “Let me have a taste of you, wife.” He whispered before he used his tongue to lick your slit. His fingers still pumping in your pussy, while his other hand is gripping your hips to keep it from moving.

“Mmphh!” You moaned as he continued to flick his tongue against you, his fingers curling inside as he kissed and lapped on your sensitive flesh. Then, you felt the tension building in your core and you’re sure that he feels it— the way your legs tremble and pussy clenched around his digits.

However, it seems like he has other plans because just as you were about to come, he suddenly retracted his fingers and lips from your pussy, leaving it soaking wet and hole gaping.

“Zayne?!” you exclaimed, chest heaving and your pussy aching from your denied orgasm.

“What?” he said with a soft chuckle, his eyes never leaving yours as his fingers worked slowly down the buttons of his polo. The fabric parted to reveal the firm lines of his chest, and your breath caught just a little at the sight.

Once the shirt was off, he moved to sit at the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed but eyes burning with intent. He patted his thigh, gaze smoldering. “Come here,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing. “Right where you belong.”

You moved toward him, each step feeling heavier with anticipation. The moment you settled onto his lap, his hands immediately found your hips, pulling you flush against him. The heat between your bodies was undeniable, electric.

He let out a quiet, satisfied sigh as his hands slid up your sides, fingers brushing the fabric clinging to your skin. “There we go,” he whispered against your neck, placing a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below your ear. “You feel so good… so warm.”

One hand cradled the small of your back, holding you close, while the other traced slow circles along your thigh. “I could stay like this forever,” he murmured, lips trailing soft kisses along your jaw. “But you’re making it very hard to be patient.”

“Zayne.. please—“ you pleaded as he trailed wet kisses on your neck.

“Please what? Use your words sweetheart..” He replied, his hands traveling down your thigh then to your ass, cupping it gently. “Do you want to come, sweetheart?” He asked in which you nodded in response.

“Only good girls deserve to come, do you think you’ve been good? Hm?”

“Y-Yes, please, my love—ah!” You yelped as his hand came down on your ass with a sharp, unexpected smack. The sound echoed in the room, followed by a rush of heat blooming beneath your skin.

“Wrong answer.” He hand lingered, soothing the sting with a gentle caress before gripping you firmly, possessively. “Do good girls send suggestive pictures of themselves? Because I don’t think so, good girls earn a reward and what happened to bratty ones, like you?”

“Mm… Sorry—ah!” you gasped as his hand connected with your ass once more, the sharp sting making your hips jolt against him. The second smack left your skin tingling, heat flaring both where he touched and deep in your core.

He grinned against your neck, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re not sorry,” he growled playfully, his voice thick with arousal. “You like it when I make you squirm. Since you wanted to come so bad, work for it.” He said as he guided your hips to grind on his clothed thigh, his hand finding its way to massage your clit while the other was cupping your breasts. Then he tugged the lingerie down, exposing your bare chest before leaning in to suck on your sensitive bud.

You clung to his shoulder for support, grinding desperately against his thigh. Your head fell back, a moan escaping you as the friction of your bare cunt dragging over the rough fabric of his pants sent lightning through your nerves. Every roll of your hips made your legs tremble, but you couldn’t stop—even if you wanted to.

He watched you, eyes dark with hunger, letting you use him, letting you fall apart. His fingers, which had been expertly circling your clit just moments before, suddenly withdrew. You whimpered at the loss, your hips stuttering, needing that contact again—but he had other plans.

His hand slid upward with deliberate slowness, trailing over your stomach, grazing your ribs, before finally cupping your breasts—firm, possessive. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, coaxing them into tight peaks. Then he leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Touch yourself,” he growled, low and commanding.

Before you could even think to hesitate, his mouth closed around one aching nipple, tongue teasing, teeth grazing just enough to make your back arch. His free hand kneaded your other breast, palm warm, fingers rough with need as they rolled and tugged your nipple between them. You gasped, body torn between the heat building in your core and the overwhelming pleasure of his mouth on you.

You slid a shaky hand down between your thighs, fingers slipping over your soaked folds. The contrast of your own touch, slick and hot, while his tongue dragged over your skin, made you cry out. You rubbed small circles against your clit, pressure building again too fast, too strong.

"Good girl," he murmured against your breast, voice vibrating through your chest. "Don’t stop. I want to feel you fall apart on me."

“Z-Zayne... Mm, near…” you moaned, the words trembling from your lips, barely coherent through the haze of pleasure flooding your body.

He growled low in his throat at the sound of his name like that—half-whimpered, soaked in desperation. His teeth grazed your nipple, then he sucked hard, sending another jolt straight to your core. His hand tightened on your breast as he glanced up at you, eyes heavy with lust and control.

“Then come for me,” he rasped against your skin, voice thick and raw. “Don’t hold back—I want to feel it. Want to see you fall apart on me.”

His thigh tensed beneath you, giving you more pressure, and your fingers moved faster on your clit, chasing the wave that threatened to break. Every breath you took was laced with fire. The world narrowed down to him—his mouth, his voice, the way his body held you like he’d never let go.

Your moans pitched higher, body trembling as your climax surged, sharp and overwhelming. Your hips jerked against his thigh as the pleasure crested, stars exploding behind your eyes.

“Zayne—!” you cried out as you came, body locking up, then shuddering hard against him.

He didn’t let up. He kept his mouth on you, kept his hand steady, drawing out every pulse of your orgasm until you were a boneless mess in his arms, chest heaving, fingers still twitching where they’d been between your thighs. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—flushed, wrecked, glowing with satisfaction. A slow, wicked smile curved his lips.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “You should see yourself when you come for me.”

Then he lifted you with ease, strong arms wrapping around your waist as if you weighed nothing, and laid you back onto the bed with a gentleness that contrasted the heat still crackling in the air. The sheets felt cool against your overheated skin, but your eyes stayed locked on him, hungry, dazed.

He stood at the edge of the bed, gaze dragging over your body like a promise, dark and slow.

Without a word, he began to undress.

First, he discarded his unbuttoned polo. The fabric hit the floor somewhere behind him, forgotten. Your breath caught at the sight of him—broad chest, toned muscles, skin flushed with desire. Your thighs pressed together instinctively. Next came the belt. The soft click of the buckle sent another rush of heat through you. His fingers worked with calm precision, sliding it free, letting it hang from one hand for just a second too long—like he wanted you to imagine what else it could be used for.

Then he dropped it.

You watched as he unbuttoned his pants, the zipper dragging down with a low rasp. He let them fall, the fabric pooling around his feet. He stepped out of them, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving yours. Now, all that remained between you and him was the tight press of his briefs—already tented with the unmistakable outline of his cock. Your mouth went dry.

His smirk deepened as he caught your stare. “Like what you see?” he asked, voice low, teasing.

But you could only nod, breathless, already aching for more.

He wrapped his hand around his cock, giving it a few slow, deliberate strokes. His eyes never left yours, watching your every reaction—the way your chest rose and fell, the way your thighs shifted, needy and slick with anticipation.

The sight of you spread out beneath him, still trembling from your last orgasm, clearly drove him wild. Then, with the grace of a predator, he crawled onto the bed—each movement controlled, powerful. The mattress dipped under his weight as he moved closer, until he was hovering above you, arms braced on either side of your head.

His cock rested against your stomach, hot and heavy, pulsing with need. You could feel the heat of him, the sheer size of him, and it made your mouth go dry all over again. He leaned down, lips brushing your jaw, then your neck, trailing kisses that made your skin burn.

"You’re so wet for me," he murmured against your throat, voice thick with praise and hunger. "You ready for more?"

His hips rolled ever so slightly, letting his length drag along your slick folds, teasing your entrance without giving in just yet. The sensation pulled a needy whimper from you, your hands gripping his arms, nails digging in.

"Say it," he whispered, mouth ghosting over your lips. "Tell me what you want."

“You… I need you, Zayne,” you breathed, voice barely more than a whisper as your hands rose to cup his cheeks, fingers trembling slightly with need.

He leaned into your touch, his eyes softening just for a moment, grounding you in the middle of all that burning heat. He turned his head and pressed a tender kiss to the center of your palm, as if anchoring himself there—before his gaze darkened once more.Then, without another word, he shifted his hips and thrust into you in one smooth, deep stroke.

You gasped—your back arching as he filled you completely, the stretch making your whole body shudder. He slid in with effortless ease, your slick heat welcoming him, clenching around him like your body already knew exactly who he was meant to belong to.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice low and ragged, forehead resting briefly against yours as he held still inside you, letting you feel every thick inch of him.

The air between you buzzed with heat, your breaths mingling, your bodies already molding together like puzzle pieces that had finally locked into place.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmured against your lips, his voice reverent. “So tight… so perfect.”

You could only moan in response, your legs wrapping around his waist, urging him closer, deeper—already desperate for more. And then he began to move.

He didn’t ease into it.

Once he had you stretched around him, gasping and shaking beneath him, he pulled back—just enough to make you feel the loss—then slammed back in with a force that made the headboard rattle against the wall.

You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, but he didn’t slow down. His pace was relentless, each thrust hard and deep, driving the breath from your lungs. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixed with the wet, obscene sounds of your body welcoming him again and again.

“God—Zayne!” you gasped, legs tightening around him. Every time he bottomed out, you swore you saw stars. The way he filled you, stretched you, claimed you—it was almost too much.

But you didn’t want him to stop. You wanted more.

He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, his grip firm, dominant. His other hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and circling it with quick, rough precision.

“You wanted this?” he growled into your ear, voice dark and wicked. “Then take it. Take every fucking inch.” Your back arched off the bed, body twitching under the dual assault of his cock pounding into you and his fingers working you to the edge all over again.

“Such a good girl,” he snarled, voice breaking with lust. “So wet, so fucking tight. You were made for this—made for me.”

You were unraveling fast, the pleasure coming in crashing waves. Your walls clenched around him, pulling him deeper, tighter.

“Come for me,” he demanded, thrusts growing faster, rougher, slamming into your sweet spot over and over. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

And with one more stroke—just right, just perfect—you shattered, your orgasm ripping through you like a storm. You screamed his name, body convulsing under him, toes curling, thighs shaking.

But he didn’t stop. He kept going—riding you through your high, chasing his own. His rhythm grew messy, desperate, and then with a strangled groan, he thrust one final time, deep and hard, before spilling inside you, his whole body trembling above yours.

Even as his body trembled, even with his release still pulsing inside you, he stayed hard—still hungry. He growled low against your throat, teeth grazing your skin as he pulled out slowly, leaving you slick and aching.

“Not done with you,” he muttered, voice thick, breath hot against your ear. “Get on all fours.”

Your body obeyed before your mind caught up—already sensitive, already spent, but somehow still needing more. You turned over, chest pressed to the sheets, ass lifted for him, trembling slightly as the cool air hit your slick heat.

Then he grabbed your hips, dragging you back until you were perfectly positioned—back arched, legs spread, completely exposed. But it wasn’t until he reached forward and tilted your chin toward the side that you realized what he wanted.

Your eyes met your reflection in the mirror across the room.

You looked wrecked—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, bite marks blooming on your neck and collarbone. Your hair was wild, sweat-slicked skin glowing, thighs streaked with your combined release. You barely recognized the desperate, cockdrunk expression staring back at you.

And it only made the heat between your legs flare up all over again.

“Look at yourself,” Zayne growled from behind you, lining himself up once more. “Look at how fucked out you are—and I’m still not finished.”

Then he slammed back into you.

You cried out, eyes flying wide at the sight of him driving into you from behind—his hips snapping against your ass, cock filling you just as deep, just as hard as before. The mirror gave you everything—his expression twisted in lust, the way your body took him like it was made for this, the obscene wet sounds of him thrusting into your still-dripping cunt.

His hands gripped your hips bruisingly tight as he pounded into you, relentless, unmerciful. Your arms gave out, collapsing you to your elbows, but you couldn’t look away from the mirror—you watched yourself come undone all over again, watched him ruin you.

“This is what you wanted right? Dressing all dolled up for me. You knew exactly what you were doing. Teasing me. Tempting me. Acting like you were so innocent.” Smack! “You’re acting like this on purpose,” he growled, voice gravel and heat as he slammed into you again, making your knees slide forward on the sheets.” Smack! “Just so I’d punish you, isn’t that right?” Smack!

You cried out, nails clawing at the bedding, body trembling as he fucked you with brutal, punishing thrusts. Your cheek pressed against the mattress, mouth open and panting—but you couldn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Your body answered for you.

He reached down and yanked your hair back, forcing your head up—forcing you to look at yourself in the mirror again. Your eyes were glassy, your mouth swollen, tears streaking your cheeks, and your cunt was stretched wide around him, dripping and ruined.

He slammed into you again—hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

“You wanted this,” he growled. “You wanted to be bent over and fucked until you couldn’t think. That’s what you really want, isn’t it? To feel me cum so deep inside you it sticks.”

“Yes—fuck, yes,” you cried out, the words spilling out broken and raw as another orgasm coiled tight in your core, overwhelming and impossible to fight. He released your hair and grabbed both your hips, dragging you back onto him with a bruising grip as he pounded into you mercilessly.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered through gritted teeth, voice sharp with dominance.

Your hand slid beneath you, fingers finding your clit and circling fast, desperate, as the pressure started building again—faster this time, messier, your entire body already primed to snap.

“That's it,” he hissed. “Fuck yourself on my cock. Watch yourself fall apart.”

And you did.

You moaned his name, loud and broken, as another orgasm ripped through you, your body clenching around him so hard it made him curse. You trembled violently, gasping, eyes locked on your reflection—completely gone, completely his.

He fucked you through it with savage thrusts until he was right there again—grunting, swearing, then jerking inside you as he came again, spilling deep, hips grinding against your ass as if trying to get even deeper.

Then, you felt him relax, his breaths slowing, and the tension in his body eased. He pressed gentle, lingering kisses to your shoulders, as if grounding himself in the moment, in the connection between you two.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice tender, a contrast to the roughness that had just passed between you. His hand, warm and steady, moved to guide you closer, helping you adjust as he slowly slid himself out of you.

You could barely form words as you leaned into his chest, your body still trembling from the intensity. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, both of you finding comfort in the warmth of each other. The soft rhythm of his breath in your ear was grounding, making everything feel calmer, safer. He brushed a few strands of hair away from your face as he cupped your cheeks, his touch gentle, almost reverent.

“Was I too rough on you?” he asked, concern clearly etched across his face. His brows furrowed slightly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort.

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at his tenderness, the way he cared for you so deeply, so intently. With a soft smile, you shook your head slightly, your fingers lightly resting on his hand where it cupped your cheek.

“No, I’m alright, my love,” you murmured, your voice soft and reassuring, the words a quiet promise.

He exhaled deeply, his lips pressing softly against your forehead in a kiss full of affection. You could feel the relief in his touch, the weight of his concern lifting as he held you even closer, just letting the silence settle around you both.

"I love you..." he mumbled, his voice warm and tender as he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, holding you close against him. His arms wrapped around you like a protective shield, his heartbeat steady and comforting.

"Let’s just stay like this for a while, okay?" His words were soft, filled with a quiet yearning for peace, as if he didn’t want to let go of this moment.

"I love you too," you whispered back, your voice barely above a breath as you snuggled closer, your body melting into his. The words felt like an affirmation, a bond that only grew stronger with every passing second. You felt safe, cared for, and utterly at peace in his arms.

dividers by: @uzzmachiato @anitalenia

#dr zayne #lnds zayne #love and deepspace zayne #zayne x reader #lads zayne #li shen #love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #l&ds zayne #lads smut #zayne smut #smut #p in v sex #mirror sex #brat tamer zayne #makirolls

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vettelsvee · 7 months ago

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THE MOMENT I KNEW | Max Verstappen

Max Verstappen x Girlfriend!Reader

SUMMARY: After a few races where he didn't get the results he expected, Max decides to go out with some friends to disconnect from everything. Unluckily, one of those days when he arrives home after having some drinks, he finds out that he missed his girlfriend's birthday as soon as he sees the cake she ordered on the trash ↳ REQUESTED BY ANON: Maybe something angsty?? Like maybe bro goes out with his friends and forgets readers bday until he sees the cake in the trash can and realizes bro screwed up

WORD COUNT: 2007

WARNINGS: Curse words, mentions of being drunk, angst

TAGLIST: @hc-dutch @raavadakedavra @coffeedestroyingperson @evey-kuznetskova @bowielovesyou @chaoswithus @isotopemylove @iceman-kazansky @gwginnyweasley @formula1-motogpfan @myescapefromthislife @regalbanshee [in case you wanna be tagged just tell me so i can add you!]

VEE'S NOTES: I've absolutely loved this one my God. With this fic, we mark a total of 6196 words written this week (not counting my uni essays and other several projects), so I'm quite proud about that! Also, thank you so much for the support all this week, hope you liked all the fics! I'll be uploading this upcoming week's posts tomorrow. Let me know in the comments or on the anon inbox your thoughts on this one! See you next week :) ↳ MAKE YOUR REQUESTS | LET'S TALK! | JANUARY UPDATE CALENDAR

Max stumbled into your apartment, fumbling with the keys and opening the door with trembling hands, his pounding headache reminding him that it wouldn’t be this bad if he’d listened to the bartender’s advice to stop after the last gin tonic.

As soon as he stepped inside, he froze in the doorway, scanning everything as if it were his first time entering the place, even though he had been living there for nearly five years, the last two with you. He took a few unsteady steps toward the small entryway counter, where he dropped his keys and realized the silence was far heavier than he had anticipated.

His laughter, faint and fueled by the false sense of security that alcohol had provided, quickly dissipated. Taking a cautious step further into the living room, he noticed there were no lights on, no plates or leftover food on the small coffee table in front of the TV, and most strikingly, you were neither sprawled out on the couch watching one of the romantic movies you adored nor curled up asleep with one of your cats.

Despite the glaring signs, Max didn’t panic, at least not as much as he should have, even though something inside him whispered that the situation didn’t sit right.

It wasn’t until he wandered into the kitchen to get a glass of water and rounded the island that his foot stumbled slightly, nearly sending him sprawling to the floor. Puzzled, he looked down to see what had caused him to trip. His heart sank when his eyes landed on a discarded box, its lid broken as if it had been thrown to the floor, angrily, on purpose.

That’s when reality hit him like a freight train.

He turned his gaze to the left, where the trash can stood partially open. Inside, he saw an untouched cake, decorated with intricate floral designs and a message that read, “Happy Birthday, Y/N!” The sight struck him like a blow to the chest, the pressure so intense it made him want to vomit.

“No… No, it wasn’t today…”

Desperately, and trying to figure out what to do, Max ran his hands through his hair, as if that might somehow help him calm down. His breathing grew more erratic with each passing second, his eyes glued to the cake. It didn’t feel real. He couldn’t understand how he had managed to forget such an important date�� you, his girlfriend’s, birthday. Something so obvious had suddenly spiraled into a waking nightmare.

He noticed his phone sitting on the kitchen counter. Grabbing it quickly, he checked for any missed calls or messages from you, only to realize after several failed attempts to turn it on that it was dead. He blamed his drunkenness not only for not noticing he didn’t have his phone with him or that it was out of battery, but for forgetting such a meaningful day and breaking every promise he had made to you.

Deep down, though, he knew all the excuses were hollow. Any justification he tried to offer would be nothing but foolishness.

Setting the phone back on the counter, he decided not to waste any more time. He headed toward your bedroom. The door was ajar, and though the lights were off, he could make out your silhouette lying on the bed, your back turned to him. You gave no sign that you had noticed his arrival. The only sound in the room was your muffled, quiet sobs. As Max stepped closer, he saw you were clutching a pillow tightly, as if it were your only source of comfort.

That was the moment Max realized he couldn’t avoid facing the situation, no matter how impossible it felt to fix things right away.

“Y/N...” he said softly.

You didn’t answer, and your silence hurt more than a thousand words could have. Max knelt beside the bed, close enough to reach out, and gently began stroking your face. You didn’t resist his touch, but your indifference pierced him deeply.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice trembling as he fought to hold himself together. “I swear this wasn’t my intention… I wanted to come home earlier, but Lando insisted we stay a bit longer, and then I didn’t have my phone…”

“You forgot, Max,” you interrupted, your tone sharp but laced with pain, anger, and sadness. You still wouldn’t look at him. “Goddammit, Max, you forgot my fucking birthday ever since the moment the clock struck midnight.”

Max fell silent. Once again, reality hit him square in the face, forcing him to acknowledge that anything he said would likely be inadequate. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, trying to find the words to explain himself calmly, to admit his mistakes while grappling with the weight of his guilt.

“You know it wasn’t my intention,” he began, his voice low. “It’s just… with the shitty season I’ve been having and everything that comes with it, I’ve been feeling overwhelmed. I just needed to step out of my comfort zone for a bit, to clear my head…”

“And you thought doing that on my birthday, after promising me a dream day, was the most appropriate choice?” you cut him off, finally raising your head. Your eyes were swollen and red from crying. “I know you’re not in a good place right now, but I also know that until now, every promise you’ve made to me, you’ve kept. You didn’t just forget about me, Max. You left me here, alone, all day, like I didn’t matter at all.”

Max searched desperately for a way to salvage the situation, to apologize, to do something, anything, to prove how deeply sorry he was. But when you turned on the light and sat up to face him, he realized he was out of options. He didn’t know how to continue without disappointing you further.

“You know this has been really hard for me…”

“Hard for you? Seriously?” you interrupted, leaning closer and pointing your finger at him. “And you think this has been easy for me? Watching you shut me out, never telling me what’s going on in that head of yours? Not to mention your fans… They’re fully convinced that your shitty season is all my fault, that our relationship is ruining your career.”

“Y/N, I know…”

That was a lie. He didn’t know. Max had ignored the comments and criticism because, deep down, he believed you weren't to blame for his performance, especially when you rarely even went with him to the races anymore.

“There’s nothing I can say to argue with you,” Max admitted. “You’re absolutely right. I’ve been a complete asshole today, and I’m truly sorry. I love you, Y/N, more than you know…”

“Are you sure you love me?” you shot back, your voice trembling with anger. “Do you love me, or your damn career? Because lately, it feels like your whole world revolves even more around cars, races, speed, adrenaline, and your constant need to be the best at everything.”

“Hey…” Max tried, his voice faltering.

“Every day, you show me more and more that we’re no longer a team… that I’m no longer a part of you. And I know I’m not the only one who sees it.”

Your words hit him like a dagger, but he knew he deserved them.

“It’s not just about you forgetting my birthday today, Max. It’s everything. You don’t listen to me… you don’t give me anything, not even a minute of your day, let alone affection or support. Why should I stay in a relationship that, instead of giving me life, is killing me inside?”

Your words struck him like a bucket of ice water.

“You don’t get it, do you?” you asked, frustration and sadness mingling in your tone as he stayed silent. “If you really loved me, you wouldn’t be afraid to show me who you are, flaws and all. But you’ve always done this, Max, keeping me at arm’s length, never letting me into your life.”

“I don’t do that, Y/N, it’s just that…” he began, summoning his courage to explain, but you cut him off once again.

“Damn it, Max, yes, of course you do!” you yelled, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions. “Do you realize that even though I’ve been with you, I’ve been completely alone? Alone, Max, utterly alone! I’ve tried so many times to talk to you, to make you see that a few bad races aren’t the end of the world for someone like you, but…”

You stopped yourself abruptly, your throat aching and your head pounding. You felt no remorse for the way you were speaking to him since he deserved every word, but you couldn’t help but feel a deep sadness. Sadness for the Max Verstappen you had once known. A man who had been so proud of himself and his achievements after years of hard work, now emotionally shattered and, worse, so determined to hide it from everyone, including you.

“I can’t keep giving you everything I have while you keep taking and taking, without giving anything back.”

“I’m sorry…” Max muttered, but the words felt hollow.

“A simple ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t fix anything, Max,” you replied, your voice quieter now but no less wounded. “I wish it were just about today, but like I said, I feel like you’re pushing me further out of your life with every passing day. You’re becoming a stranger to me, Max,” you admitted, trying not to let your voice waver. “You’ve been like this for months, and I don’t know what else to do to stop us from falling apart… though it feels like that’s exactly what you want.”

“That’s not true,” he answered immediately, desperation in his voice. “Y/N, seriously, I love you more than you could ever imagine.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, tears welling up again. “Because I feel like you’re showing me the exact opposite.” Your voice trembled with the weight of her words. “Sometimes it feels like you love your career, the success you’ve achieved and the crowds chanting your name more than you love me.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice barely audible. “You know I want to, but… I don’t know how to fix this anymore…”

You looked at him, your eyes searching his face for some sign, some silent promise that would make you believe things between you could change. But Max’s words only made you realize that you had to stop thinking fantasies and start facing reality.

“Maybe you can’t fix it,” you confessed, the words breaking you from the inside. “I can’t keep going like this, Max… I can’t keep feeling like I’m not enough… like I’m not good enough for you.”

“Seriously, there has to be a solution…” he pleaded, his voice full of regret. “I’ll do better from now on, I promise…”

“You don’t get it, do you?” You turned to look at him, the pain evident in your expression. “Things won’t magically get better if you take me to dinner or buy me a million-dollar necklace to make up for today. That won’t fix anything, Max…”

“Y/N… Y/N, please… I need you…”

No matter how many times Max said those words, he knew that any promise he made now would be meaningless, especially considering how much he had already failed you.

Feeling that there were no more words left to say between them, you slowly got out of bed. You gathered the few belongings you had on the nightstand and, with a sense of finality, began to pack a bag, all the while feeling Max’s powerless gaze on you.

“I can’t keep waiting, Max,” you said, her voice steady despite the anguish inside. “Today, no matter how much I tried to turn a blind eye, let it go, and even put myself in your shoes… This… everything… after many tries… God, Max, all of this… That was the moment I knew.”

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see-arcane · 4 months ago

Text

Welcome to Dracula Season 2025!

We're only a few weeks shy of May and our journey with Jonathan into the Carpathians. As we prepare for another helping of paprika hendl and ensuing horror, let's refresh with some of the Dracula-adjacent goodies that have accumulated over the last year...

1. Dracula Daily

The Substack that started it all. Dracula Daily was started by Matt Kirkland in 2021, though it took off in the Tumblr book club in 2022. Since then, we’ve turned Dracula Season, the period between May 3 and November 7, into a months-long undead extravaganza of memes, literary analysis, and overdue love for Bram Stoker’s novel, Dracula as the fantastic gothic gift it is. With the simplified format of putting the book’s entries in chronological order, each one emailed out on the same date they were written, we’re forced to live on the same calendar and waiting game as the characters. Whether you’re a new reader or a returning bookworm, welcome to Castle Dracula!

Dracula Daily Substack: Link

2. The Holmwood Foundation

Fresh from crowdfunding and wrapping up production of its first season, The Holmwood Foundation, @theholmwoodfoundation on Tumblr, is an indie podcast coming around the corner with a genuinely unique take on a supernatural sequel to the events of Dracula…which didn’t end quite how Bram Stoker’s in-universe novel depicted. The first episode is out, featuring a pair of unlucky archivists—what horror podcast is complete without them?—the ghosts of Jonathan and Mina Harker, Dracula’s severed head, and a hiking trip across the moors to escape some shambling undead horrors. Give the preview and its miscellaneous teasers a listen if you want a taste of contemporary revenant scares (and to listen to the world’s most irate descendant of the Harkers pop a blood vessel).

The Holmwood Foundation homepage: Link

Podcast episodes and side content: Link

3. Dracula: 2004

Another indie audio drama trying to crowdfund its way out of the coffin! Not only an adaptation of Dracula, but one set just a short step into the 21st century, @starstrider-productions' Dracula: 2004 wants to tell the story of our beloved Victorian vampire targets-turned-slayers in an era of flip phones, Dictaphones, and found footage-tinted horror. To judge by the summary and extremely promising character bios for our refreshed cast, it’s going to be a one-of-a-kind listen. But only if we can get them to their goal! By the time I post this, they’ll have less than 20 days left to cover the production cost.

If you want to drag this beautiful undead carcass into the moonlight, please chip into their campaign if you can and share it with your fellow Dracula lovers and horror podcast enthusiasts! The smallest tier is £10 GBP, ($13 for my fellow ‘murricans), and every bit helps.

Indiegogo crowdfunding page: Link

4. Re: Dracula, Re: Carmilla, (Coming Soon: Re: Frankenstein!)

Giving an undead rebirth to the original Dracula Daily format, the podcast Re: Dracula turns the same chronological date-by-date read of the novel an audio drama twist. It’s made of professional voice acting, soundscaping, and has its own soundtrack! This thing is also replete with many a meme and interview as the garlic garnish on top. Give it a listen if you haven’t already and check out their Tumblr, @re-dracula.

Likewise, you need to check out their most recent projects. Re: Carmilla, which gives Sheridan le Fanu’s Carmilla its own supple and sinuous sapphic treatment, and the upcoming Re: Frankenstein, currently on the hunt for voice actors to fill the roles of Mary Shelley’s gothic opus, Frankenstein. Everyone say thank you to this cast and crew for feeding us the overdue classic supernatural theatre feast we’ve been waiting on for actual centuries.

Re: Dracula: Link

Re: Carmilla: Link

Re: Frankenstein (Casting Call!): Link

5. The League of Extraordinary Gentlefolk

You want the Drac Attack Pack (plus a surviving Quincey Morris) with the Harkers happily married and questionably human? You want Irene Norton née Adler treated with respect and allowed to actually have her chosen romance with Godfrey Norton that was half the damn point of “A Scandal in Bohemia,” along with appearances from a certain consulting detective and his doctorial companion? You want Dr. Jekyll as an upstanding scientist on the brink of some unsavory new changes? You want Wells’ Invisible Man being cantankerous and developing friendships against his will? You want sundry forces of mortal and supernatural peril roiling up from under the foundations of Victorian era literature like an eerie eldritch smoke? Then The League of Extraordinary Gentlefolk is the comic for you!

An ongoing webcomic, fresh from its second story arc—a certain submarine, a bastard of a marksman, and an uncanny gothic villainess are involved—LXGF brings together a huge crossover cast of everyone’s favorite characters from the Classics section. Started by the amazing @mayhemchicken and posted on @lxgentlefolkcomic, this series is a love letter to beloved Victorian era lit that actually understands, acknowledges, and loves the books and their canons! What a concept! Alan.

Tumblr: Link

Comic: Link

Non-Canon Silliness: Link

Fanfiction: Link

6. Blood of My Blood (and Other Gorgeous Gothic Dramas of the Ibrithir-Was-Here Universe)

I’ve made a lot of amazing friends since Dracula Season became my favorite time of the year (read: most of it). Many of those friends have been brain-meltingly talented and creative in the works they’ve made based in or inspired by Dracula and adjacent works. But one of the best in terms of artful storytelling has to be @ibrithir-was-here.

Me and other scribblers and spit-ballers tripped and fell into what began as a dark Dracula Bad Ending improv, everyone chasing after each other with ‘Yes, and—,’ additions to a vampiric domestic horror story. That’s turned into a full 100+ chapter tale with its concluding climax just now about to hit its zenith. That story is Blood of My Blood, an incredibly fun and fiendish gothic what-if? One in which we answer the questions:

What if things took a grim turn in the climax at Transylvania? What if half our heroes died and Mina turned, with a child already growing in her undead womb? What if Jonathan threw himself on the twisted ‘mercy’ of Dracula to protect his family, trading his servitude, sanity, blood, and participation in an intimately worrying series of mind games with his new master? What if young Quincey Harker was raised in this warped castle and then, at the cusp of manhood, was sent out into the world to learn the buried truths of his family? What if Dracula was none too thrilled about his adopted heir leaving the nest, and took grisly measures to bring him back..?

The answers have been written and lushly illustrated for the past year and change, ripe with romances, revenges, bloodshed, and one of the most gloriously fucked up family dynamics you’ve ever seen in a gothic drama.

…And if you’re in the mood for another flavor of the latter, Ibrithir has also cooked up a pile of sinister samples to indulge in.

(n)Ever Loved, a take on the origins of the ‘Weird Sisters’ before they were munching kids meals.

The Wretched Family, an AU in which Frankenstein’s Creature saved the little girl from the river a moment too late, and coerces Victor into reviving her drowned body as a Creature like himself.

A Cruel Love, giving a spotlight to a possible history of Countess Mircalla and how love played a part in her undeath and the demise of her first smitten paramour.

Second Stanza, a certain Opera Ghost returns to haunt Christine and Raoul’s son, supposedly as a guardian—whether the boy likes it or not.

Rosemary is for Remembrance, in which a young artist grapples with the bloody shadow of a man who shares her face. A long dead hedonist by the name of Dorian Gray…

Go give them all a read!

Blood of My Blood: Link

(n)Ever Loved: Link

The Wretched Family: Link 1, Link 2

A Cruel Love: Link 1, Link 2

Second Stanza: Link

Rosemary is for Remembrance: Link

7. Dracula’s Guest the Comic

Want a glimpse of what Jonathan Harker may have gotten up to prior to reaching Castle Dracula? Well, take a look at the comic adaptation of Stoker’s, “Dracula Guest,” by @isablooo! It features our good friend Mr. Harker, some sightseeing, and more than the usual bloodsuckers out for his neck.

Comic: Link

8. Dracula Beyond Stoker Press

Have you ever thought to yourself, “I wish I had an anthology dedicated entirely to stories about one or more specific characters of Dracula?” Me too! And Dracula Beyond Stoker Press is here to deliver. Their most recent issue coming out is about our good friend Jonathan Harker—already preordered my copy!—with Mina Harker’s issue accepting story and cover art submissions starting May 1, 2025. DBS Press already has an amazing store full of paperback zines and merch to go through for other characters and general Dracula-flavored goodies. Go give them and the submission guidelines a gander.

Dracula Beyond Stoker Press: Link

9. Harker (and Other Arcane Horrors)

Harker is my work-in-progress, a novel expanding on the experiences of Jonathan Harker which we never get to see between his and the others’ journal entries in Dracula. It also adds some creative and menacing fleshing out for just how and why Jonathan Harker changed on October 3rd—and perhaps explains what exactly he changed into.

As of now, I am well over twenty chapters in, with over 750 pages written. In the draft, Mina is only just now about to read Jonathan’s journal for the first time. This thing is massive. And I’ve been releasing preview chapters since last Dracula Season! The latest of which is due to drop very soon.

Until then, there’s also an abundance of other horrors I’ve scribbled up in the interim. Some serial, some self-contained, and one in the form of a published novella, The Vampyres, which concerns some undead bastards of classic lit caught under the blade of a very practiced psychopomp. There are a couple preview chapters up to skim too!

Hope you enjoy the read.

Harker (Tumblr): Link

Harker (Substack): Link

Substack (General): Link

The Vampyres: eBook Paperback

[REDACTED – Surprise en route April 18th]

10. What Manner of Man (and Another Gothic Queer Nightmare)

@stjohnstarling has completed one tale of queer horror, romance, and erotica, and is hard at work on the next story. The first was What Manner of Man, a novel with some borrowed blood from Dracula and a wonderful twist on an intense relationship that forms between a priest and a vampire. This book is now completed on the Substack and as an eBook! His next work in progress: A Companion in Vice, building off the patchwork anatomy of Frankenstein.

What Manner of Man (Substack): Link

What Manner of Man (eBook): Link

A Companion in Vice (Summary): Link

11. Project Gutenberg

An online library of countless classic public domain works. Get on it, bookworms!

Dracula - Link

Carmilla - Link

Sheridan le Fanu collection - Link

12. The Internet Archive

As the name says, it’s an archive. It preserves damn near everything, including my favorite ballet…

Dracula Ballet by Michael Pink – Link

13. Romancing the Gothic - My Wild Heart Bleeds

Carmilla fans, storytellers, and scholars, this one is for you. My Wild Heart Bleeds is set to be an anthology dedicated entirely to Sheridan le Fanu’s Carmilla, including commentaries, original works, international and historic perspectives, discussions of adaptations and works inspired by the story… And you have the chance to contribute to it! Regarding submissions, the page says:

Abstracts of 3-400 words and a bio of 2-250 words should be sent to the editors Dr. Sam Hirst and Simon Bacon by June 30th 2025. Chapter of between 5-6000 words will be required by July 2026. We also welcome original creative pieces (artwork, short stories [up to 1,500 words], flash-fiction, poetry, etc) that are inspired by and/or critically engage with ‘Carmilla’ or themes mentioned above. Abstracts or queries should be set to: [email protected]

My Wild Heart Bleeds: Link

BONUS

@cry-ptidd – Blessed us with getting to see the Dracula cast in Hellsing style and showing us why Kohta Hirano didn’t dare to have them in the manga: The Harkers are simply too badass when canonical. (And the Suitors would be too stylish.)

@bluecatwriter – Expanding from Dracula fic to Carmilla fic. Smut abounds.

Poetry – For bonus gothic vampire reference material:

“Lenore” by Gottfried August Bürger, translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti: Link

“Christabel” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Link

Libby the Library App (Sign Up! Support Your Libraries!) - Link

Dracula Season 2024

All the Dracula Season goodies compiled last year: Link

759 notes · View notes

alchemistc · 9 months ago

Text

Tommy ignores the knock at his door. He's in day three pajamas and the only person who might make the effort to check in on him is his exes best friend. Which.

The knocking continues.

It's getting louder.

There's a Kings game on in the background and he's been elbow deep in the Jeep manual he'd finally cracked open in some sort of weird, fucked up pattern of mourning.

Tommy's never gonna buy a fucking Jeep. He hates them. You own one for more than five years and more than half the parts are replacement parts.

He's been staring at a diagram of the timing belt for half an hour, at least. The last thing he remembers about the game is Kuemper letting in three goals on five shots and somehow the Kings are up two, now, and there's still 25 minutes of game time left.

Tommy reaches for the remote. Turns the volume up.

The knocking returns less than a minute later.

---

There's a box of odds and ends tucked under the table in his entryway. He avoids looking at it. He knows there are a few things missing from it and he really doesn't want to examine what he'll have to do to avoid giving it to Eddie tonight. He cut the cords, he shouldn't be lingering watching the frayed edges sway in the wind, clutching his line like there's anything braced on the other side of it.

Evan's oldest, softest LAFD hoodie, the one that's technically too small for both of them but has stretched shockingly evenly and is definitely not sitting unwashed at the bottom of Tommy's laundry basket. The program from a recital of Denny's they'd stopped by to support him for, on their way out of town for a long weekend. Evan's stupid keto bread and the milk frother he'd left behind three months ago and never bothered to grab because he had more than one.

Whoever is at his door is still fucking knocking, and suddenly Tommy doesn't feel like being polite. He'll shove the box in Eddie's arms and tell him to fuck off and close the last few remaining open doors he has to this.

Only when he swings the door wide it's not Eddie on the other side, and the box nearly takes out whatever Evan - Buck, Jesus Christ - has in his own arms.

Not a Tommy box - too small for all the shit that he'd left behind. He misses the house slippers that had had a permanent spot tucked under the left side of the bed.

Tommy flinches, reels away, tries to shove the box away before Buck can see its contents.

"What are you doing here?" Even tone. No quiver in his voice. He's been called rude and dismissive for less.

Buck scowls. Hefts the rectangular dish in his hands and shoves past Tommy before Tommy can blink.

It's silly to say he chases after him, down the hallway towards the kitchen, but he's not exactly following along behind at a casual leisurely pace.

The glass pan slams down on his kitchen counter and Buck spends a minute staring at the calendar he was only getting two months out of because he couldn't look at the one with all Buck's notes penned in anymore.

"Wow," Buck says, and shifts his weight awkwardly.

"What are you -?"

"Jee and I made you birthday cupcakes," Buck says. His voice is hard. Angry. Hurt. "Happy birthday, asshole."

---

He cracks the lid and there are only three cupcakes inside. Tommy forgets himself. Raises a brow, amusement rolling over him pleasantly, prepared to tease him, but then he catches the set of Buck's legs and the curl of his mouth and the tight way his arm tucks itself back in against his belly, a protective gesture that reminds Tommy very effectively what this is.

"Why?" Tommy wonders aloud, and Evan's scowl deepens.

Buck's scowl.

God.

"We've been planning it for weeks." Something flashes across his eyes before he schools his features. "Jee made me promise to bring you some."

"She must not be a skilled baker," Tommy jokes. "If these are the only ones that made it."

Evan's expression twists. "I ate most of them."

The frosting looks fresh. No creases in the paper cup holding them together.

"I had to make a new batch of frosting because I used some of it for -." He cuts himself off. Looks like he'd like to throw it in Tommy's face but can't quite force himself to hurt Tommy.

It hurts as much as he'd expected, anyway.

The world is a small place. It's not the first time he's had to speak to an ex when he didn't want to. It's never pleasant.

This is worse. The cut and run is supposed to give him time.

Evan Buckley has been an ache behind his ribcage for months, now, long before he'd made that final decision. He'd known it was too little too late. Buck's gonna be the shadow other men see behind his eyes for years.

Buck's apparently found and slept with someone within the week and a half span from Tommy walking out to his sad shitty mopey birthday.

That he'd forgotten about.

Tommy leans in. Picks up a cupcake. Licks a stripe through the frosting and makes a face when he realizes it's buttercream.

"The ones you were supposed to get had the whipped cream one you like," Buck says, accusingly.

That somehow stings just a little bit extra.

Tommy pulls back the paper, takes a bite. There's raspberry filling inside, and Tommy can feel tears prickling at the edges of his eyes, because when he'd told Evan about how his grandma baked he'd been thinking of Evan being a grandparent, the kind of shit he'd forbidden himself from imagining with anyone he was dating years ago.

"Thank you," he manages, and Buck frowns.

"He thought the whipped cream was too sweet." And Tommy probably deserves this but he's not particularly in the mood.

"Cut it out, Buck."

Buck rolls his jaw. "I just figured you'd wanna know how it's going. Maybe I could tally up the hookups for you, count them all up by gender and stamina and opinions on how I should feel and act and fall for someone. Find out if I'm actually gay enough to be a man's last."

---

The rest of the cupcake kind of collapses and oozes as Tommy smacks it down on the counter. He takes thirty seconds to pull the other two cupcakes out before he's grabbing the too-large fake Pyrex and turning heel. The keto bread goes in the pan. Then the milk frother.

Tommy yanks the recital program off the fridge and tosses it in the trash.

Buck almost looks triumphant.

"The box under the side table has the rest. You can see yourself out."

He actually does exactly as he's told, and Tommy listens to his footsteps drift off, shoulders hunched in and the breath tight in his throat. He'd been cruel, it was only fair Buck got a few final kicks in.

Tommy sucks in a breath and blinks away the moisture at the edges of his vision.

The footsteps take a heel turn at the side table and turn right back around.

"This isn't everything."

Tommy half expects some panned comment about how Tommy's got his heart - the kind of silly shit he'd say to a dead outlaw.

"My sweatshirt," Buck says, and Tommy freezes.

He could lie. He could pretend he had no idea where it was. Claim he didn't remember it even being here, because that particular piece of clothing did have a tendency to travel.

He doesn't fucking want to hand that one over.

Buck smirks, like he's caught the crack, and is looking for ways to exploit it.

"I own my own house!" Tommy says, and it's a terrible launching point but Buck latches on.

"You just left, Tommy! I know I jumped the gun, Tommy, but you didn't even - you just left! I'm sorry, okay. I'm sorry I didn't know I was into men until you. I'm sorry you had to be my first, I'm sure that must have been such a burden for you."

"That's not fair."

"You didn't even give me a chance. That was - I'm so angry with you, Tommy. I'm so fucking mad."

"I know."

"But that's what you planned for, right? That's - you ripped the bandaid, Tommy, except there's a whole fucking untreated stab wound right underneath and it's still bleeding, Tommy."

"Did you even make this round of cupcakes with your niece?" It's better to keep his family's names out of his mouth. Just keep those ties cut.

Buck looks livid. "No, you idiot, I whipped up a tiny batch of this recipe just for the excuse to see you and - and tell you what a stupid, awful coward you are."

"That's not f-." He isn't sure whether Buck is being facetious about the small batch thing or not. He doesn't have any time to think about it.

"My sister and Chim are having another baby. Bobby and Athena are probably gonna host Christmas this year. Eddie shaved off the mustache and he's, like, dancing now, I guess. Hen and Karen are good for the first time in -." He shakes his head. Stares at Tommy. Tommy can't quite hide from that gaze. "We were good, Tommy. We were - you loved me."

He'd never said the words. Neither had Evan, but they'd both known. Both felt it. Tommy let it go too far, did it scared for longer than he usually would.

"It's not like that just went away when I walked out, Evan," Tommy hisses, and then regrets it immediately.

Evan has spent most of this visit pushing, pressing, digging fingers into the wound to make it hurt.

Evan goes silent now, reeling back a little. He seems shocked that Tommy had admitted it.

"I want you to go," Tommy says. "I need you to go, Buck."

It was the right dagger the first time, but apparently it's only effective once.

"I love you too, you know." His voice is soft. Tommy can't meet his eye. "And I hate you. I hate you even though I know that's what you wanted but I love you too much to not hate you out of spite."

Tommy knows if he caves it's done. He's signing himself over to whatever fucked thing will end them a week, a month, five years, two decades from now.

"Go home, Buck. Hate me there."

---

He goes in for the kill.

"I called Abby, two nights ago."

Right for the jugular. No survivors.

"She laughed for like twenty minutes, and then she tried to get me to chat about our sex life for comparison, and then she was shocked silent for a full minute when I wouldn't." Because Evan had always been a little too open about those details. "She also told me she forgave you but she doesn't think you ever forgave yourself."

Tommy agrees. For all that they'd been terrible for each other, they'd known how the hell to take care of one another like no one's business.

"I want you to go," Tommy says, steady, quiet, nearly a snark for how deep his voice goes to hide the tremor in it.

Buck cocks a hip against the doorframe. "I want my sweatshirt."

The breath that escapes him is shaky, but her think he hides most of it behind the hand over his face, the finger pinched at the bridge of his nose.

"I can't do this."

"Exactly how many men and women do I have to fuck before you believe the future I'm looking at is with you?"

"All of them! None! It was a stupid thing to say and it's not what I meant and I can't do this."

Buck spins on his heel. Grabs the box he'd set aside and hefts it up into his arms. "I'm coming back for my sweatshirt," he says. "You let me know whether you want to talk about the data points of the sexuality spreadsheet or about us."

"There is no us, Buck." His voice sounds defeated even to himself.

"If that was true you'd just give me the stupid sweater and be done."

Tommy sits in silence. He does not get up to retrieve the hoodie. Buck is still angry, but his smile is wide and bashful.

Tommy listens to his footsteps trail down the hall, towards the door, out of it. He hears the Jeep's ignition catch, the wheels roll off the drive.

He realizes he'd left the goddamn Jeep manual open on the timing belt page, right there on his side table where he'd pointed out the things he wanted Evan to take to clear him from his life.

---

There is someone knocking at his door.

Tommy doesn't quite ignore it.

He hid the sweatshirt in one of his toolbox drawers when Evan texted him this morning to let him know he'd be over with a six pack and a pot of chili.

There's a zero percent chance Evan's getting that sweatshirt back, tonight.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fix it #not quite #theyre playing a game #but once these idiots lose the game they'll probably win #with each other #tevan fic

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pballer5 · 20 days ago

Text

timeout: chapter 2

masterlist

summary: Azzi and Paige spend more time together and fixing fences, sharing quiet moments, and learning to trust each other. A slow connection builds, even if neither of them are ready to name it yet.

a/n: need to make a masterlist before this gets outta hand ;)

wc: 8k

Chapter 2: Flashlight

The sound of Paige’s truck fades down the gravel road, swallowed by the trees. Azzi watches the dust settle for a moment longer before setting the axe down beside the pile of freshly split logs. Her arms ache, not the kind of pain she’s used to after a game, but a dull, honest soreness. A useful kind.

She brushes wood chips from her hoodie and turns toward the barn. The structure looks like it’s held together by history and stubbornness. She walks slowly, running a hand along the rough siding as she passes. Her fingers catch on a splinter and she curses softly, sucking the sting out of her thumb.

Inside, it smells like hay and motor oil. Rusted tools hang on hooks, some half-buried in dust, others still gleaming from recent use. A faint breeze slips through the cracks in the boards, carrying the cold with it.

Azzi finds a workbench, drops onto the stool, and lets herself breathe.

For a few minutes, she just sits. No plan. No pressure. No one watching.

That should feel like freedom. But the silence is still unfamiliar, like a song missing its chorus.

She pulls out her phone again, almost without thinking. Still no bars. No texts. No reminders about media obligations or off-season clinics. Just a dark screen and a reflection that doesn’t quite look like her anymore.

She flips the phone face-down and looks around the barn.

A calendar hangs crookedly on the wall. October. A photograph of elk crossing a frozen river. The days are marked in black ink feed runs, weather checks, wood delivery. Ruth’s handwriting is sharp and no-nonsense, the kind that doesn’t bother with exclamation points or apologies.

Azzi studies the calendar like it might offer her answers. It doesn’t.

She stands and moves to the shelves, where jars of nails and bolts sit beside old canning supplies and half-burned candles. Everything has a purpose. Everything is here for a reason.

She’s still trying to figure out if she is, too.

Later that afternoon, Ruth finds her sweeping out the barn.

“You don’t have to do that,” Ruth says, leaning against the doorframe with a mug in hand. “The place has been a mess for twenty years. I’ve made peace with it.”

Azzi shrugs, not stopping. “It gives me something to do.”

“Mm.” Ruth sips her coffee. “That why you were sulking around like a kicked puppy after Paige left?”

Azzi pauses, broom in mid-swing. “I wasn’t—”

Ruth raises an eyebrow. “Kid, I’ve been alive long enough to know when someone’s rattled. Paige has that effect. Talks like she’s been everywhere and knows everything. Which she mostly doesn’t.”

Azzi leans the broom against the wall. “She just… caught me off guard.”

“She’s blunt. But she’s not wrong. You don’t exactly blend in out here.”

Azzi exhales, her voice low. “I’m not trying to blend in.”

“No,” Ruth says. “You’re trying to disappear.”

That lands harder than Azzi expects.

She doesn’t respond right away. The truth of it lingers between them, as sharp and quiet as the cold.

“I thought coming here would help me… breathe,” Azzi says finally. “Figure out who I am without all the noise. But the silence is just as loud.”

Ruth nods, like she understands. “That’s how it starts. You think quiet is what you need. Then you realize it doesn’t fix anything unless you’re willing to listen to what it’s saying.”

Azzi looks down at her hands, still raw from chopping wood. “What if I don’t like what I hear?”

Ruth takes a long sip, her gaze steady. “Then you’re finally being honest.”

That night, Azzi can’t sleep. Again.

The wind howls outside, rattling the windows. The house creaks like an old ship lost at sea. She lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, the quilt pulled up to her chin.

She thinks about Paige, her easy confidence, her teasing grin. She thinks about Ruth, about Caroline and her teammates back in San Francisco, about the version of herself that lived in highlight reels and postgame interviews.

And then she thinks about this Azzi. The one in flannel pajamas and wool socks, whose hair still smells faintly of firewood. The one who didn’t pick up a basketball today.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out the jersey still wrinkled, still stained with champagne and celebration. She holds it in her lap for a long time.

Eventually, she folds it. Properly. Smooths the fabric. Sets it in the bottom drawer of the dresser.

Not forgotten.

Just… resting.

Like her.

Three days pass before Azzi sees Paige again.

She’s in the garage, sleeves rolled up, grease smudged along her cheekbone like an afterthought. The truck’s hood is popped, and classic rock hums from a dented speaker on the windowsill: Fleetwood Mac, something slow and sad. Azzi recognizes the song but not the name.

She hesitates at the door. She didn’t come here looking for anyone. She came for a wrench.

Ruth’s faucet is leaking, and Azzi figured she might as well try to fix it herself. That’s what people do out here, right? Solve problems with their hands instead of schedules.

Paige doesn’t look up, just calls over her shoulder, “Careful, the floor bites.”

Azzi frowns. “What?”

“There’s a spot by the jack that’ll roll your ankle faster than a crossover.” She peers around the hood and smirks. “I figured someone who lives in sneakers should know.”

Azzi steps carefully inside, avoiding the oil stain that looks suspiciously like it’s claimed victims before. “Noted.”

“You here for the truck, or for the privilege of seeing me covered in axle grease?”

Azzi deadpans, “Definitely not the second one.”

“Shame,” Paige says, wiping her hands on a rag. “I usually charge for this level of charisma.”

Azzi cracks the smallest smile. “I need a wrench. Faucet repair.”

Paige arches an eyebrow. “Ruth’s finally letting you touch plumbing?”

Azzi shrugs. “Letting is a strong word. She said if I break it worse, she’ll just call someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Paige chuckles. “Sounds about right.” She disappears behind a shelf and reappears with a metal toolbox, sliding it across the floor toward her. “Top row. Half-inch should do it.”

Azzi knelt in front of the toolbox and cracked it open. It let out a groan, like it had been holding its breath for a decade. Inside, rows of tools gleamed, some polished from use, others with a patina of “do not touch unless you know what you’re doing.”

She hovered over a couple before grabbing a wrench.

“Bold choice,” Paige said from across the garage.

Azzi looked up. “Why?”

Paige grinned. “That one’s known to hold grudges.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Is that a mechanical diagnosis, or are you just assigning personalities to tools now?”

“Both,” Paige said, sauntering over. “That one bit me last winter. Right here.” She held up her knuckle, where a faded scar curved like a crescent moon. “Wrenched a radiator, lost a chunk of pride.”

Azzi glanced at the wrench in her hand. “I like her already.”

“She’s high-maintenance.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

Paige laughed and leaned against the workbench, watching as Azzi rolled the tool in her palm.

“You know what you’re doing with that?” she asked.

Azzi tilted her head. “I’ve read a manual.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It was laminated.”

“Still doesn’t count.”

Azzi smirked. “Well, then I guess we’re both just here winging it.”

Paige looked amused. “Speak for yourself. I wing it with flair.”

Azzi gestured toward the oil-streaked rag stuffed in Paige’s back pocket. “And grease.”

“It’s called ambiance,” Paige said. “I’m cultivating an aesthetic.”

“Of being attacked by an engine?”

“Of being extremely competent under very dirty circumstances.”

Azzi shook her head, chuckling as she grabbed the wrench again. “So this is a trap, huh? You charm people with sarcasm, then make them fix the plumbing.”

“Hey, you volunteered.”

Azzi paused, smirking. “I said I’d try. That’s not the same thing.”

Paige pushed off the workbench. “Around here, touching the toolbox means you’re stuck with it.”

Azzi gave her a dry look. “Got it. No backing out now.”

As she moved toward the door, wrench in hand, Paige called after her, “Just don’t cross-thread the pipes. Ruth will hear it in her sleep.”

Azzi turned back, walking backward down the steps. “If the house floods, I’ll blame it on a ghost.”

“Make it a dramatic one. Victorian. Vengeful.”

Azzi nodded solemnly. “Named Gerald.”

Paige saluted her. “Godspeed, Gerald’s plumber.”

Azzi disappeared around the side of the house, still smiling.

Paige stayed there for a moment, watching the empty doorway like it might say something. Then she looked at the wrench she'd warned Azzi about and quietly grinned.

“She’ll be fine,” she said aloud, to no one in particular.

And somehow, she knew it was true.

That night, Azzi lies awake again. Not from unrest this time, but from thought. From possibility. That last line of Paige’s clings to her ribs.

She doesn’t know what Paige’s story is, why she’s out here fixing cars and making metaphors. But she feels something unfamiliar forming, a thread between them.

Not trust. Not yet.

But something like recognition.

The flyer showed up on Ruth’s fridge overnight.

In hand-scrawled Sharpie across a neon-orange background, it read:

FALL HARVEST FAIR

Saturday @ The Grange Hall – 3PM

Apple pies, hayrides, wood carving, cider, and the annual cornhole showdown.

Come hungry, leave humbled.

“Sounds like a cult,” Azzi muttered, eyeing the flyer over breakfast.

Ruth chuckled. “Only if you count worshiping at the altar of spiced cider and bad country covers.”

She didn’t give Azzi a choice. When Saturday rolled around, Ruth handed her a scarf (“It’s autumn, not the apocalypse, you can wear color”) and told her to get in the truck. Paige, it turned out, was already in the passenger seat.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Paige said as Azzi slid in beside her. “Ruth picks me up like a stray cat any time there’s free pie involved.”

“Should’ve guessed food was your love language,” Azzi said, buckling up.

“It’s that, or insults. Depends on the day.”

Azzi smirked. “So today’s both?”

“Lucky you.”

The Grange Hall sat at the edge of a wide, flat field, the old barn-turned-community center strung with cheap string lights and lined with folding tables. Kids ran in circles with caramel apples stuck to their faces. An acoustic band was tuning up near a stack of hay bales. It smelled like cinnamon, earth, and woodsmoke which was comforting in a way Azzi hadn’t realized she’d missed.

“You ever been to one of these?” Paige asked as they stepped out of the truck.

Azzi shook her head. “Closest I’ve been to a harvest fair was a team fundraiser with pumpkin spice smoothies and a DJ.”

Paige winced. “God, no. Do you even know what a pumpkin is supposed to taste like?”

“Do you?”

“I’m not the one drinking it blended with whey protein and trauma.”

Azzi laughed, genuinely this time, and Paige glanced at her, surprised maybe, but she didn’t comment on it.

They wandered together, Ruth disappearing toward the pie table with the focus of someone on a sacred quest. Azzi kept her hands in her jacket pockets, her eyes drifting from booths to faces to the open stretch of sky beyond. No one looked twice at her. No flashing phones. No whispered recognition. Just neighbors laughing into paper cups and calling out greetings across hay bales.

At one booth, a man in overalls waved them over. “Cornhole tournament starts in ten. You two in?”

Paige looked at Azzi. “You any good?”

Azzi tilted her head. “Let’s just say I don’t usually miss what I aim at.”

“Yeah, well, the real enemy here is wind and overconfidence.”

Azzi smirked. “Sounds like fun.”

“Or disaster.”

“Even better,” Azzi said, already stepping forward. “Let’s cause some chaos.”

The bracket wasn’t exactly Olympic level: some farmers, a couple of teenagers, and a very intense elderly woman named Marla who brought her own beanbags. Still, the competition was real.

Azzi and Paige moved through the rounds with ease, though they spent most of their time bickering.

“Too much wrist,” Paige muttered after Azzi overthrew the bag.

“I’m adjusting for wind,” Azzi replied.

“It’s an indoor barn.”

“Still wind.”

“Yeah. From your ego.”

But between the quips, they were in sync. Laughing. Loosening.

By the time they made the finals, a small crowd had gathered, sipping cider and cheering them on with the gentle chaos of rural competitiveness. Marla and her husband stood across from them, expressionless and mildly terrifying, like they’d trained for this in secret.

Azzi stepped up, exhaled, and tossed. The bag sailed through the air and dropped clean into the hole.

The barn erupted in a wave of warm, understated celebration and applause, a few whoops, someone tapping a cider cup on their knee.

Paige gave a low whistle. “Alright. Didn’t think you had that kind of precision in you.”

Azzi smirked. “That your way of saying sorry?”

“Not even close.”

“You trying to avoid admitting I carried us?”

Paige grinned. “You carried the beanbags. I brought the charm.”

Azzi arched an eyebrow. “You mean the commentary?”

“Same thing.”

They won the match by two points. No trophy, just a mason jar of local honey and a ribbon that said “Fall Baller Champs.” Paige wore hers like a medal. Azzi tucked hers in her back pocket.

Afterward, they stood by the edge of the field, watching the sun drip behind the hills. Paige handed her a cider. Hot. Spiced. Sweet in a way that felt undeserved and necessary all at once.

Azzi took a sip, quiet settling between them.

Then Paige said, voice low but steady, “So, you gonna tell me what you’re really doing here?”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She watched a few kids tumble off a hay bale, their laughter bright and careless.

“Trying to figure that out,” she said finally.

“That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes either.”

Paige tilted her cup toward her. “Cryptic. Classic.”

Azzi glanced at her. “You got a problem with that?”

Paige smirked. “Nah. Just seems like there’s more going on than you’re letting on.”

Azzi gave a small shrug. “There is. Just not ready to get into it.”

Paige didn’t push further. She just nodded, took another sip of cider, and said, “Well. Good thing we’ve got time.”

They stood there for a while, letting the quiet settle between them. The sky deepened by degrees, oranges fading to slate, then ink. The music inside drifted toward something slow and lopsided, the kind people swayed to without quite dancing. Someone lit a bonfire near the fence line, and sparks lifted like restless stars.

Eventually, someone shouted about needing more firewood. A gust of wind sent napkins skittering across the grass. Paige gave Azzi a questioning glance, then jerked her chin toward the trucks.

Azzi nodded.

They walked in silence, boots crunching on gravel, until they reached Paige’s pickup. Climbing into the bed felt natural somehow, like sitting on a rooftop with someone, or the end of a long day on the lake. No big declaration, just a quiet agreement.

The truck bed was cold, but Azzi didn’t mind. She pulled the flannel blanket tighter around her legs and leaned back against the side of the cab, staring up at the stars. They looked close enough to reach sharp and unbothered, like they’d always been there and always would be.

Paige sat a few feet away, arms draped loosely over her knees, a half-eaten donut in one hand. Her hat was gone, blonde hair tousled in all directions like she’d forgotten it was even there.

Neither of them had said much since they climbed up here.

From the hill, the bonfire still flickered, a small, warm pulse in the dark. They could hear voices sometimes, but the wind carried them off before they could land.

“Cold,” Paige said finally, not looking away from the sky.

Azzi glanced sideways at her. “You’re wearing two shirts and a jacket.”

“Yeah, and it’s still cold. That’s how I know.”

Azzi huffed a quiet laugh and took a sip from the thermos Paige had brought up with the snacks. The hot chocolate was too sweet and slightly gritty, but it worked. It warmed her throat, anyway.

Paige leaned back on one elbow, shoes scuffing the edge of the bed. “So, what do you think?”

“About what?”

She made a vague motion toward the field, the fire, the stars. “All this.”

Azzi thought for a second. “It’s quiet.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

Paige didn’t argue. She picked at the edge of her donut for a moment, then popped the last piece into her mouth. “I used to think quiet meant boring,” she said, like she was talking to herself. “Turns out, it just means you can hear yourself think.”

Azzi didn’t reply. She lay back slowly, the ridged truck bed biting into her shoulders through the blanket. Above her, the stars blurred just a little. Her body ached in a familiar, low way like it always did after too much motion and too little rest. But here, it felt different. Earned, maybe. Or at least allowed.

Paige didn’t speak again for a while. She laid down too, not quite beside Azzi but close enough to feel like company. The metal creaked slightly under the shift in weight.

“Is this your usual post-bonfire move?” Azzi asked, eyes still on the sky.

“Nope,” Paige said. “Usually I go home and fall asleep with my boots on.”

Azzi smiled a little. “So I’m special.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

They both laughed: quiet, unhurried.

A breeze passed over them, just enough to stir the trees and ripple the edges of the blanket. Azzi tugged it higher and let her eyes drift shut for a moment, not to sleep, but just to rest. To let the quiet settle in deeper.

She didn’t need to say anything, and neither did Paige. It wasn’t silence that needed filling. It just was.

The stars watched without judgment. The wind carried no expectations. And beside her, Paige existed the way Azzi wished she could more often: unbothered, still, entirely herself.

Azzi let out a slow breath and opened her eyes again.

“You fall asleep,” Paige said casually, “I’m leaving you here.”

Azzi didn’t even flinch. “Fair enough.”

The next time Azzi saw Paige, it was two days later. The cold had deepened, curling under doorframes and needling through jackets, and Ruth had declared, with her usual mix of cheer and command, that the barn door wasn’t going to fix itself.

Azzi was mid-lift, coaxing a rusted hinge into alignment, when she heard the familiar low growl of Paige’s truck in the drive. It sounded rougher in the cold, like it objected to the weather on principle.

Paige stepped out wearing a thick canvas jacket, the collar flipped up, a wool cap tugged low over her ears. She walked like the ground owed her answers: deliberate, unhurried, with her weight slightly forward as if expecting trouble and unimpressed by it. Her dark jeans were worn at the knees, and one cuff was still dusted with frost.

She took one look at the barn and raised an eyebrow. “So this is the structural emergency?”

Azzi wiped her hands on a rag. “Welcome to rural disaster response.”

Paige walked up and gave the door a light kick, then nodded. “Yeah, that’s not great.”

She didn’t ask what needed doing, just reached out, took the drill from where Azzi had set it, and gave it a cursory spin in her palm before crouching beside the warped wood. They worked without much talking, the silence broken only by the burr of the drill and the occasional scrape of boots on gravel. Every so often, their arms or shoulders brushed: brief, unintentional, but Azzi felt each one linger a little longer than it should have.

They finished the hinge and stepped back to test the swing of the door. It groaned like something ancient, but it stayed on its tracks.

“Not bad,” Paige said.

Azzi arched an eyebrow. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“Nah. My professional opinion is that the whole barn’s crooked and held together by stubbornness.”

Azzi laughed. “Guess it fits in.”

Paige smiled but didn’t respond. She kicked a stone across the dirt and watched it bounce. The wind stirred her hair across her face, but she didn’t brush it away.

“Want coffee?” she asked suddenly.

Azzi hesitated. “You have coffee with you?”

“No. But there’s a thermos in my truck. Might still be warm. No promises.”

Azzi followed her, curiosity piqued. Paige reached behind the driver’s seat and pulled out a beat-up green thermos. She poured the coffee into the metal lid like it was muscle memory, handed it over.

Azzi took a sip. Bitter, faintly burned, but better than most café stuff she’d had on road trips. “You make this?”

“Technically? No. It was made by my neighbor. I just stole it when I left this morning.”

Azzi chuckled and took another sip. She leaned against the tailgate, her body grateful for the pause. Paige stood beside her, sipping from the thermos lid like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The silence wasn’t awkward, it had shape now. Familiar edges.

“I like days like this,” Paige said finally. “Gray sky, nothing urgent. Everything just slows down.”

Azzi hummed in agreement.

They stood like that a while longer, nursing lukewarm coffee, watching clouds drift across the sky in slow motion. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then fell quiet again.

When Paige finally left, it wasn’t with a goodbye, just a glance and a soft, “See you around.”

Azzi watched the truck disappear down the dirt road, dust trailing behind it like a fading thought.

And then she turned back to the barn, tools still scattered at her feet, and got back to work.

Later that week, with the sky painted in gold and the shadows stretching long, Azzi spotted Paige near the edge of the woods, leaning against a weathered fencepost like she belonged there, one boot crossed over the other, fingers idly playing with a blade of grass.

“You coming, or are you just gonna keep staring?” Paige called, not turning around but clearly knowing she was being watched.

Azzi smirked, grabbing her jacket off the porch rail. “Depends. Where are you dragging me this time?”

Paige finally looked over her shoulder, her smile crooked and easy. “There’s a trail through the pines. Barely a hike, more of a scenic detour. But if we time it right, there’s a view at the top that might just knock the breath out of you.”

Azzi reached her, standing a little closer than necessary. “You always this dramatic?”

Paige’s grin widened. “Only when it works.”

And without another word, she turned and started walking, leaving Azzi to follow the sound of her laughter through the trees.

Paige led the way down the narrow trail, her steps sure but deliberate. The path dipped and twisted, roots snaking across it like lazy veins. Azzi noticed something in Paige’s gait, her left leg moved just a little differently. Not a limp, exactly. Just... careful. Protective.

The woods closed in around them, hushed and golden. Leaves crunched underfoot, birds calling distantly, their cries echoing through the trees like a secret.

“You come out here a lot?” Azzi asked, keeping her voice low, like anything louder might spook the moment.

Paige gave a half-nod. “When I need to think. Or not think. Depends on the day.”

Azzi adjusted her pace until they were side by side. “You alright?”

Paige didn’t answer right away. Her face stayed relaxed, but her eyes flicked sideways for a beat, unreadable.

“Old thing,” she said finally. “Acts up sometimes. Nothing major.”

Azzi caught the brief tension in Paige’s jaw as she shifted her weight, subtle, but not invisible. Paige straightened quickly, like she was used to brushing it off before anyone could ask again.

Azzi didn’t press. But she didn’t stop looking, either.

The trail opened up onto a rocky outcrop overlooking the valley below, where the trees stretched out like a green sea, rolling toward the horizon. They both settled down, legs dangling over the edge, feet hovering above the steep drop.

Azzi let out a slow breath, the crisp air filling her lungs and clearing the tightness that had been knotting in her chest. Around them, the world felt vast and quiet like time had slowed just enough to catch its breath.

Paige pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders, the fabric rustling softly. Her gaze was distant, tracing the fading light as it painted the valley in soft shades of amber and purple. The edges of her face softened in the twilight, revealing a calm that felt almost fragile.

Azzi glanced at her, the way Paige’s eyes caught the last glimmers of the sun making her seem smaller, somehow more human. For a moment, the usual walls they both kept in place dropped away.

They sat side by side, close enough that their shoulders brushed now and then, but neither moved to fill the space between them. The silence stretched, comfortable and easy, full without needing to be broken.

Somewhere below, a creek whispered over stones, and a distant bird called out, sharp and clear in the cooling air.

Azzi let her gaze wander back to the horizon, feeling like the world was wide enough to hold all the things she didn’t know how to say yet. Paige’s quiet presence beside her was a kind of anchor: steady and unspoken.

The sun dipped just below the ridge, and a gentle chill settled over the outcrop. Paige shifted slightly, brushing a stray leaf from her jacket.

“Ready to head back?” she asked softly, not rushing, just easing the silence.

Azzi nodded, stretching her legs before swinging them around to stand. The rocky ledge felt colder now, the sharp edge less inviting as dusk settled in.

They stood together for a moment, taking one last look at the valley bathed in twilight. Then, Paige turned, stepping carefully onto the trail, her boots crunching softly on the loose dirt.

Azzi followed close behind, matching Paige’s steady pace. The woods were quieter now, the birdsong faded to whispers and the shadows deepened between the trees.

The uneven ground betrayed Azzi before she even realized. One moment she was steady, the next her foot caught on a hidden root, and a sharp jolt shot through her ankle. She stumbled, catching herself against a tree trunk.

“Whoa, you okay?” Paige’s voice was instantly there, steady and concerned.

Azzi gritted her teeth but forced a small smirk. “Just a twist. I’ve dealt with worse.”

Paige wasn’t buying it. She slid closer, offering her arm without hesitation.

“Come on. I’ll take you to my place, it’s closer.”

Azzi hesitated, the stubborn streak in her screaming to shake it off, to prove she didn’t need anyone’s help, not even Paige’s. But the dull, persistent ache blooming in her ankle argued otherwise, a quiet but insistent reminder that maybe she wasn’t invincible.

“Alright,” she finally admitted, leaning into Paige’s steady support. “Guess I’m the rookie today.”

Paige’s lips curled into a wry smile, her eyes soft but teasing. “You’re lucky I’m the seasoned pro.”

They moved slowly down the trail, Paige’s arm firm and grounding around Azzi’s waist, her other hand occasionally brushing against Azzi’s back as she guided her careful steps. The forest seemed to hold its breath around them, the usual chatter of birds and rustling leaves giving way to a gentle hush that matched the unspoken understanding between them.

When they reached Paige’s house, the warmth wrapped around Azzi like a soft blanket before she even stepped inside the smoky scent of wood fire mingling with the rich aroma of brewing coffee, something safe and constant in a world that sometimes felt unpredictable.

Paige settled Azzi onto the couch with practiced ease, propping her foot up with a pillow. She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a cold pack, pressing it gently against Azzi’s swollen ankle.

“So,” Paige said quietly, eyes studying Azzi’s face, “how long have you been carrying this kind of ‘worse’?”

Azzi let out a slow breath, staring up at the ceiling as if it held answers. “Long enough. Life tends to leave its marks; some loud, some quiet. But this kind of quiet pain,” she flexed her foot with a faint wince, “is new. And stubborn.”

Paige’s gaze softened, patient and unjudging. She didn’t rush to fill the silence, giving Azzi space to be honest without fear of pity.

“You’re not alone in it,” Paige finally said, voice low. “I’ve got my own scars some that still throb when the weather turns. They don’t always show, but they’re there.”

Azzi cracked a small, almost reluctant smile. “Yeah? Bet you don’t chop wood for therapy.”

Paige chuckled, the sound easy and warm. “Only when the truck’s being stubborn,” she said, voice softening. “But whatever keeps the demons quiet, right?”

Azzi shifted, adjusting the pillow beneath her ankle. “Thanks, Paige.”

“For what?”

“For this. Not just the help, but for not treating me like I’m breaking.”

Paige shrugged, a playful glint in her eyes. “Fragile’s overrated. I’d rather see the parts that still fight.”

They shared a quiet smile, the kind that spoke volumes without words. For a moment, the weight of pain and pretense lifted, replaced by something steadier: connection.

Over the next two weeks, things settled into a rhythm.

Azzi’s ankle healed slower than she liked, but Ruth kept her from overdoing it with an iron will and a walking stick she claimed was “decorative” but used liberally to enforce rest.

Paige started showing up more often, never scheduled, never explained. One morning, she was just there at the kitchen table, already halfway through Ruth’s scones. Another, she rolled in while Azzi was raking leaves, handing her a second rake with a grin and a “Figured you could use a backup dancer.”

They didn’t talk about serious things, not really. But they didn’t avoid them, either.

There was a kind of honesty in the way they existed around each other. Not confessional. Not forced. Just… true.

One afternoon, Azzi found herself on the porch steps, her leg stretched out and wrapped, sipping tea that Ruth insisted was medicinal but tasted like mint and bark. Paige arrived with a plastic bag and two mismatched mugs clinking together inside.

“What’s that?” Azzi asked, wary.

“Hot toddy kit,” Paige said, holding it up. “Or, y’know, frontier medicine. For morale.”

Azzi snorted. “You know it’s not 1862, right?”

“I do,” Paige said, settling beside her. “But whiskey and lemon don’t care what year it is.”

They sat in companionable silence, watching the wind twist through the bare branches. The sky was that pale, almost translucent blue that only showed up in late fall: washed out, but vast.

“You ever miss it?” Paige asked, voice quiet, like she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted an answer.

Azzi looked over. “Miss what?”

Paige kept her gaze on the horizon. “Whatever life you stepped away from.”

Azzi didn’t respond right away. Her breath fogged lightly in the cooling air. “I miss pieces. The structure, maybe. The sense that every day had a direction. But not the pressure. Not the feeling that every move meant something to someone else, even when it stopped meaning anything to me.”

Paige nodded slowly, her expression unreadable. She rubbed her thumb along the rim of her mug, fingers restless, like they were trying to work something loose beneath the surface.

“It’s strange,” she said finally. “How something can start out feeling like home… and end up feeling like something you have to escape.”

Azzi turned to study her. Paige’s face was calm, almost too calm, but her hands betrayed her—tapping a rhythm that felt old, like a habit she hadn’t quite broken.

“You asking about me,” Azzi murmured, “or are you telling on yourself?”

Paige didn’t answer right away. She just took a sip, winced at the sharp heat, and said, almost absently, “Bit of both, I guess.”

Azzi let the silence stretch between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just honest. The kind that filled the spaces between words with something truer than explanation.

The next morning, the frost lingered longer than usual. Sunlight spilled thinly across the fields, catching in the curls of smoke rising from the barn’s chimney. Azzi, bundled in a borrowed wool coat and still favoring her ankle, made her slow way down the dirt path.

Paige had mentioned something the day before: “I’ve got a weird project going. You can come watch me fail at it if you’re bored enough.” Azzi had called her bluff.

She found Paige in the garage with the side door propped open. The old truck wasn’t on the lift this time. Instead, the workbench was cleared, and in its place was a mess of scrap wood, carving knives, and what looked like the beginnings of a bird.

Azzi leaned against the doorframe. “You buildin’ a petting zoo?”

Paige didn’t look up. “Trying to make a chickadee. So far, it’s more... abstract pigeon.”

Azzi stepped inside. “You any good at this?”

“Not yet,” Paige said. “But it shuts my brain up for a while. That counts for something.”

Azzi nodded and didn’t press. She watched as Paige ran the blade gently along the grain, her movements slow, steady. Focused. A soft instrumental played from a speaker on the shelf: acoustic, wordless, the kind of music that filled a space without asking anything from it.

The garage was warmer than it looked. Sunlight pooled in patches on the cement floor, catching motes of dust midair. Azzi lowered herself onto an overturned crate and watched the quiet process unfold.

“You always make birds?” she asked eventually.

“Started there,” Paige said. “Small, simple. Now I’m stubborn about it.”

Azzi picked up one of the finished carvings from the edge of the bench. It was a robin, not perfect, but shaped with intention. The paint was faded but careful, the strokes sure. “This one’s good.”

Paige shrugged, but there was a flicker of something: gratitude, maybe, in her expression. “Thanks. That one’s for my neighbor’s kid. She thinks they’re magic or something. The birds, I mean.”

Azzi traced the wing edge with her thumb, then set it down. “You do this often?”

“Only when I can’t sleep,” Paige said, still carving. “Or when I need to remember I know how to finish something.”

Azzi looked at her then, properly. There was sawdust in Paige’s hair, a smudge of paint on her wrist, and a crease of quiet concentration between her brows. She looked so present, it almost hurt.

But Azzi didn’t ask the obvious questions. Not yet. She just sat there while the bird slowly took shape, piece by careful piece.

When the sun dipped low and the shadows stretched across the floor, Paige handed her a mug of something: warm cider again, or maybe a weak coffee. Azzi didn’t ask.

They sat together on the garage step, shoulder to shoulder, their breath rising in small, shared clouds.

A hawk circled high above the field, and Paige tracked it absently with her eyes.

“You ever wonder what it’d be like,” she said, “to just leave everything behind and not explain it to anyone?”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

Paige huffed a quiet laugh. “Guess so.”

But she didn’t say what she had left behind.

And Azzi didn’t ask.

Not yet.

The next week, they fixed the garden fence.

It wasn’t a glamorous job, it was muddy and slow, the kind of task that left your hands splintered and your boots heavier than when you started. But Azzi liked the rhythm of it. Hammer, lift, measure. She liked working next to Paige, too. They didn’t talk much while they worked, but there was an ease in the motion of handing each other tools, holding boards steady, sharing a thermos of coffee without asking.

At one point, Paige stood and stretched her back, groaning. “I swear this fence is growing longer.”

Azzi leaned on the shovel. “Or maybe we’re getting slower.”

“That’s a dangerous thought.”

They looked at each other, grinning in the shade of the pine trees, both covered in sawdust and dirt. Azzi couldn’t remember the last time something so simple made her feel so grounded.

One morning, Paige brought her a book.

She didn’t say anything when she handed it over, just a quiet, half-shrug. The cover was worn, the title etched faintly into the spine: The Solace of Open Spaces.

Azzi flipped through the pages that night. The writing was spare and clean, full of wind and silence and vastness.

She didn’t tell Paige, but she read the whole thing in two sittings. When she finished, she left it on the kitchen table with a sticky note inside that read: You dog-ear pages. Monster.

The next time Paige came over, she said nothing, just held up a paper bag with donuts and arched an eyebrow like, truce?

Azzi rolled her eyes and took the bag.

They never talked about why Azzi was really there. Or why Paige kept showing up.

But neither of them walked away.

And maybe that was enough.

At least for now.

Then one night, the power went out.

Ruth was at a neighbor’s for a book club that involved more whiskey than literature, and Azzi was alone when the lights flickered and vanished, plunging the house into sudden, absolute dark.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

Paige, flashlight in hand, stood on the porch wearing a headlamp and a smirk. “Figured you might be panicking about ghost raccoons.”

Azzi let her in without a word, lighting candles while Paige brought in extra blankets and a battery-powered speaker.

They sat on the living room floor, passing a flashlight between them like it was a campfire. Paige dug out a deck of cards. They played rummy badly and argued about the rules.

At some point, Azzi asked, “Why do you always have this stuff in your truck?”

Paige glanced at her over the cards. “Because sometimes life doesn’t cooperate. And it’s easier to show up prepared than panic later.”

Azzi held her gaze. “That your whole deal?”

Paige looked away, set down her cards. “Mostly.”

They sat in quiet for a while after that, the wind brushing against the windows, the candlelight flickering.

The wind had dropped off, no longer rattling the windows, just brushing lightly at the eaves. The candles flickered steadily now, their flames no longer dancing, just breathing.

Paige was sitting beside Azzi on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, both of them wrapped in the same old blanket like co-conspirators in some quiet rebellion.

They played another hand of rummy, Azzi winning this time, barely and Paige groaned dramatically as she handed over a marshmallow in defeat.

“You know,” Paige said, poking the sticky sweet at Azzi, “if we don’t die of frostbite tonight, I’m demanding a rematch tomorrow.”

“That’s a lot of confidence for someone who just lost,” Azzi replied, popping the marshmallow into her mouth.

“Strategic loss,” Paige said, leaning back on one elbow. “It builds your confidence. And then I crush it.”

Azzi snorted. “Thanks for the emotional whiplash.”

Paige just smiled and closed her eyes for a moment, resting against the arm of the couch. The silence that fell was easy. Not expectant. Not probing. Just… settled.

Azzi didn’t feel the need to fill it.

Eventually, Paige spoke again, her voice a little drowsy. “You know what I like about blackouts?”

Azzi glanced over. “That you can sneak into people’s houses under the guise of being helpful?”

Paige grinned with her eyes still closed. “That too. But mostly, it slows everything down. No screens, no excuses. Just… time.”

Azzi looked at the cards in her hand, at the soft glow around the room, at Paige beside her, barefoot now, hair loose, completely unbothered by the dark.

“It’s kind of nice,” Azzi admitted.

“Yeah,” Paige murmured. “It is.”

The storm outside had softened into a hush, just wind and tree limbs brushing one another in the dark. The room was dim and warm with candlelight, flickering shadows stretching tall across the ceiling beams.

Paige had gone quiet again, sitting with her back against the couch, legs stretched out, fingers idly drumming on the arm of her mug.

Azzi shifted, adjusting the blanket that pooled across both their laps. “You ever… get tired of being the person everyone counts on?”

Paige blinked, surprised by the question. “Where’s that coming from?”

“I don’t know,” Azzi said. “You show up with flashlights and soup and firewood and sarcasm. It’s like… you’ve already done the math on every disaster. It’s a little intimidating.”

Paige looked down at her mug, her voice quiet. “Yeah. Well. When you’re used to things going sideways, you learn not to expect help.”

Azzi turned to face her. “So you became the help.”

Paige gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Something like that.”

The silence between them stretched again, this time fuller, heavier, but not uncomfortable.

“What happened?” Azzi asked, gently.

Paige didn’t answer right away. She stared ahead, not at the firelight, not at Azzi, just at some space between.

“There was a time I needed someone to show up,” she said at last. “And no one did. After that, I figured I'd rather be the one holding the flashlight than waiting in the dark.”

Azzi exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” she said. “I know that feeling.”

Paige looked over. “Do you?”

Azzi nodded. “Sometimes I wonder if the quiet out here is just me waiting for someone to knock, and not wanting to admit it.”

Paige’s voice softened. “Then I’m glad I did.”

They didn’t say anything else after that. But the quiet felt different, shared now, not solitary. The candles burned low. The wind outside moved gently, as if it too had settled for the night.

Paige shifted closer, shoulder brushing Azzi’s. Azzi didn’t move away.

The power stayed out.

Paige didn’t move, still sitting beside Azzi in the quiet, her mug empty, her words lingering like smoke. The flashlight had dimmed to a low orange glow, and the last candle on the mantle flickered weakly, its wax pooling down the sides.

Azzi stretched out her legs, careful of her wrapped ankle, and leaned back against the couch. “You ever let anyone show up for you?”

Paige gave a half-smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Not really my strong suit.”

Azzi looked over at her. “Might be time to practice.”

That earned her a look, sharp and curious. “Is that your way of offering?”

Azzi shrugged, but the motion was deliberate. “Could be.”

Paige’s expression softened, the edges of her posture loosening just slightly. “I’ll think about it.”

They sat like that for a while, neither reaching for anything more. The kind of silence that didn’t ask for resolution. Just presence.

Eventually, Paige rose, stretching with a quiet groan, and crossed to the window.

“Still black outside,” she said. “Whole ridge is probably out.”

Azzi tilted her head back against the couch. “Think we’ll freeze before morning?”

Paige grinned over her shoulder. “Nah. You’ve got at least three blankets on you and a space heater personality.”

Azzi laughed, a real, unguarded one and Paige turned at the sound. Watched her for just a moment longer than necessary.

Then she moved to the wood stove and added another log, coaxing the fire back to life. The glow painted the room in amber, catching the curve of Paige’s jaw, the stray smudge of soot on her wrist.

Azzi watched her quietly.

It wasn’t the fire that made the room feel warmer.

They didn’t speak for a while.

The storm had shifted to sleet, the sound soft against the roof like fingers brushing glass. The room had dimmed to shades of orange and shadow, and Paige passed her the flashlight again, resting her hand just a beat longer than necessary in Azzi’s.

“I don’t usually do this,” Paige murmured, voice low.

Azzi turned to her, brow raised slightly. “Do what?”

“This. Stay. Sit around in someone’s dark house and… talk.” She paused, then added, “It’s easier to just be the girl with the truck and the toolbox.”

Azzi’s smile was small, but it didn’t hide. “You’re allowed to be more than one thing.”

A breath passed between them.

Then Azzi shifted, gently, her shoulder brushing Paige’s. It wasn’t accidental. Paige didn’t move away.

“I’m not good at quiet, either,” Azzi said. “But I’m learning.”

Paige let out something like a laugh: soft, dry, a little disbelieving. “You’re better at it than you think.”

They turned to each other, the space between them narrowing not with urgency, but with certainty. Azzi lifted her hand, slowly, brushing a strand of Paige’s hair back behind her ear.

Paige leaned into the touch like she didn’t mean to, but she didn’t pull back.

“Are you gonna kiss me,” she said quietly, “or are we gonna keep making metaphors until the fire dies?”

Azzi laughed, hushed and warm, and whispered, “You never shut up, do you?”

Paige tilted her chin. “Make me.”

Azzi did.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It unfolded like everything else between them—careful, steady, real. No spotlight, no music cue. Just the quiet heat of two people who hadn’t meant to need each other, but did.

Outside, the storm softened into a hush. Inside, the fire burned on.

Azzi didn’t move right away after the kiss. She stayed close, her forehead resting lightly against Paige’s, breath steady, both of them suspended in that warm stillness that comes after something honest.

Paige’s eyes were still closed. “Well,” she murmured, almost like a secret. “Guess I deserved that.”

Azzi smiled against her. “Deserved?”

“For running my mouth.”

Azzi let her hand rest at the side of Paige’s neck, her thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. “You kind of did.”

Paige cracked an eye open, mischief flickering just underneath the softness. “You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

Azzi laughed under her breath. “I’ve never had to be.”

There wasn’t much light left. The fire had settled into coals, glowing deep red beneath the grate, and the room held onto the heat, wrapping around them like a blanket. Paige leaned back just enough to see her fully, to really look her gaze unguarded for once, all the irony peeled back.

“I don’t do this either,” she said. “Not like this.”

Azzi nodded, understanding. “I figured.”

They weren’t touching much: just knees close, hands brushing now and then, that faint hum of nearness you only notice when the noise outside your body has stopped.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Paige said, voice softer now, almost cautious. “This doesn’t have to mean something big. Doesn’t have to mean anything you don’t want it to.”

Azzi looked down, then back at her. “Maybe it doesn’t have to mean everything. But it doesn’t mean nothing.”

Paige let out a breath like relief. “Okay.”

Silence wrapped around them again, but it had changed shape. Less absence, more presence.

Azzi leaned back against the couch, tilting her head toward the ceiling. “How long do you think the power’ll stay out?”

“Could be hours. Could be ‘til morning,” Paige said, matching her posture. “Lines are ancient. Ruth says they’re held together by duct tape and spite.”

Azzi’s grin was sleepy, fond. “Sounds about right.”

They sat like that a while longer, shoulder to shoulder now, the way people sit when the world outside feels too wide and the space between them feels safe.

Eventually, Paige shifted, pulled a blanket from the armchair behind them, and draped it across both their laps. She didn’t say anything when she did it. She just settled in beside her, warm and quiet.

Azzi let her head fall gently onto Paige’s shoulder.

Paige didn’t move.

Outside, the sleet had turned to snow soft, slow, and quiet.

And in the little living room full of flickering shadows and firelight, the silence didn’t ask for anything.

It just let them stay.

Together.

#pazzi #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #pazzi fic #pazzi fic: timeout

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its-avalon-08 · 1 month ago

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🏁 pairing : Daniel Riccardo x Verstappen!Sister!Reader

🏎️ summary: he was the honey badger with a grin that could silence storms, and she was max verstappen’s little sister—always there, always watching, never saying too much. they’d spent years orbiting each other, but after singapore'24 when daniel quietly stepped away from formula 1, everything shattered. now she’s left wondering if he was ever just a friend or the great love she let slip through her fingers without ever saying a word.

themes : fluff, flirting, angst, over protective brother, anxiety, emotional, slight smut in a few chapters, overshadowing, loneliness

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

chapter 2: the paths we take

Early 2025

Y/N in Monaco

The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of her keyboard echoed through the clean, open-plan workspace of TerraData Solutions—a green tech company pioneering systems for sustainable city modeling. Y/N sat with a straight back, her dual monitors glowing with charts, CO2 metrics, and client data dashboards. (guys sorry I dont know alot of technical terms so this is what came up when I googled tech terms) Her calendar was packed, her inbox relentlessly full, and her deadlines always inching closer. H

But she preferred it that way. Busy meant she didn’t have time to think. To feel. She drowned herself in her new life, a life without a certain curly haired Australian. It had been months since that night in Singapore.

Months since Daniel looked her in the eyes and tore down everything she’d believed about him—with one cruel, furious flick of his words. And not once—not for a second—had she looked back.

She had never unfollowed him on Instagram. That would be obvious. Too harsh. Too real. But she never watched his stories. Never clicked on his name. Never let the algorithm win. His posts would pop up, all showing the crazy things he had been up to, but not once did she click that little red heart.

His contact was still in her phone, hidden deep in a folder labeled "old numbers", but even the idea of clicking it made her chest clench.

She poured herself into work—data presentations for city councils, testing their waste management model in Copenhagen, keynote prep for the GreenTech Forward summit in Zurich. Y/N Verstappen was moving forward. Professionally. Quietly. Without him. She didn't need him.

Still, on nights when the streetlights flickered outside her flat window and the hum of city life faded, she would sit on her couch and scroll through Instagram—thumb hovering just for a second too long over a mutual friend’s photo. If Daniel was tagged, she scrolled faster.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

That was her only rule. That was the only way to survive.

Meanwhile Daniel in Sydney

The air up here was cold and thin. It sliced right through him—cleaner than any adrenaline rush from the grid ever had.

Daniel stood on the edge of a bungee platform suspended above a canyon, arms outstretched as the wind whipped at his navy blue hoodie. A GoPro was strapped to his chest, capturing every moment for his memory vlog.

He jumped. And for a moment, he felt everything and nothing all at once. The honey badger's classic laugh echoed through the serene space, making everyone who heard it smile. He was happy. He was truly happy.

It wasn’t that he hated life after Formula One. It had its perks: freedom, sleep, food without a calorie tracker so he could eat all the cheeseburgers he wanted , and thrill-seeking adventures he couldn’t even think about while under contract.

Skydiving in Dubai. Wingsuiting in Norway. Dirt biking through remote Australian deserts. Surfing monstrous waves in Maui.

He was living. At least, that’s what the world thought.

But when the rush wore off and the cameras stopped rolling, Daniel found himself doing something far less thrilling.

Checking her Instagram. It wasn't like he missed her (he did but he was in so much denial).

Late at night, after his friends fell asleep. Quiet moments in airport lounges. Even once, standing in the middle of a Patagonia glacier.

Search: @ynverstappen (Still following you)

Her grid was filled with aesthetic posts—clips of her presenting climate models, photos from Berlin with her coworkers, one grainy carousel from a boat day that made his stomach twist. Not a single post he could like without looking desperate. And God, she still followed him back.

Daniel never sent a text. Never left a DM. Never clicked that call button. But he always looked. And hated himself for it.

Y/N: She stared at a presentation slide titled “Sustainable Living by 2030”, chewing the inside of her cheek. Her colleagues praised her for her talent and skill. She smiled and laughed along with them.

Daniel: He was laughing at his family's farmhouse as his friends and him drove dirt bikes. He was having the time of his life.

Y/N: In Zurich, she delivered her keynote flawlessly. A standing ovation. She thanked the crowd, smiled politely, and quietly slipped away into the dressing room… where she sat alone for fifteen minutes and stared at the floor. She was thriving but why did she feel empty?

Daniel: At 2:17 a.m. in his Queenstown lodge, he watched her newest reel—some shot of her sipping matcha in Amsterdam, laughing at something off-camera. He hovered over the heart. Didn’t press it. Just locked his phone and stared at the ceiling.

Two people. Worlds apart. One walking forward as if nothing broke her. The other pretending he hadn’t been the one to break her in the first place.

And neither of them knew how to find the way back.

fast forward to first race of 2025 in Melbourne

The streets of Melbourne were warm and golden, casting a glow over the quiet laneway cafés that had already begun to fill up with fans and team personnel for the start of the 2025 Formula One season.

The weekend buzzed with energy, the streets adorned with posters of this year's contenders—Oscar Piastri's face on every other billboard, alongside Antonelli, Bearman, and the newest rookies.

Y/N Verstappen, dressed in a white linen shirt and loose denim shorts, was trying to enjoy a peaceful morning before the chaos of the Grand Prix began. She wasn’t working, just here with family—technically on vacation, her heart fluttering ever so often in fear of running into a certain someone since they were on his home turf.

“P, slow down!” she called, laughing softly as the little girl skipped ahead. Max’s stepdaughter, now five and braver than ever, was practically a blur of curls and excitement as she darted into the café ahead of Y/N. She had a babyccino obsession and a habit of naming pigeons she saw on the sidewalks.

“Penelope!” Y/N said again, more firm this time, just as the little girl let out a delighted screech while rushing towards someone's tanned figure.

“DANNYYYY!”

Y/N froze. Her head snapped up.

And there he was.

Daniel Ricciardo, in the flesh, in a loose white t-shirt with a cherry cola graphic and shorts, holding a takeaway coffee and blinking in pure surprise as a small human missile launched herself at his legs.

“P?!” Daniel exclaimed, beaming as he bent down to scoop her up in one fluid motion, laughing. “What the heck are you doing here, little monster?!”

He spun her around, making her giggle wildly, his voice coated with warmth—the same warmth that once made Y/N’s stomach flutter. Now it made her freeze.

She took a breath. Straightened her shoulders. And walked forward.

Daniel's grin almost left his face as his eyes found hers.

Y/N.

His heart did something stupid in his chest. But her expression didn’t change. Cool. Calm. Unshaken.

“Hi,” she said with a small, polite smile. “Didn’t think we’d see you here.”

Daniel cleared his throat, still holding Penelope. “Yeah, I—uh, I’ve been in town a few days. Thought I’d spend time with my family, hang with some mates.”

“Right,” she said smoothly, her voice a glacier. “Of course. How very fun.” Her eyes were cold, her posture distant.

He felt the iciness instantly, and it was like someone had flipped a switch in his head. This was the first time he was seeing her since that night in Singapore.

And she was acting like they’d never even fought. Like he was just some distant friend she hadn’t caught up with in a while.

It freaked him out more than if she’d screamed at him. Her indifference stung him.

“Bubba, look!” Penelope giggled, still clinging to Daniel’s neck. “Danny’s here! He’s back!”

“Looks like it,” Y/N replied, smiling at Penelope but not even sparing Daniel another glance.

Penelope reached out, still half in Daniel’s arms, and grabbed Y/N’s wrist. “Come, sit with us! Please Danny!!!”

“Oh—uh…” Daniel hesitated, glancing at Y/N.

She just raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Why not?”

They sat at a small outdoor table, Penelope nestled between them like a tiny chaos agent sent by the gods of awkward reunions. Y/N sipped her iced latte. Daniel nursed his black coffee. Their knees brushed under the table once when Penelope kicked her legs.

“Where have you been, Danny?” Penelope asked, swinging her legs back and forth. “You weren’t in any of the races last time.”

“I’ve been… around,” he said, his eyes flicking to Y/N before quickly looking away. “Doing some cool stuff. Traveling. Trying not to break bones.”

Penelope gasped. “Did you break a bone?!”

“No,” he laughed, “but I almost did. Jumped off a cliff in Norway.”

Y/N didn’t react. Not even a raised eyebrow. Y/N was simply smiling at P and her happy face.

Penelope looked between them, frowning slightly. “Bubba are you okay? Why aren't you two talking?”

Daniel choked on his coffee.

Y/N tilted her head and smiled sweetly at the little girl. “Aw my darling. Daniel and I are perfectly fine.”

Daniel felt her words like a slap. They were fine? Fine? She was acting like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t shattered her trust, broken whatever fragile thing they had with that night in Singapore.

Penelope scrunched her nose. “You’re both being sooooo weird.”

“I think you’re just imagining things,” Y/N said, brushing a curl out of Penelope’s face. “Danny’s just nervous. Maybe he's just too excited to meet u you again.”

Daniel blinked. “Oh- I'm not nervous.”

Y/N’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Relax, Daniel. No one’s asking you to stay.”

He swallowed hard. “Didn’t say I wasn’t staying.”

“Didn’t say you were welcome, either,” she said under her breath, so softly Penelope wouldn’t hear—but Daniel did.

Penelope looked between them again, sighing. “Adults are so annoying.”

Daniel let out a tight laugh. “Tell me about it.”

A silence fell, awkward and dense. Daniel tapped his fingers on his cup. Y/N checked her phone. Penelope licked the foam off her babyccino mustache.

Y/N stood abruptly. “Alright, little bean. Let’s get going. Max will be wondering where we are.”

Penelope pouted. “Can’t Danny come?”

Y/N paused, then looked at Daniel—expression unreadable.

“Maybe some other time schat,” she said simply, and turned, holding Penelope’s hand.

Daniel watched her walk away, a cold wind suddenly much stronger than the Melbourne breeze slicing through him. He hadn’t expected her to cry. Or shout. But this?This careful, polished indifference?

It terrified him. And he couldn’t stop watching her go.

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lynnerra · 13 days ago

Text

Through the passage of time

Synopsys: Having narrowly avoided the black tide, you and your family moved to a new place called Aedes Elysiae where you recorded your memories with a fateful boy.

(Your stories with Khaslana through different seasons)

Featuring: Phainon/Khaslana x gn!reader, and Cyrene

Word count: 5k

Tags: Childhood friends, fluff, some angst, death, maybe OOC factors here and there…

Warnings: some description of gore, survivor guilt, slight hint at suicide

Notes: Initially, this was supposed to be about spring, summer, autumn and winter but as Amphoreus probably doesn't follow the same systemic month. I did some digging and found Amphoreus' actual calendar. Very interesting stuff, you can check it out here.

FATE SEASON- NEW BEGINNING

Aedes Elysiae, an unheard village blessed by Oronyx, one that carried peace and tranquility for hundreds of years or so. Its name had never once crossed your ears and yet, you were about to begin a new life there. An unfamiliar place far from your lovely house by the slow-moving river, from all the fondest memories of your old friends, from the beloved village that once birthed and moulded your soul.

But alas, it was no longer your village anymore, just a distant past filled with agony and carnage as the black tide had swept everything on its way. Thus, Aedes Elysiae was your new home.

The first few weeks strangled you with hardship one after another. Meanwhile, your parents' wounds were still fresh, blood was still oozing from the violence unleashed on that horrid night and from the pain of everything that came after. Therefore you took it upon yourself to calm your own grief and carried the burden of building your new life.

The villagers were welcoming and kind-hearted, some brought your family fruits, others brought bread while some brought you the much-needed consolation, so you too, expressed your gratitude in kind. But deep down it was still hard to even greet anyone with a candid smile especially when old wounds had yet to heal.

Could one truly gain peace by running away from their past? Would drowning away the voices of the departed make your soul feel at ease? How could you justify this new life, one that had been snatched away from many others?

Despite the turmoil ravaging inside your head, you did not let those thoughts get to you especially when both of your parents were incapable of facing up to the cruel reality so you felt the need to shoulder that burden.

Your day was ridden with hard-labour work: tilling the soil, getting water from the well, feeding the sheep, weaving, practicing archery, changing your parents’ bandages… Being constantly rushed off your feet from the break of dawn until the dead of the night, those haunting nightmares were no longer able to chase you down like some sort of fugitive anymore, just as you wanted.

But it also meant a life devoid of social interaction. Before grief even caught up to you, loneliness had already started rearing its ugly roots. To you, it was fine, better feel lucky that you were still breathing.

But fate always works in some miraculous ways, bending things against your will so that they all turn back to its preordained path.

"Hi! I heard your family just moved in recently so we wanted to come over and greet you." The lively young girl looked roughly your age, icy blue eyes gazed up at you with nothing but genuine conviviality. She was gorgeous with her mesmerizing pink hair, white streaks hanging down her shoulder, a braid on the left side of her head, adorned by a white ribbon-like accessory.

Such striking appearance, one that caught your eyes multiple times ever since you moved in. You would often see her hanging around with another boy around the village.

Maybe he was the “we” she spoke of?

"Come on Khaslana!" She tugged on the friend next to her, who was hidden from your eyes by the door. Her friend shyly smiled at you, crooked yet sincere as he held out his hands full of sweets and berries.

"Here, we brought you this! Uh- Can we be your friends?" His eyes seemingly beamed with excitement, the flush bloomed into a gentle dash of pink adorning his cheeks.

Between the two, you had encountered the boy more often. You would sometimes meet him during one of your trips to get water from the well, he frequently asked to bring the bucket back to your house, an offer which you always declined. That did not deter him from trying though, on numerous occasions, he helped you herd a lost sheep back to its flock, bringing your stray arrow back or trying to strike a conversation that lasted no less than five replies from you.

He was similar to a little dog, always wagging its tail upon seeing you as he ran excitedly from across the road to lend a hand to whatever task you were up to. And of course, you always politely turned him away.

But as he was standing there with backup from his friend, right in front of your house nonetheless, you found it hard to resort to your old method so you ultimately gave in. Had you gotten soft on yourself? Or was it their hospitality and kindness that pulled your withdrawing spirits back from Thanatos?

Nevertheless, before you even knew it, the three of you were sitting on the porch of your house, eating the candies while laughing with glee under the gentle embrace of the sun. You hated the way that disgusting, horrible feeling kept on gnawing at your heart, but their presence was so calming, luring you into the start of something you could never bear to witness the end of it. The day was ending but the story had just entered its first chapter.

_________________________________________

PILLAR SEASON- SPRING CULTIVATION

Time was a weird concept to you, invisible yet omnipresent and always moving. You had stayed in Aedes Elysia for over a year. It seemed like a lot yet feels like a blink of an eye. During that blink of an eye, the golden-colored leaves no longer seemed outlandish, strangers were now your neighbors, whose names you could memorise with ease, and your day would not be completed if not filled with the laughter of your friends.

Life was thriving and blooming at every corner of your little town, flower petals danced along the gust of wind, wild grass bursted through the ground with vigor and the sounds of labour filled the place as the sun hung high above the azure sky, casting its blessing onto the fertile land. Even spring had come to soothe the shattered souls of your parents and mended your family.

"Is something wrong?" Khaslana asked with impatience in his voice. You too, urged her to reveal the card as Cyrene's oracle card reading session was always something you looked forward to at every hang out. She didn't reply but hummed thoughtfully, scrunching her eyebrows together as if she were pondering something deep abstract and philosophical. But you did not need to think twice to see through her deliberate act to tease the ever so impatient Khaslana.

"Ugh, don't keep me in suspense. Come on, tell me already. What did you see?" It was evident that he was tired of waiting so you chimed in as well. "Cyrene, come on, tell us what card you drew!" She let out a breathy chuckle, still hearty and sincere like the first day you two met.

"Haha, I just wanted to get a reaction out of you. Alright, I'll tell you...This card is the Deliverer."

The Deliverer she said, one chosen by fate to become the hero, to be the savior purging evil and bringing hope to the world. The one that you had silently prayed to, begged to save your village on that fateful night with your hands clasped tightly together at your chest. Holding back the desperate sobs as corpses were ravaged, deformed, twisted like some sort of horrific creature right outside of the closet you hid in.

Yet they never showed up.

For a moment, noises faded away into the sounds of distant crows cawing, until they distorted and became those unintelligible, horrifying screams of villagers trying to tug to their last bits of sanity before giving in to darkness. You dared not open your eyes as you swallowed in a choked sob and withdrew to your mother’s embrace. But outside, you could still hear the hopeless cries, hurried footsteps of the less fortunate people, echoing at the back of your mind.

Once you had conquered loneliness, grief came back like a crashing ocean wave amidst the deep blue sea, looming and unforgiving.

Be grateful, you’re living at the expense of many others. Life surely is so much easier when you’re the coward that hid and ran away, no? But just because you escaped the claws of death one time doesn’t mean it is not chasing you down for a second.

"Don't worry. Aedes Elysiae is a peaceful place. Bad people won't reach us here."

You woke up from your trance, yes that's right. Aedes Elysiae had enjoyed peace and tranquility for so long, nothing bad would happen to you. You were safe there, it wouldn't happen again, you won’t allow it. You refused to stay as the powerless kid, hidden in your mother’s embrace while running away from the horror of it all.

"Hey! Khaslana to you. Are you alright? It's not like you to doze off like that." You stared up at him, cold sweats were making their way down your temples, even so his eyes were still warm and comforting, as if the heavenly above was looking out for you, easing away the paranoid thoughts deep inside your heart. The conversation had long been over, they looked like they were about to head elsewhere.

“You had me worried dead for a second there! Are you alright? Do you want to go back?”

"Huh ...Oh- No-no, I was just a bit distracted that's all" you gave them a sheepish smile. Cyrene seemed even more concerned and you doubted you actually fooled Khaslana with that. The perceptive, considerate Khaslana not knowing that you were feeling troubled?

"Don't think about it too much, Cyrene is right. It's really peaceful here in Aedes Elysiae, nothing bad would happen!" Of course he knew, he always did. Cyrene nodded in agreement. “Mhm, you’re safe and sound here.”

Khaslana took your hand in his as he pulled you up from the ground. Stepping out of the canopy, you wiped away the dirt and a few small branches stuck on your attire as he helped pick the leaves out of your hair.

You didn’t notice how his hand slightly trembled or how he lingered just a tad bit too long at the end of your hair, nor the redness that was slowly creeping up his face.

“Let's go, it's time we hung out with the fairies, that will surely cheer you up!"

Under the radiant light of the afternoon and the gentle fragrance of hay in the air, his white hair glimmered with a delicate sun-kissed yellow hue, his smile proud and content with his little handiwork after fixing your hair. You couldn’t help but pull into a childish, genuine smile. “Alright, let’s go play with the fairies then.’’

“Oh come on you two! Tone it down and get over here!’’ and Cyrene could never get bored of teasing you and Khaslana. The disadvantage of living in a small place was that everyone knew everything, even a little blush, a slight nervous hand movement or a specific sentiment hidden in one’s gaze could never escape the meticulous eyes of the people, especially Cyrene’s herself.

The three of you walked down the beaten track, laughing but not forgetting to greet every town folk you came across heartily. The villagers were all working hard on the field, for the month of Cultivation was already in full bloom. Everything was moving faster as spring was in view, blooming and flowing with life. Maybe you should too, welcome spring with a wide embrace.

_________________________________________

III. CREATION SEASON

The gods have graced Aedes Elysiae with another bumper crop this year. The month of Freedom may as well be your favorite, no more labour, just carefree afternoons to go about with your hobbies. After the ongoing days of hard work and cultivation, your parents finally had time to rest from the intensive work on the field, and you got to enjoy your favorite dish, Janus's double sided pancake made by your mom.

“Be a dear and bring some over to Cyrene and Khaslana as well, alright?’’ You nodded as she gently patted your head, you couldn’t even remember how long it had been since your mother’s touch felt so delighted and loving, life had indeed got better slowly. Three portions of pancake, one was stored neatly at home for yourself, the other two reserved for your best friends.

Sadly, you could not hand it to Cyrene in person, she was bed-ridden from a nasty cold after you all hung out in the rain a few days ago. In your defense, you tried talking them out of it but you were outnumbered. After you delivered the pancake to Cyrene’s parents you headed down the road to Khaslana’s house, eager to have him try out your favorite dish and maybe receive some compliments from him as well, even though the only things you did was mixing the flour and cutting the dough, your mom did the rest.

However, you were surprised to only find his mom. “He’s probably hanging out at the wheat field again’’ that was what she said. She told you that you could just leave your little gift there but you insisted on bringing it to him in person so there you were, jotting down the road to the wheat field along with the fluffy little cloud rubbing at your legs.

“Come on Snowy! Go find Khaslana.’’ The big dog let out a woof as it dived into the wheat field, running through them enthusiastically, tracing down the smell of its owner. You followed close behind as the wheat ruffled against your clothes, one hand setting it out of the way, the other holding the pancake close to your body.

It wasn’t long before laughter soon filled your ears, one that you could just tell whose it belonged to as the sound delighted you dearly everyday. Snowy was pouncing on Khaslana, licking his face fervently while your friend tried to cover his face with his hands. “Have you missed me buddy? Oh I know you do!” He gave the big dog a tight hug as he patted its head, Snowy wiggled in his hold, his tail wagging with overwhelming joy. Truly such simple creatures and yet they can welcome happiness with no fear of the future.

“Oh Snowy, have you forgotten me already? I’m heartbroken.’’ As if the dog understood your exaggerated statement, it fled its owner’s hold and rushed over to lick you.

Khaslana’s eyes lit up as he saw you, he scrambled back on his feet and ran over. Now, it looked as if there were two Snowies in front of you, an interesting sight indeed.

“So Snowy was leading you to me! Oh, what do you have there?” His gaze landed on the little plate on your hand. The aroma of olive oil and honey was not lost after so much running around. You held out the plate, a simple pancake filled with cloudsheep meat and honey on top, a type of festive delicacy of a lost city-state, one that no children could resist, and he too was no exception.

“It’s for you! Me and my mom made a lot, I brought some to Cyrene as well.’’ He examined the pancake with curiosity, trying to take in the sweet aroma of the honey before sitting down and patting the place next to him. You took the cue and settled down by his side as Snowy curled up at your feet. “Have a taste! This is surely the best pancake you have ever had!” Your proclamation was strong and confident as you handed him the spoon.

“Alright! I’ll excuse myself then.’’ He scooped up a spoonful of pancake into his mouth. Honey dripped down onto the plate, mixing with the meat fillings that were spilling out from the batter. “Mhm, this- is super- good! I didn’t know you bake.’’ He didn’t even bother to swallow before speaking, even stuffing another spoonful into his mouth until one side of his cheek looked comically round. The pancake must have tasted exceptionally delicious for he was looking at you with awe as if you had brought the moon to the sky. “I told you so! Now slow down or you’re gonna choke.’’

The two of you spent the afternoon at the wheat field, talking about the fairies, your mom’s pancake recipe, Snowy’s antics at home and just about everything in the world while feeling the gust of wind lightly brush your skin, inhaling the fresh scent of grown wheat, drawing the clouds with fingertips like you were kids back in the days. He told you about the fish in Aedes Elysiae, the beautiful patterns his mom was practicing for the upcoming weaving festival and his deepest insecurity of not being cut out to become the Deliverer.

You reminisced about your old life, you told him about the beautiful landscape seemingly sculpted by the Gods at your hometown, the smell of fruits and honey of the local pancakes, the fear and worries you used to endure due to past trauma caused by the black tide.

Your voice no longer harboured pain nor regret for everything that had come down, just sincere, raw fondness of the distant village, once your home and a readiness to grow and embrace the future. To you, this was now your home. Khaslana and Cyrene were your best friends,the way back home was different but also the same and the name Aedes Elysiae rolled off your tongue with no uncertainty nor unfamiliarity.

As the gust of wind caressed your features, you took in the scent of wheat and closed your eyes. You could barely realize when Aedes Elysiae had become your home, nor since when you started to smile again. You no longer feel that burning hatred for surviving anymore, you will remember that day until the end of your life but you will not let it strangle you to the past.

Time flew as you talked with him, even when there was nothing to ramble on about, you two took the silence to appreciate the breath-taking scenery. You stole a few glances at your friend, he had grown up to become so good-looking. That scrawny little kid outside your door was now a muscular young guy, his jawline grew sharper and his limbs longer. You could no longer hold up his wooden sword and dangle it above his head nor intentionally put things high up to annoy him.

At some points, it felt like he stole some glances back at you too. Out of the corners of your eyes, you felt that intense hazy blue eyes drilled at you. Was he thinking of the way your hair sprayed prettily across the land? Or the way your eyelashes fluttered at your cheekbone when you blinked? They way your nimble fingers play with the wheat maybe? For some reason, that thought made you feel embarrassed as heat cripled up to your face.

Once the parting hour came, you bid goodbye to Khaslana. “It’s getting late, we should head back soon.’’ Khaslana seemed a bit disheartened at hearing this, but nevertheless you all had curfews. As he sat up, he stared down at you intensely, the action prompted a flustered and embarrassed reaction from you. “Uh- Is something wrong?”

“You got something on your face, the wheat must have gotten stuck while you were lying down. Close your eyes, and let me help you.’’ You did as he said, suddenly the world seemed to silence down a bit and you were hyper aware of the close proximity between you two. All you could hear was the wind rustling against the wheat, clothes ruffling as he reached out to your face. His touch was feather-light as he picked out the wheat from your face. Had you not closed your eyes, maybe you could have seen the way he fixed his gaze on you, the way his cheeks flushed a redness like those cheesy novels you and Cyrene like to read, or the way your heart was thumping dangerously loud in your chest.

How could you name this overwhelming yet addicting feeling that was plaguing your mind whenever he stood next to you? Like electricity strikes down your nervous system, leaving you in a short circuit-like state and yet you still crave for more. Is it like eating the double-sided pancake you always adore? Or hitting a bullseye during archery practices? None of them felt close to the feeling he brought you. But you need not worry, after all, you had all the time in the world to figure it out.

“All done!’’ You fluttered your eyes open, taking in the dimming sunlight of the dusk. You thanked him for his help as you two walked back home with an unleaving smile on your face and adoration deep in your heart.

You prayed for more joyful and peaceful days to come.

_________________________________________

IV. CALAMITY SEASON

But all good things are bound to end. Everything played out like it once did back then. A disaster had befallen this remote village. A blood-red half-sun hung high above the sky, all below were the fire that engulfed everything, wrecking havoc and destruction in its path. Babies cried with fear until they all muffled down to nothingness, mothers mourning their kids in raw and utter despair through their tears and voices, men urging their families to run off into safety as they held broken and chipped swords, even sickles of hoes to hold off the monsters.

Screams of agonies filled the village, as the inhabitants one by one succumbed to the black tide. You clutched the bow in your arms, the tips of your fingers turned white as they dug into the leather of the quiver, shaking and shivering in fear. Your pupils dilated as tears aggressively dripped down from your bottom lashline to your cheeks. You had prepared for everything, but not this.

“G-Go, r—-run.’’ The monster told you with its incoherent last bit of sanity as its voice broke into savage roars. No, that was no monster, it was your dad.

His body contorted, head twisting uncontrollably accompanied by the cracking of bones that could echo in your mind for a long, long time ahead, he let out a blood-curling scream when his neck was bent completely backwards and then back to where it was originally. He clawed at his skin when black matters began to encroach his skin, like burnt, withering leaves drained of life stuck to his body. The muscles inside his body started to show through his decaying skin, patches of red slowly changed to a dark yellow color leaving no distinct human features but a sole spine visible at the waist.

As his screams died down, you no longer knew him anymore. Before you was just another faceless monster, the one that had slaughtered your mom right in front of your eyes. And yet, you didn’t have the courage to shoot it. Your hands shaked fervently as you tugged on the bow string, the arrow felt so flimsy in your hand, your vision blurred away, breathing felt like the hardest thing ever.

So you let go, you slumped to the floor in despair and watched as the monster took form. Mom lay unconscious at the doorstep, her eyes were still wide even when blood had stained her entire body. The horror and fear when she screamed at you to run was etched into her countenance.

Your dad was already far gone, the man that had taught you how to hold a bow and an arrow with a loud and boisterous laugh no longer recognized his dearest child. And you too, no longer recognize your own father.

How naive could you be to think that you would be safe? This was the sin you have to pay, for betraying your village. You knew you didn’t deserve to lead a tranquil and easy life yet you yearned for it, for happiness and love, you kept on chasing until everything fell. There was nowhere to run away from the impending death, you escaped it the last time, now it was your turn to repay the long overdue debt.

There was no need to wish for a Deliverer anymore, you already decided to turn yourself to Thanatos, it's your destiny. You closed your eyes, awaiting for a swift and painless death and for your soul to be taken to a field of flowers to reunite with your family.

That was when you heard him, outside Khaslana was still fighting, trying to fend off the monsters, his battle cries loud and clear, stinging and painfully raw at the same time. That day on the wheat field, you told him how your village was destroyed, what you saw and what haunted you for half, if not more, of your childhood.

“I’ve decided to change. I can’t stand by and watch all that I hold dear to my heart be aflame.”

That’s why you were still practicing archery everyday.

“I want to be able to protect mom and dad with my own hands.”

That’s why you refused to leave your mom, even when she screamed, implored for you to run away.

“And protect Aedes Elysiae too…’’

Because you loved it, with your entire being, this land that healed and mended your soul.

“You pull the string and I swing my sword, we can protect Aedes Elysiae together!”

So he said.

Now you’re ashamed. While he was still fulfilling his promise, you chose to give up and seek death? Maybe you had not changed at all, given a second chance to prove yourself, you still chose to run away, be the coward that you had always been.

You staggered to stand up from where you were, your hand grabbed the nearest table for leverage to pull yourself up. You couldn’t protect mom, couldn’t save your dad but you could still save whoever left out there. This is your way of bargaining with death, to implore Thanatos for more time, to make your miserable existence some more useful, to pay back for all the people that had died in your stead.

With an ear-deafening roar, the thing latched at you when you had just balanced yourself . You clutched the arrow with all your might and stabbed it into the core of the black tide creature, the arrow snapped into half where you held it under the overwhelming force, the monster screeched up in pain and stumbled back a few steps. You took the opportunity to grab the knife on the kitchen table and pierced through its heart, your father’s heart, if it was still there. With a few more tries and lots of struggling, its screams died out until it lay motionless on the ground, its blood dripped across the old wooden floor and splashed onto the walls, tainting the last bits of the memories you held closest to your heart.

Your tears cascaded down as you fell down to the ground, you didn’t open your eyes and all you could hear left was the sounds of your own suffering. Blood stained your hands as you clasped your hands together and planted them against your chest firmly as you prayed for their forgiveness. Did it pain you to know very well they could never hate you for what you did or would it feel better to just imagine their scornful despicable look towards you?

After putting their corpses neatly on the bed, or at least what remained of it, you picked up your quiver and stepped outside. Fire was still raging on but the screams had died down, all around you were piles of dead people, pets, cattle and monsters. The dirt path that you had walked down countless times reeked of blood and carnage, the golden leaves of the trees were dyed of a red, fiery color, like anguish and violence, Aedes Elysiae had fallen.

With bow and arrows, you stepped alongside the sword-wielding Khaslana to rid the land of the black tide creatures.

Crimson red blood stained his broken swords, tears marred his sky-blue eyes. But once his eyes caught your reflection, his countenance softened, like an unspoken “I’m glad you’re safe” amidst the battlefield. But there was no time for consolation as the night was still young and the hurlings of those monsters could still be heard.

When the flames had stopped, leaving only thick black smoke wreathing above, did the sun rise. There was only you and Khaslana left. You asked him about Cyrene, but he gave you no response and just broke down in grief and tearful apologies. That alone was enough of an answer on its own.

Days bled into night, time passed but the trauma didn’t. You don’t remember when, but at some point he told you that he had decided to go down the Flame-chase journey and was about to depart to Okhema soon, he wished to bring his only friend left with him. You didn’t decline his offer.

Sitting on the Dromas that was taking you to the holy city, you and Khaslan- Phainon, shared a few pieces of the double-sided pancake that you made. Your mother’s recipe was simple and clear, yet you could not replicate that taste and probably will never taste it again. The meat was bland and savourless in your mouth, the sweetness of honey seemed dull, stinging even. Nothing about it could ease the ache in your heart.

But even so, he still comforted you, choosing to set aside his own grief to offer consolation to you- his dear and only friend left. His smile was still warm and sincere, like the first day you met him, but his eyes had gotten tired and drained, you didn’t even know how to get used to his new name now.

“Loss is a constant thing on the Flame-chase journey.”

Yet some lost themselves at the start of the journey itself.

It was during the parting hour that you set off.

The day was ending but the new story had just entered its first chapter.

#hsr x reader #phainon x reader #hsr x you #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #phainon #phainon x you #honkai sr #hsr #phainon fluff

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butteronabun · 9 months ago

Note

diluc + EXES EXES EXES PLEASE (HIIII butter on a bun ^_^ i will Enable you because i have a playlist for him dedicated to this shit) + canon/modern au, etc — pick whatever YOU were thinking writing the request post + spin the wheel and pick a genre~ again, this request is an excuse to hear YOUR thoughts (i have some of my own)

extra: pick whether you want it to be she/her or g/n~ i’m fine with both 🫶

sincerely, 🥩 (who missed you and hasn’t caught up with recent posts bc i was busy </3)

wish that i had more of this borrowed time

a diluc ragnvindr x female reader exes au.

overview: diluc’s heart is his greatest foe.

wc: 3.2k

notes: originally this was 5k words but that was so much & i didn’t want to complicate this more so TAKE IT 😙 this is also a bit open-ended so feel free to interpret this however you like!! also, additional notes will be in the end, so better check that out too :)

“You’re going to break that glass, Master Diluc,” remarks Kaeya Alberich himself, who is this close to purchasing popcorn to watch the ‘drama’ that he has been observing for a while now. Weinlesefest truly has its wonders – fresh wine, good company, and a brother who definitely still isn’t over his ex, even if said brother continues to deny it. “You look under the weather. Why not take a breather and enjoy the sights? You have a loyal staff that’s willing to oversee the Angel’s Share stand for a while.”

Diluc’s cold, unwavering glare remains on that face of his. Kaeya’s almost certain that comparing his ice from his cryo vision with Diluc’s expression will have no difference at all. “I am doing fine, Master Kaeya.” He looks down at the glass he has wiped for—Kaeya guesses—the fifth time now, and picks up another one.

“Really? But it’s becoming a little hot, Master Diluc. I’ve noticed that as the minutes pass by, the temperature of the stand has been concerningly rising as of late. Are you secretly heating up some tasty bar snacks, or is it something else?”

Kaeya suppresses a smirk when the warmth around them subdues momentarily. He has one theory that he’s sure is actually true—a theory where that ‘heat’ is coming from, and it’s definitely not the wind.

It’s the ninth month of the calendar. Summer’s already over. So it’s safe to say that. . .

“Don’t you have other matters to tend to?” Diluc narrows his eyes at him. Oh, changing the subject now, aren’t we? “Surely, Cavalry Captains still have to scout the area for any potential threats during Weinlesefest, or have the knights really gone incompetent?”

“Oh, you. Everyone deserves to enjoy the festival every once in a while,” Kaeya raises his keg playfully. “And that includes even you.”

Diluc just grumbles at that. Still stubborn as always, but Kaeya remembers the day when the traveler told him a few years ago that Diluc, despite isolating himself during the previous festivals, reveled. (Reveled on his own, was what they clarified.) It’s a comforting thought that even such a busy man as himself can still enjoy these moments.

And Kaeya wishes he’d see it more.

Diluc willingly taking charge of the Angel Share’s stand instead of Charles? How endearing. Is it really because he’s here for the celebration, or something else?

(Kaeya—and he’s pretty sure, Diluc is, too—hears nearby footsteps. Familiar voices.)

Or someone else?

Whatever it is, Kaeya is fine with either.

“Still baffles me that my suggested proposals got rejected— ah, we’re here. Oh, hi, Kaeya!”

Kaeya sips his beer and smiles at you. “Hey.” And he watches it all unfold again. You smile back at him, before slowly turning to Diluc, who has never taken his eyes off of you ever since your arrival.

You hide a lock of your hair behind your ear timidly. “Hi, Diluc.”

It’s really fascinating to see his brother still so soft with you. People may not notice this, but Kaeya knows Diluc best. “Good evening. What would you like tonight?”

“Ah – my company here—” you turn to the man beside you, a fellow colleague perhaps, and Kaeya seriously has to control himself from smirking. The area’s heating up again. “—would like to try some of the Fruits of the Festival that we’ve been hearing of. Is it still available?”

Diluc nods. “Yours?”

“I don’t want anything, actually—”

“Please, don’t do that,” The man calls out your name, and steps forward. The warmth’s growing. “If you think that you’re treating me tonight, then I’ll be treating you as well. Bartender, I’ll be ordering Wolfhook Juice for this lovely lady.”

The man winks at you, confident with himself, until Diluc breaks the flair by simply saying, “She’s allergic to that.”

Ah, this is great. Kaeya’s considering if he should bring Rosaria or even Lisa along for the drama.

“W–wait, really? You’re allergic to Wolfhook?”

“Ah, D–Diluc—” As much as Kaeya relishes in dear Diluc’s jealousy, your expressions are also just as priceless. Speechless that his amazing brother still has one detail about you memorized? Pfft. Such is a man of great talent who has a knack for processing knowledge in such a short time. He’s a businessman, after all. It’s important to know a lot of things. “You still remember that?”

Diluc doesn’t reply to that question. Instead, he goes on preparing the drink with ease and in silence. Kaeya can feel the awkwardness in the air as they watch Diluc swiftly mix the ingredients, and the man accompanying you merely coughs to dissipate the tension.

“So, um,” The man starts, “I’ve heard that Starsnatch Cliff looks beautiful at this time of night. I was wondering if you’d like to stargaze with me?”

You seem sheepish. “Oh, I—”

There’s a loud thud, surprising everyone, except for Kaeya and Diluc themselves. Diluc has placed the glass in front of the man, face emotionless. “It’s late. Dangerous, even. I recommend that you postpone such a journey.”

Kaeya hides his smile behind his keg. Oh, Diluc. Could you get even more obvious? He wishes to voice out that poor Klee and the other children might get scared because of his ‘grumpy face’ again, but it is late and they’re not here anymore, so it isn’t a valid reason to mention.

Oh, the area’s hotter now. The man is visibly sweating under the intimidating man’s stare. “A–Ah, I see- t–thank you for that then, good sir—”

“Diluc, don’t scare him,” you scold him lightly, and take the glass. “And we’ll be fine, I have a vision.”

His stupid brother’s about to protest, and Kaeya readies himself for another session of ‘Diluc Facepalming Himself Because He Made A Fool of Himself In Front of his Ex’ when you add on:

“Though, Diluc’s right. It’s dangerous to go out right now since I’ve heard from the outriders that the concentration of hilichurl camps around that area is growing in size again. So we shouldn’t go.” You give the man his drink, and gesture him to an empty table. “And didn’t you tell me you’re tired already? Why not sit down for a while?”

Once you two are seated on a table that’s too far for Diluc’s liking, Kaeya sighs and shakes his head. Diluc glowers at him. “What?”

“Attentive as ever.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Diluc says as he crosses his arms.

“The least thing you could do is be attentive to her well–being, even though you’re not her lover anymore?” The temperature intensifies. Oops. Kaeya stepped on something he shouldn’t. But it’s always so fun to get on Diluc’s nerves. “Admit it, you still haven’t moved on.”

Diluc then retorts, “Is it so bad to care for an old friend?” “So that’s what you call her now?”

“Kaeya,” Diluc warns.

“Diluc~” Kaeya pleasantly sings. Then, his lips part into an ‘o.’ “My, I smell something burning. Are you really cooking something up?”

Kaeya doesn’t bat an eyelash on the slightly scorched bartop.

Diluc’s heart is his greatest foe.

He has too much love in his heart, and oftentimes, it causes him great anguish.

He wanted to rip his heart out the night his father passed on. He wanted to stomp on it after causing Kaeya harm.

And he wanted to abandon it, just like how you did.

“Let’s end this,” you told him one dinner, with your head dipped down, not wanting to meet his eyes. You trembled as you anticipated his response, but you didn’t get one. Diluc was left aghast. “This isn’t working for the both of us, Diluc.”

Such was the fate of a Ragnvindr who dedicated his time to protecting the city and thwarting the enemies that threatened his nation. Such is the fate of a Ragnvindr who occupied himself with the winery’s business ventures.

Such was the fate of a Ragnvindr, who, despite having a big heart, had failed his lover.

He wanted to say—maybe we could try again. I will be better this time. He knew he could solve this, if he could think of strategies to counterattack the abyss, or even keep his competitors on their toes with his new business plans, surely, he could remedy this.

“I have too much on my plate. You have too much on yours. Let us end this before we affect each other.”

When your tears cascaded down your cheeks, Diluc wanted to wipe them away. But he couldn’t even move. Not even an inch. How could he, when his heart was being shattered to pieces?

You had too much on your plate? Why didn’t you say anything? You know he’d always be here for you.

So why?

He wanted to say — then let’s face them together.

But you had other plans.

It was over.

And he understood.

“How fortunate that our dear cutie decided to visit this year’s Weinlesefest,” Lisa says as she touches the petals of the cecilias. She’s here in Diluc’s garden. Lisa, for some reason, has the tendency to make unannounced visits. She smiles up at Diluc who’s observing her from the gazebo. “Don’t you feel the same way too, Diluc? That she’s here again, after almost two and a half years.”

Diluc crosses his arms. “I fail to understand why I’d have to voice out my opinions on the matter.”

“Ah, but didn’t you say something to Kaeya? Supposedly, shouldn’t you be happy that an ‘old friend’ came back?”

Diluc averts his gaze, and Lisa smiles even wider before tending back to the flowers.

“She favors these, don't they? Cecilia flowers.” Lisa sniffs one. This one smells very fresh. It’s as if all the flowers here are greatly taken care of. “Oh, this takes me back. I still recall how you and her first met. You two were so adorable! She used to chase you around, desperate for your attention. And despite your attempts to push her away, she still managed to win you over. Her blushing face was the absolute best when you gifted her a bouquet of cecilias. Really, who knew that you could get so romantic?”

Lisa lifts her head and fixates on the clouds. “She’s your first love, right? And you treasured her so.” She checks to see if Diluc’s still there, and he is.

He’s still sulking like the baby he is.

“Diluc?”

Lisa can hear him murmur, but it’s not too audible for her ears to pick up. “I beg your pardon?”

“. . .her favorite.”

Lisa tilts her head. “Favorite?”

“Cecilia flowers.” Diluc says. “They’re not her favorite.”

“Oh, my. So what’s her favorite, then?”

Diluc is reluctant. But he answers anyway. “Small lamp grass flowers.”

Oh, Lisa knows.

She just wanted to hear him say it.

No one knows how much Diluc has struggled during the first months of your breakup with him.

He got moody, at times. Even slept in too much, which was surprising, because he wasn’t the type of person to sleep, not at all, when he had errands to run. He was a business owner by day, and a vigilante by night—he shouldn’t coop himself up inside his quarters all the time just to let his broken heart weep.

So even if those days, those weeks, those months, were nothing but unimaginable suffering – Diluc had to rise. Someone still had to face the darkness for the dawn.

The overseeing of the winery and the scouting of adversaries were great distractions to someone like him.

But he couldn’t deny the fact that whenever he was resting, or even had one moment of leisure, those thoughts canw creeping in. How were you? Where were you? Are you faring well? Do you still yearn for him, as much as he yearns for you?

Are you as ruined as he is?

Diluc didn’t expect that breakups could get this hard. He thought the drunkards in his taverns were over exaggerating it a bit too much because of the alcohol, but now, he could understand.

( He didn’t resort to alcoholism, though. )

He really tried to get over you. He really did. He really tried to forget.

But how could he, when he cherished you so?

How could he, when his heart continuously ached for you? How could he, when he longed for you desperately after you left Mondstadt.

( ”There are plenty of fish in the sea. There are lots of daughters from various nations wanting to be your wife! Why not choose any of them, to fill that hole in your chest?”

The last time a patron told Master Diluc those exact words, he nearly banished them from his tavern. )

Moving on was not an option here, it seemed, when everything reminded Diluc of you.

He saw you everywhere. You liked talking a lot, and he liked listening to you, even before you two were dating. Every experience, every anecdote, every musing, and every vent — he remembered it all.

Diluc knew what type of coffee you liked. At first, you weren’t such a big fan of them, but you found one that suited your taste. ( “Just one cup is enough, though. Two or more will make me palpitate!” ) Pepperoni became your favorite pizza topping when you ate with Jean when she invited you for lunch out of gratitude. ( “Cheesy spinach is a close second!” ) You liked reading books and seemed to get lost in them a lot; you even excitedly discussed your reviews to him of the novels or pieces of information you’ve read. ( “Like can you believe it?! He had a twin brother all along!” or “Now I understand why you have such a big chair in your office! It’s because it signifies your status! ” )

You were so endearing. Diluc really, really loved every bit of you and made sure to give you the love that you deserved. He tried his best as he could to provide you with the affection that you needed.

Yet it still wasn’t enough.

Because if it did, Diluc would still be here at his dining table, reading his documents and sipping coffee with you. If it did, you’d still offer Diluc one slice of pepperoni or cheesy spinach pizza after your lunch with Jean. If it did, you would still bother him underneath the sheets until late hours into the night regarding the mundane and the interesting.

Move on, they said. They were all growing concerned.

Move on, a rational part of him also said. It was for his own good.

But he had always been stubborn.

(

“Master Diluc’s single?! Again?”

“The most eligible bachelor’s throne is his once more.”

“Back off, even if the Master’s single, he won’t give you no heed. Just give up.”

“Come on, support me a little! I just want to give him a good time. Don’t you think I have a chance?”

“Not one bit, lass. Not one bit.” )

Weinlesefest is in full swing—

“Yet here you are, moping.” A green bard sits on the pier beside Diluc, who’s currently throwing rocks onto the surface of the water. “Master Diluc, shouldn’t you be out there and celebrate? Or did you choose to stay here because you haven’t scored a date?”

Diluc narrows his eyes at him curtly, before throwing another stone into the water.

“A silent treatment for me, I see,” The bard strings his lyre, “But I have no worry, for you’ll answer me eventually.”

Diluc sighs. “She’s occupied as of the moment.”

“Oh~? I see that the tables have turned, then?”

Diluc scoffs. Of course he also knows about what had happened before. “Really. What’s your purpose for being here? And stop with your rhyming. It’s annoying me.”

The bard snickers. Stroke a chord it seems. “It’s the second to the last day of this festive event, and I’ve yet to see you participate. Minus the fact of taking care of the Angel Share’s stall, but you must at least do something that’s not related to work.”

“It’s in my blood to dedicate myself when it comes to work.” Diluc throws another stone. “I have no other choice, Venti.”

“Yet here you are, skipping stones?”

“Here I am, skipping stones.”

The bard sighs sadly. As he kicks his legs back and forth, he says - “Do you remember the Thousand-Wind Wine Razor made with the Traveler?”

“Of course. The barrel they used belongs to my winery.”

There’s another silence. Then Venti speaks again. “The wind is many things, you know. It can bring back the soul, and especially, preserve memories—you know of the fact that dandelion seeds are added last as a way of capturing the wind at the very moment when the barrel is sealed. Meaning, the memory of that ‘moment’ is stored in the wine, for all eternity.”

“And your point is?”

“Let yourself be happy this once.”

After the citizens of Mondstadt welcomed the Anemo God, they all felt the gentle breeze kissing their skin as he graciously made himself present into the wind. The children cheered, and the adults raised their cups for a toast. Everyone was having a splendid time.

“To the Anemo Archon!”

You, however, have just finished preparing for your departure back to Sumeru. After packing your belongings and making sure you didn’t leave anything in the inn, you had to go find your companion — who’s still probably busy trying out new drinks.

You sigh at that, a little amused. You also resign to this fate. The journey to Sumeru will have to wait until later. Plus, you haven’t even properly said your goodbyes to the others, so, there’s that.

A polite cough echoes behind you. You turn around, and your heart flutters at the sight of a familiar man. Diluc.

“May I request a bit of your time?” He asks, always so gently.

You’re pleased and surprised, of course - because it’s Diluc. Diluc, who’s obviously seeking you, even if he’s made clear that he’s occupied with duties of the winery.

You want to humor him a little bit, so you snicker. “But what if I don’t want to?” You gesture to your satchel. “I’m preparing for my departure, you see.”

Diluc already knows that, doesn’t he? He doesn’t even react. “If that’s the case, then I respect your decision.”

Oh, that’s a bit disappointing. You kind of want to slap yourself for that. You should’ve just accepted Diluc’s request instead of pulling stuff like this. Why play hard to get, when Diluc’s already—

“But I beg of you,” Diluc adds, and you blink. There’s determination in his eyes, and your heart skips a beat when you notice that there’s also something else. “Before you leave. . . please, spend time with me. All it takes is just a short moment with you, and I’ll be content. I won’t ask for anything more.”

—making initiative, huh.

How can you say no to that?

You smile at him—a little bit too tenderly. “Alright then, Diluc.” You lift a hand, gesturing for him to take it. “Lead the way.”

supposedly this was seriously longer, it had more plot ( i indulged on this way too much when i was writing this but had to omit a lot of stuff because i was getting overboard + wanted to more focus on how diluc interacts with his ex / what he feels about his ex / what he felt without his ex asfghjfk also, here's one screenshot before i deleted this part; i wasn't rlly kidding that it had more substance and it was originally angsty:

anw. shoutout to my bestie who brainstormed with me abt ex diluc hcs it was so fun. lemme share to y'all what we talked abt: 1) we thought that diluc is the type of person who’d date to marry, 2) his heart is so so freaking loyal he'd still pine for his first love, and 3) he falls hard and is stupidly sentimental plus. if he did have an ex, the breakup will def bother / ruin / devastate him, especially when he loved that person sm :(

#diluc x reader #diluc x female reader #finally posted one of the requests !!#i still LIVE #/ ignores the pile of backlogs i have to finish #meat anon feel free to share me ur tots abt diluc being an ex because i’m genuinely CURIOUS #aaaackkk #edit: i actually was so obsessed with this i listened to two songs #just to feel it #and write it #oh diluc i love u sm #thank u for this request!!!! 😍#melted.butter

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klausysworld · 10 months ago

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Hey so i was wondering if maybe you could possibly write me a smutty story with Klaus like about how even though he turned me made me a hybrid or vampire now he still wants to celebrate my birthday? My birthday is on the 29th of August so its literally 4 days away id love that

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart.

Turning wasn't something I had intended to do or wanted really, it was out of necessity that Klaus had given me his blood and it was an accident that I died with it in my system.

Klaus had convinced me to complete the transition, promising to be there with me and for me throughout the highs and lows of vampirism.

In all fairness, he had been with me but sometimes the lows were really low. Especially when it came round to my supposed to be birthday. However I was never going to get older again, there was no point in blowing out some silly candles and making a wish that would never come true. I couldn't celebrate that I was a year closer to any major life event or be able to talk about stupid things like a slight pay rise as I get older.

So when I woke up, and checked to see the dreaded date, I didn't bother getting out of bed. Well not until I felt an arm round my waist, pulling me back against a firm body. My eyes cracked open when his deep voice rumbled from behind my ear.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart." He muttered, a kiss pressed to the back of my ear and then my cheek before I was rolled over to face him. My face was level with his as he brushed the tip of his nose over mine and I groaned.

"Can we just not?" I mumbled, my voice croaky from sleep but I knew he got it as his brows pulled together and his eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the edges.

"No, we definitely will." He argued, his face returning to relaxed again as he pecked my lips. "Believe it or not but we all still celebrate our birthdays, Rebekah insists upon it."

"Were calendars even a thing back then?" I ask, still just about coherent and he hummed.

"No...but we had our ways to know...or perhaps we simply chose our birthdays a few years down the line. Nevertheless we celebrate and I refuse to let you go without." He whispered, kissing my temple and offering a smile.

"I've been here ages and haven't seen any of your birthdays, you're lying." I murmured, eyes narrowed.

"Well..." He sighed, a click to his tongue. "We celebrate as often as we can, the past couple months or so have been very complicated to say the least."

"Fine but I better see you with a birthday hat and badge on- when was your birthday?" I question and he sighed.

"March time. Doesn't matter, it isn't about me. This is about you. Now come, the festivities have only just began." He teased before both arms were hoisting me up and over his shoulder like a rag doll making me whine.

"Klaus!" I squirmed but only for a second, I wasn't awake enough to fight him. His hand patted my ass playfully as he carried me out of our room, making my body tense but he shushed me.

"I won't let anyone see this pretty little behind of yours." He chuckled, bringing me down the stairs and spinning me round and placing me on the breakfast stool. My head spun a little, attempting to adjust as a warm plate was placed in front of me by a softly smiling Elijah.

"Congratulations on your birthday, Y/N." He uttered, keeping his voice quiet which I appreciated before Rebekah's voice bellowed out.

"For christs sake Elijah! Just say normal things like 'happy birthday'!" She tutted, rolling her eyes and dropping down beside me. "Happy birthday, darling. It'll be spectacularly, I guarantee." She grinned and I could feel the dread forming as I pushed a smile to my face and bit the end of some bacon to keep my mouth preoccupied so I wouldn't have to find any words to keep the magic of my fantastic birthday alive.

Klaus's hand ruffled my hair, his chuckle a distant sound in the air as he left the room. My head turned to find him but Rebekah was nudging my side.

"Don't look, he's going to get your presents. Keep eating, and try to contain your excitement." She practically bounced beside me, smile brighter than ever as she pulled out a party horn and blew it in my face.

Just seconds later an elastic band snapped under my chin, a card hat on top my head and Hayley kissing my cheek before catching my ear. "Just go with it, it'll get better." She whispered and I listened.

By the time I had finished my breakfast, Klaus was behind me.

I had just slipped off the stool, Elijah had already taken my plate and when I turned around there was an array of differently shaped and sized presents wrapped and displayed across the room. Klaus standing infront of them, slowly coming towards me with a hand outstretched.

I took it after a second and let him lead me over, arms going round me from behind as he lifted the first gift to my hands. "Please...just enjoy yourself." He whispered, nose in my neck.

Presents took a while. By the end I couldn't be upset. Klaus knew me like an open book and had hit every mark possible. Bringing me to tears several times with extra special gifts.

Which was why my face was buried in his chest, eyes closed and fingers curled around his henley as he kissed the top of my head.

I found myself back upstairs soon after, stripped bare and soaking peacefully in the bathtub whilst Rebekah and Hayley yelled through the next room, going on about the party they had planned.

The dress Rebekah had designed fit like a glove and I couldn't deny how beautiful I felt in it, especially once the girls had done my hair and makeup.

"Everything's perfect." Bekah uttered, hands fixing the last few strands and checking the hairspray had set.

"Klaus is gonna go crazy." Hayley whistled and my eyes rolled though a smile pulled at my face.

They were right too, he was all over me as soon as I got to the bottom of the staircase. Lips kissing mine and hands on my hips, gripping them like he usually does in the depths of our room.

"Happy birthday, my love." He whispered and I hummed before adjusting his bowtie.

"You are adorable when you dress up." I teased and he smirked.

"You may never cease to surprise me with your...unique compliments for me." He chuckled and I hummed, kissing him again.

"Lets go dance." I whispered and he shook his head with a grin.

"Birthday toasts, my love." He told me and I groaned softly as I pulled him over to where everyone was spinning each other around happily. He relented of course and gave into a few dances before pulling me onto the stair case and having me held to his side whilst he toasted my birthday before his siblings and Hayley followed. All expressing their appreciation and love for me.

It was quite lovely actually. I was glad to have celebrated my birthday when I hugged each of them before we all got back on the floor.

So many people had brought me gifts, said such kind words and I had to wonder if they were compelled but I didn't even care by the end of the day when Klaus had me held against the wall. Mouth on my neck, sucking his beautiful marks into my skin and hands bunching up my dress.

I could still hear the music and chatter of guests just a wall over as his fingers stroked their way up my thighs. I could feel the warmth spreading through my body. I clung onto his suit jacket, tugging relentlessly with need as I tried to contain the moans that clawed up my throat.

A gasp escaped me as his teeth bit my skin, not his vampire teeth but his human ones. Not quite making me bleed but still breaking the skin.

I tried to pull him closer, my legs pulling at his waist letting me feel how hard he was against me.

"Oh god" I breathed, my eyes looking down quickly but all I could see was dress as he ground himself against me.

"You have no idea how badly I want to take you right now." He whispered and I moaned softly.

"God..yes, do it." I begged and he hummed.

"Not yet...you need your gift." He muttered before he was holding the backs of my thighs tightly. I glanced at him, confused before groaning softly as he got down to his knees and placed both my legs over his shoulders.

"Klaus..." I whispered as his head was completely covered by the skirt of my dress.

Despite not being able to see him, there was absolutely no doubt he was there as the heat of his treasured mouth kissed my wetness through my thong. God he was good, he was always so good.

If euphoria were a person, it would be Klaus.

He knew exactly what to do, how to touch, how to love me so good that I love myself too.

My hands pressed to the walls around and my head went back to rest. He was pure heat between my legs and he made my legs shake against my will.

"One day you're gonna really kill me." I whispered, my words a blur as I felt my back arch off of the wall behind. I could feel his lips move against my cunt as he mumbled something back. The wet vibrations of his mouth making my insides twist delightfully. "God- fuck!" I cried as he chuckled, only adding to the intensity.

A laugh escaped him whilst he pulled his face away though my dress still hid him from my view.

"You'll alert the whole party if you keep screaming sweetheart." He reminded and I nodded in acknowledgment. My mouth closed in an attempt to muffle my sounds as the warm touch of his fingers stroked my pussy tauntingly.

I felt blood pool my mouth when my fangs sunk into my own tongue in time with his fingers plunging inside me. He made my nails penetrate my palms; a shiver to run down my spine.

My mind drew a blank at the methodic pump of his fingers, each curl and stroke hitting so unbelievably perfect that I seemed to be falling apart before he'd truly even started.

His laugh was amused and teasing as my legs were dropped to his waist where both his hands grabbed my thighs.

"I'm very serious when I tell you that the entirety of next door just heard you my love." He grinned before lifting my as he got to his feet and carried me to our room.

I was dropped to the bed with a soft thud, his body covering me like a blanket would as he nuzzled beneath my ear. "You know...I sincerely considered wearing a ribbon for you, my love." He murmured making me giggle at the idea.

"Oh yeah? Where would you have worn it?" I teased, my hands lifting to cup his face; my thumbs brushing over his stubble. "What part of you would I have gotten to unwrap." I whispered and a soft rumble travelled through his body.

No words left him as I felt my dress be tugged, a quick rough tug which caused a loud tear to sound through the room. I didn't have to look to know the extent of his damage, the cool air spreading down my front told me enough. His hands pulled the loose material away, leaving me completely bare beneath him. Open to him in all ways.

"Must you always break things?" I whined, despite not truly being annoyed.

"Oh love. I don't break things, I ruin them." He uttered, his words sharp on his tongue as his calloused hand stroked the side of my face. "Now lay back, my love, and let me ruin you."

I knew it wasn't a question but a demand and a demand that shot straight to my core.

The silence rang as I laid back, head against the pillows.

I accepted my fate wholeheartedly, and under no circumstances would I even consider skipping out on my birthday next year if I knew this was coming.

————————————————————————

You have no idea how sorry I am for this being so god damn late. I know it’s not my best, I hope it’s still something that can make you smile even just a little bit @nerdygamer829

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cap-ironman · 1 month ago

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CAP-IM Big Bang Big Changes

Hello, Cap-IM diaspora!

We're thrilled to announce sign-ups will soon be open for the 2025 Cap-IM Big Bang. You may have seen our Big Big Bang poll circulate a few months ago soliciting feedback on how we run the event – this poll was beyond fruitful and we’re excited to announce some of the BIG changes we’re implementing this next cycle! Read on for the deets and fill out our interest check if you’re as pumped as we are.

YOU MUST BE 18 TO PLAY. To safeguard our community spaces and maintain an environment that lets creators create freely, we have transitioned (back) into 18+ standards of community structure. All events going forward will reflect this. (MUCH) MORE TIME. More words demand more time. We’re revisiting and extending the timeline to plan for fallow periods, creative snafus, the process of writing longer fiction, and real-life demands. We want people to come out of the event feeling good about what they’ve made AND having avoided burnout. Our Big Bang will now run for ~9 months as its own long term animal, concurrent with other Cap-IM events. ANON BEGONE. This was probably the loudest feedback we received: the work of writing longfic is high-faith, low reward and it sucks to not be able to tell anyone about your work in the inception and development stage! In the past we required a cone of silence, but this mod team is less interested in ~mystique~ and more interested in measures that keep you excited about writing your fic. Feel free to seek feedback from friends, discuss your process in public chats, etc. WIPS AND SEQUELS ALLOWED. We know that longer fic does not spring up in a vacuum! If you have several longish WIPs languishing in a folder somewhere and a genuine desire to revisit them, DO IT. If you’re hyped about it, we’re hyped about it. If you can sculpt it into a 20k project, then we want to see it! CREATIVE SUPPORT! Creators will have access to synchronous/asynchronous workshops, gatherings, and brainstorming sessions. We know that toiling in complete isolation can be demoralizing, lead to momentum loss, and sap the creative soul. If you need a rubber duck to bounce ideas, a rubber duck you shall have. MORE ART! Our writers write, on average, ~37k for this event, a full 17k over word minimum (and that’s not including the outliers that stretch into six word-figures). To equalize the energy investment a little bit, artists who select a piece to illustrate will be required to do TWO pieces of art. NEW CLAIMS PROCESS. We’ll be restricting the # of works artists can claim to make sure that we’re investing our time and energy as fan creators in the things that really spark us. Writers will also have the chance to include a longer sample and more info about their work to make sure everyone is working on projects that they are truly interested in working on. NEW OPTIONS FOR FAILURE. If the worst happens, and you have to drop out, fear not. You can roll your project over into the next calendar cycle. Pinch hitters for both artist and writer will also be available!

Look for sign-ups in July, and fill out our interest check!

If you missed the BIG BIG BANG SURVEY and you’ve done a BB before at any point in the comm’s history, feel free to also submit a response HERE.

As always, feel free to contact the mods at [email protected] or on discord if you have burning questions or feedback.

#stevetony #superhusbands #capim #cap-im #stony #captain america #iron man #marvel events

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doctorbitchcrxft · 2 months ago

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It's a Terrible Life | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, potentially toxic relationship dynamic between boss and subordinate, undertones of misogyny

Word Count: 7310

A/N: I got a little carried away here.... lmfao I hope y'all enjoy!!!

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

You groaned as your alarm clock beeped. You pulled your pillow over your head before reaching over and silencing the alarm.

Slowly but surely, you were getting frustrated with the monotony of routine. The stuffy cubicles, the holiday office parties, and the fucking assistant job you’d be starting today. You were grateful, but you wanted more out of life. Being some douche’s gopher wasn’t what you envisioned your life would be.

You took a sip of your sugary morning latte and turned your back to the counter. Your apartment was small, but it was home. You hoped with your new job you’d at least be able to afford some nicer furniture than the futon you often fell asleep on watching “Sex and the City” re-runs.

Gas was expensive, and you lived in the city. So, you preferred to take the bus to work. The building— or, rather, skyscraper— you’d be working in was as monotonous and boring as ever. Columns of windows extending miles high made up its exterior, and you clutched the handle you were hanging onto tighter as you approached. One of your biggest fears was heights, and your new job was on one of the top floors.

The lobby was pristinely clean, and your heels made a loud clacking sound as you strode over to the elevator.

You checked your clipboard of papers you’d printed out at the library the night before and noted the office you were to report to.

You knocked on the door labeled “Dean Smith— Director, Sales & Marketing.” “Good morning,” you said as you poked your head into the open doorway.

A man with his hair slicked down in a sharp suit and tie stood from behind his desk. “Ah, you must be (Y/N),” he said.

There was no denying how gorgeous he was. “Hi,” you replied shyly, trying to keep your cheeks from heating.

He strode over to you and extended his hand. “Dean. Dean Smith,” he said.

You put your hand in his and smiled. “Nice to meet you.” You hated how small your voice sounded, but he seemed to find it endearing.

“You’re early,” he said. “I like it.”

You shrugged. “I just wanna make a good impression.” You took a deep breath. “Now, I have a few ideas about how I could organize your schedule a little bit better and maybe take a few things off your plate…”

****

The night of your third day working with Mr. Smith— who insisted you call him Dean— dragged on. The man could be a bit of a workaholic, but he also seemed to have a pretty solid sense of humor at times.

Your nerves had not yet eased up, and it seemed Mr. Smith was doing his best to break you out of your shell.

“(Y/N), tell me something about you,” he implored after hanging up the phone for his last meeting of the night.

You sat on the couch in his office flipping through his calendar for the upcoming week. “There’s not much to tell,” you shrugged.

“Ah, c’mon,” he said, “please?”

You sighed dramatically with a smile. “Well, I, uh— I went to University of Kansas in Lawrence for business—”

“Something non-work-related, (Y/N),” Dean smirked. “I already know you’re overqualified to be working for me.”

Your cheeks heated, and you looked down at your lap with a smile. “I, um, I wanted to be a ballerina up until I was eighteen. Twelve years of intense training at a ballet academy just for me to trade it all in for this,” you explained, gesturing around you. “You can imagine how happy my parents were.” You tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “What about you?” you asked. “Tell me something non-work-related.”

“Well, I haven't been to the gym in ages, and I was definitely never a dancer. Carrying a little bloat around nowadays,” he said. “It's a sedentary lifestyle, y’know?”

“Trust me, I know,” you said. “All I get you for lunch is salads; you don’t seem to be doing that badly.”

Dean smirked. “Thanks very much.”

You realized what you’d said and your eyes widened a bit. “Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve— sorry—”

“It’s alright, no sweat,” he told you. Trying to break up the slight tension, he asked, “How do you feel about ‘Project Runway’?”

You snorted. “Seriously?”

“Hell yeah!” he replied.

“I’m more of a ‘Top Model’ fan myself,” you said.

“Ooh, Tyra’s a bitch,” Dean added. “How do you put up with watching her?”

You shrugged. “Slightly masochistic enjoyment.”

Dean chuckled. “Well, I’d better get going,” he told you as he checked his watch. “Close up whenever you leave, would you?” He tossed you his keys, and you were left there reeling from the interaction you’d just had.

****

The next morning, Dean came in looking slightly rattled.

“Mr. Smith?” you asked, standing from your seat on the couch. “Are you alright?”

His head swiveled toward yours. “Huh?” he said. “Oh, uh— yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

You walked over to him and took the briefcase he was white-knuckling gently. “What happened?” you questioned.

Dean shook his head. “Just this weirdo in the elevator,” he said. “First, I thought he was trying to get me to the showers, if you know what I mean, and then, he asked me if I believe in ghosts.”

You snorted. “What?”

“I’m dead serious,” he replied.

“Does he even work here?” you asked. “Or was it, some, like, poor soul off the street that doesn’t know what year it is?”

Dean chuckled. “He works in tech, I think.”

“Weird,” you muttered.

“Completely.”

****

“Mr. Smith?”

“It’s Dean, (Y/N),” he replied.

“Sure,” you said, putting your clipboard down on the coffee table in front of you. “But do you believe in ghosts?”

He scoffed. “What?” Dean stopped typing on his computer.

“You never said whether you did or not,” you replied. “When you were talking about that guy in the elevator.”

Dean chuckled. “You’re funny, you know that?”

“I’m serious,” you whined. “Humor me.”

Your boss seemed taken aback. “Well, I’ve never given it much thought, to be honest.”

“Me neither,” you replied earnestly. “But I think that maybe I do.”

“Well,” Dean scoffed jokingly, “you can go get help on the paddy wagon with the tech support guy.”

You giggled. A few moments of silence passed between the two of you. “Did you ever figure out who he is?”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t know that I care to find out.”

You considered. “Fair,” you finally said.

****

A few days later, a man was found dead in the tech support cubicle office several floors down from you and Dean. He’d apparently stuck his head in a microwave and cooked himself to death, which you found slightly implausible.

You held a hand to your chest as the coroners wheeled the man out of the office. Dean was standing next to a few other suits, and you stood a few yards off with some of the other women who worked on your floor.

“Something doesn’t seem right about this,” you told the small group you stood in.

“Try the whole thing,” another girl piped up. “I’ll never eat popcorn again.”

“Me neither,” chimed in another. “Finally gives me an excuse to quit all the carbs.”

****

That poor guy’s death really tugged at you. Without sharing your feelings with your boss, you pulled out your laptop and put it on his desk opposite from where he sat. Dean had given you access to the personnel files to help him manage his own employees a bit better, but you took advantage of it to access the file of the man who’d died: Paul Dunbar.

“Two weeks?” you muttered aloud without realizing it.

“Huh?” Dean questioned.

You shook your head. “Sorry, it’s just— It’s nothing.”

“No, c’mon,” he pleaded. “Tell me what’s up.”

“The guy who died,” you said. “Paul Dunbar. His retirement party was supposed to be in two weeks.”

“Why are you—? (Y/N), that’s not what I gave you access to personnel files for,” he replied.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was just curious,” you said nervously. “His death’s jus’ got me shaken up, is all.”

“(Y/N), do your little investigation on your own time,” he snapped.

You were taken aback by his attitude.

Then, someone knocked on the opened door. A nervous-looking tech support employee stood there with his shoulders slumped.

“Hi. Ian, is it?” you asked, standing and snapping to attention. “Come on in.” You shut your laptop, picked it up, and began to walk out to your own office which you found you spent very little time in. “I’ll give you guys the room,” you said, shutting the door behind you. There was some sort of issue Dean needed to take up with him, and you decided to give yourself the time to think.

Before you could shut the door behind you, the tech support employee sprinted past you with Dean hot on his heels. You followed as fast as your feet would allow.

“Mr. Smith?” you called after him. “Dean!”

Ian sprinted into the men’s room, and Dean followed him. With only slight hesitation, you followed, too.

“Ian, hey. Just chill out, man,” Dean told the employee. “Okay?”

Ian was staring into a mirror, and you noticed how cold the room was. The bathroom was always slightly frigid, but never like this. Then, you noticed you could see your breath.

Suddenly, all the faucets came on as well as all the soap dispensers.

“What the fuck?” you murmured.

“Ian, hey, maybe we should get out of here, huh?” Dean insisted. “Come on, Ian. Look at me.”

Ian turned toward Dean and pulled a pencil out of his pocket. After a brief moment of tense eye contact, the man stabbed himself in the neck with the sharp end of the pencil.

You screamed in horror and covered your mouth with your hands. You jumped again when you saw an old man in the mirror behind Ian.

“Dean, look!” you cried.

He saw the man as well, and when the two of you turned around, he was gone. Immediately, you rushed to Ian’s side. You listened to his chest for a heartbeat, but he was long gone. Stricken with confusion and grief, you looked up at Dean and shook your head.

“Somebody help us!” he screamed.

****

Of course, the police had questions for you and Dean. And, of course, you didn’t mention the disappearing old man.

In the middle of the investigation, a tall man with a yellow shirt on was staring at you from across the room. You occasionally glanced at him, slightly unsettled, but continued to provide answers to the best of your ability. After hours of rigorous interrogation, Ian was wheeled away on a stretcher in a black bag.

You just stared after him, and you jumped when your boss tapped your arm lightly.

“Whoa, hey,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “Just me. Come, uh— come with me real quick, would ya?”

You nodded and followed him back to his office still in a bit of a daze. “What’d you wanna see me for?” you asked, closing the door to his office behind you.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Dean cleared his throat. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” you told him. “Are you, uh— Are you okay?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I saw that ghost guy from the elevator outside the bathroom.”

“Oh,” you replied. “What’s he got to do with anything?”

“He and Ian were close. And I thought maybe he could answer a few questions about that old man from the bathroom for us,” Dean explained.

And so, Dean called him in.

“Come on in,” he told the employee. “Shut the door.”

The man closed the door behind himself, and you stood in the far corner just watching. “Wait, this is the guy?” you asked.

Dean gave you a strange look. “Yeah…?”

“He was staring at me outside the bathroom,” you told him.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean asked him, his tone slightly accusatory.

“I'm not sure I know,” the man replied.

“What the hell does that mean?”

The employee shook his head. “Sam Wesson. I started here three weeks ago.”

“Alright. You cornered me in the elevator talking about ghosts. And now…” Dean trailed off, pacing a bit behind his desk.

“Now, what?” Sam asked, eyebrows raised.

Dean sighed. “Now nothing. I, uh… so you started working here three weeks ago, huh?”

Sam nods.

“Me, too,” you said.

Dean looked at you in surprise. “Yeah, me, too.”

“Huh,” you murmured, staring at the ground. Something about this felt strange.

Dean unscrewing the top of a bottle pulled you out of your own head. “It's the Master Cleanse,” Dean told you and Sam. “You tried it? Phenomenal. Detoxes you like nobody's business.” He took a large swig.

“When you were in that bathroom with Ian, did you see something?” Sam asked.

“I don’t—”

You cut Dean off. “Yes,” you replied.

“(Y/N)—” Dean almost scolded. “We don’t know what we saw.”

Sam turned his attention to you. “Wait, are you saying that—did you see a ghost?”

“We were freaking out,” Dean answered for you. “The guy penciled his damn neck.”

“Yes, we did,” you responded anyway.

“Okay, listen. What if these suicides aren't suicides? I mean, what if they're something,” Sam trailed off, searching for the word, “not natural?”

“So, what, ghosts are real?” Dean scoffed. “And they're responsible for all the dead bodies around here? Is that what you're telling me?”

The three of you finally decided to sit down, almost doing so in unison.

“I know it sounds crazy. But yes. That's what I'm telling you,” Sam replied.

“Uh-huh,” Dean nodded skeptically. “Based on what?”

Sam searched for an answer for a moment. “Instinct,” he finally said.

Dean looked down and shook his head. “I've got the same instinct.”

“Seriously?” Sam asked, almost sounding relieved.

The two men looked at you expectantly.

“What? I already told you I thought the guy in the bathroom was a ghost,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

Sam turned back to Dean. “You know those dreams I was telling you about? I was dreaming about ghosts,” he said. “And then it turns out that there's a real ghost.”

Dean scoffed. “So you're telling me that your dreams are special visions, and you're some kind of psychic?”

Sam made a deadpan expression. “No. I mean, that would be nuts. I'm just saying something weird is definitely going on around here, right? So I've been digging around a little,” he leaned over and pulled some papers out of his bag, “I think I found a connection between the two guys.”

Sam passed the papers, and Dean then passed them to you.

“You broke into their email accounts?” Dean questioned.

The employee looked bashful. “I used some skills that I happen to have to satisfy my curiosity.”

“Nice,” you grinned lopsidedly.

“So it turns out, Ian and Paul both got this same email telling them to report to HR, room fourteen forty-four,” Sam explained.

“HR’s on seven,” you noted, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Exactly.”

“Should we go check this out?” Dean asked. He seemed a little excited, if you were honest.

“Like, right now?” Sam replied.

Dean shook his head. “No. No, it's getting late. You're right.”

“I am dying to check this out right now,” Sam grinned.

“Right?” you added, excitement causing butterflies to jolt around your stomach.

Despite the exhausting day, adrenaline surged through you as you went to the fourteenth floor. You felt slightly relieved to be moving down a few floors.

The building was mostly empty by this time of night which was why you were caught off-guard by someone yelling down the hall as soon as the elevator doors opened.

You shared a quick glance with Dean before the three of you were racing down the hall to the source of the sound. Unsurprisingly, the screams were coming from behind the door to room 1444.

“It’s locked,” Dean said.

Almost instinctively, Sam kicked the door open.

“Whoa,” your boss breathed out.

Once inside, you could see the man screaming and writhing under a fallen bookshelf. You rushed to his side along with Sam, and the two of you tried your best to get him out from under the shelf. You hardly had time to register the whirring computer monitors and shaking shelving units scattered throughout the room.

The old man from the bathroom appeared next to Sam and shoved him over before telekinetically flinging you and Dean against a wall.

You groaned, and your head lolled to the side. Then, you noticed a wrench lying on the ground a few feet away from you.

Dean had risen to his feet to try and help the man the ghost was approaching, and you shouted, “Dean, catch!” while throwing the wrench at him.

He caught it easily, and then, he swung at the old man with the wrench. Immediately, the old man dissipated before he could touch the man underneath the shelf. The chaos around the room came to a stop as well.

You were able to help the man out from under the shelves, and he scrambled away and out of the room.

“How’d you know that would work?” Sam asked.

You and Dean shook your heads. “I have no idea,” the two of you responded in unison.

****

Dean suggested the three of you head back to his apartment to recharge and chat. You and Sam agreed, and it was clear the three of you were reeling from the incident on the way there.

Dean took a large swig of his Master Cleanse, and you and Sam sat awkwardly on his couch. It was clear the two of you were out of your element in Dean’s luxury apartment on the nicer side of town.

“Holy crap,” Dean breathed out before taking another drink of his juice cleanse.

“Yeah,” Sam added. “I could use a beer.”

“Oh, sorry, man. I'm on the Cleanse. I got rid of all the carbs in the house,” Dean replied with a sheepish grimace.

Sam turned to you as Dean handed him a water bottle. “Hey, how the hell did you know that ghosts are scared of wrenches?”

You shrugged.

Dean chuckled. “Crazy, right? And nice job kicking that door too. That was very Jet Li. What are you, like, a black belt or something?”

“No. I have no clue how I did that. It's like… we've done this before,” Sam commented.

“What do you mean, ‘before’? Like ‘Shirley MacLaine’ before?” Dean scoffed.

“No. I- I just can't shake this feeling like I— like I don't belong here, y’know? Like I should do something more than sit in a cubicle,” the taller man said.

“I think most people who work in a cubicle feel that same way,” you noted. “But I get what you mean. I’m not crazy about my job, either. I don’t exactly like constantly being an accessory to someone else without being able to do my own work. Sorry, Dee.” You covered your mouth with your hand after realizing what you’d called him.

“Dee?” your boss mouthed under his breath as you continued to flush.

“Well, look, it's more than that. Like, I don't like my job. I don't like this town,” Sam explaIned. “I don't like my clothes. I don't like my own last name. I don't know how else to explain it, except that...it feels like I should be doing something else. There's just something in my blood. Like I was destined for something different. What about you?” He looked over at you. “You ever feel that way?”

You considered, and Dean took the opportunity to answer for you. “I don't believe in destiny. I do believe in dealing with what's right in front of us, though.”

“Okay, so, what now?” you asked.

“We do what I do best, Sammy. Research,” Dean replied.

Sam looked taken aback. “Okay. Did you just call me Sammy?”

“Did I?”

“I think you did,” Sam chuckled. “Yeah. Don't.”

“Sorry,” Dean grimaced. He sat at his laptop at his corner desk, and you and Sam pulled out your own on the couch.

Within thirty minutes, Dean chuckled. “Oh, jackpot.”

“What you got?” Sam asked.

“I just found the best site ever,” Dean grinned, beckoning you and Sam over. “Real, actual ghost hunters.”

You and Sam got up from the couch and stood behind Dean.

“These guys are genius. Check it out,” your boss said.

“Instructional videos,” Sam added.

You read the banner of the website, which was entitled “Ghostfacers.” You thought the name was interesting, and the guys on screen were a bit nerdy-looking, but you were willing to give them a chance.

The two men were wearing white lab coats and glasses standing behind a metal table.

“We know why you're watching,” one said.

“You've got a problem,” the other added.

“A ghost problem.”

Almost in unison, the first man said, “A ghost-related problem. A ghost— it's like a ghost-adjacent pr— it's like a problem that's— and the ghost is—”

The dark-haired Ghostfacer cut his coworker off. “Whatever. You've come to the right place. The only decent place, really, because the Ghostfacers know how to solve it.”

“Period.”

“Watch and learn.”

“See, the first step in any supernatural fight—”

“Figure out what you're up against,” the two said in unison.

You rushed over to your laptop to show them the picture of Sandover’s founder. “This is the guy,” you said.

“Yeah,” Dean confirmed. “That’s him.”

“P. T. Sandover. Died 1916. Devoted his life to his work,” you explained. “No wife, no kids.”

“Used to say he was the company,” Sam read from the article, “and his very blood pumped through the building.”

“Wow, okay. So slight workaholic. Maybe he's still here, y’know, watching over the company, even killing for it.”

“I mean, he’s talking about it like it’s his child,” you joked. “Plus, turns out this isn't the first time people started killing themselves in the building. First time was in 1929. And I know what you’re thinking, y’know, Great Depression, lots of people killed themselves. But this company had seventeen suicides.”

“Phew. Okay, so P. T. Sandover, protector of the company,” Dean grimaced. “His ghost wakes up and becomes active during times of grave economic distress.”

“Well, I mean, the worst time we've seen since the Great Depression—”

Dean cut Sam off. “Is now. Yeah, ‘now’ sucks. My portfolio's in the sewer. I don't even wanna talk about it.”

“So Sandover's helping the bottom line—”

Dean cut Sam off again. “By zapping some model employees.”

“Do you always cut people off when they’re talking?” you asked rhetorically.

Your boss gave you a playful glare.

“Anyway, I mean, Ian and Paul,” Sam continued. “It was like he turned them into different people.”

“Perfect worker bees, exactly,” Dean noted. “So devoted to the company that they would commit hara-kiri if they failed it.”

“One more interesting fact. The building wasn't always that high. Used to be fourteen floors. And the room where the ghost attacked, fourteen forty-four? Once upon a time, that was the old man's office,” Sam read from your computer.

You then returned to the Ghostfacers video.

“Once you've got that thing in your sights—” the redhead began.

“You kill it,” the two men said in unison.

“Using special ghost-hunting weapons.”

“First, salt. It's like acid to ghosts.”

“Burny acid.”

“Not LSD,” the dark-haired one clarified.

“No. It's a bad trip for ghosts. Next up, iron.”

“That's why the wrench worked,” Sam said, lightly slapping Dean’s shoulder.

The Ghostfacers continued, “Pure power in your hand.”

“Dissipates ghosts instantly.”

“Next little trick. We learned this from those useless douchebags—” The redheaded one added, “That we hate.”

“The Winchesters.”

“What are they, like Bonnie and Clyde?” you wondered aloud.

“Gun,” one man said.

“Shotgun shell. Pack it up with fresh rock salt,” the dark-haired one added.

“Very effective.”

“Winchesters still suck ass, though.”

“Affirmative. Suckage major.”

“The girl they’re with, what was her name?” the dark-haired man asked.

The redheaded one replied, “That’s not important right now. She knows who she is. She’s still got my heart.” He made a kissing face at the camera.

You giggled at his antics, but you slightly felt bad for whatever girl he was referring to.

Dean paused the video and got up from his seat to pack his fire pokers in a duffel bag with a salt shaker.

“Where do we even get a gun?” Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. “Gun store?”

“Isn't there like some kind of waiting period or something?” you questioned.

“I think so,” the taller man replied.

“Well, how in the hell—”

Sam cut him off. “I don't know. Seems pretty impossible, honestly.”

You three then returned your attention to the video.

“The aforementioned super-annoying Winchester douchenozzles also taught us this one other thing. You have to burn the remains,” the dark-haired Ghostfacer explained.

“Okay, this next part gets a little gross,” the redhead warned. “Sometimes you might have to dig up the body. Sorry.”

“It's illegal in some states—”

“All states—”

“—Possibly all states.”

Sam looked over a page on his laptop. “Sandover was cremated.”

“What? So what do we do now?” Dean asked, nearly gripping the screen as if asking the Ghostfacers in person.

“Now, if the deceased has been cremated—” “Don't panic.”

“Just gotta look for some other remains.”

“A hair in a locket, maybe. Fingernails. Baby teeth.”

“Milk teeth,” the dark-haired one suggested.

The redhead nodded. “Genetic material. You know what we're talking about.”

“Go find it.”

To sign off, the redhead said, “Fight well, young lions.”

“Godspeed,” the other added. Then, the video went dark.

****

You and the boys entered the elevator to the building, trying your very best to evade security. For two considerably large and well-built men, they looked pretty terrified. It made Dean seem kind of adorable, if you were honest with yourself.

“Set your cell phones to walkie-talkie in case we get separated,” Dean instructed you and Sam.

You obliged.

“How the hell are we gonna find some ancient speck of DNA in a skyscraper?” Sam questioned.

“Well, that creepy storeroom used to be Sandover's office, right?” He pressed the button to floor fourteen, and you subconsciously reached for his wrist as the elevator jolted. You gripped it tightly, and your entire body tensed.

Dean looked down at your hand that was holding his, and your cheeks heated. Quickly, you pulled your hand away as to not make him uncomfortable.

“Elevators?” Dean asked, referring to your fear.

“Heights,” you replied, swallowing harshly.

Dean grabbed your hand again in an attempt to comfort you.

You looked at him sheepishly, but he gave you a light squeeze to let you know it was okay.

You gave him a small smile, and he returned it.

The elevator dinged to let the three of you off, and you headed down the hallway to the room marked “1444.”

You flanked the shelves on one side, and Dean looked through the shelves on the other. Sam headed over to the desk and began searching through the drawers.

“What the hell are you doing here?” A guard holding a flashlight suddenly asked from the doorway. He had his flashlight beam focused on Sam, and you hoped he hadn’t seen you or Dean yet. You ducked behind the bookshelf you were searching.

“Man, listen. Look,” Sam pleaded as the guard took him away by the arm. “It's okay. I—I work here.”

The guard shut the door behind him and Sam, and you took the opportunity to rush over and lock it behind them.

“You think he’ll be okay?” you whispered to Dean.

He nodded. “He’ll figure something out.” “How do you know?”

“Seems like a smart kid,” Dean shrugged.

“ ‘Kid’? And how do you know?” you snorted.

Dean thought for a moment. “You ask a lotta questions, you know that?”

You giggled.

Suddenly, you heard a sickening crunch from your phone. “Sam?” you called.

“Hey. You okay?” Dean asked into the speaker on his phone.

After a few moments, Sam said, “Call you back.”

You and Dean shared a look, and the two of you shrugged in unison. You then continued your search.

You walked over to Dean who was holding a picture of a Sandover Bridge from the company’s early days. In slight sadness, you sighed.

“What?” Dean asked. He turned over his shoulder slightly to look at you but was careful not to bump into you with the proximity.

You stayed frozen to the spot directly behind his left shoulder, staring down at the picture. “I don’t know. I think Sam’s right, I guess,” you replied after careful thought. “I think I wanna be more than… bridges and paperwork.”

Dean searched your face, but you continued to trace your eyes over the black-and-white image.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” you clarified, “you’re great, and all, but I don’t just wanna continuously be a sidekick in someone else’s life. It… it feels like I’m constantly living for someone else. I wanna be the star— the- the superhero sometimes, y’know?”

Dean nodded. “I get it,” he said, turning to face you a bit more. The amount of space between you did not seem to increase, though.

You scoffed playfully. “Sure, you do, Mr. Director of Sales and Marketing.”

He chuckled. “If it makes any difference to you, you are my superhero, sometimes, y’know?” He cleared his throat, seeming to realize what he said. “I mean, you’re instrumental to everything I do. Without you, the ship wouldn’t keep running.”

“I guess you’re right,” you shrugged. “Thanks, Dean.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he replied. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was leaning in to you in the dim light. You took a deep breath and moved away, effectively creating more space between the two of you.

****

When your search was complete, you landed on one of the company’s history display on floor twenty-two. Dean told Sam to meet the two of you up there, and he’d bizarrely warned you to take the stairs.

However, when he entered the room, it became clear to you why.

“That’s a ton of blood, Sam,” you noted, seeing the splatter on his yellow shirt. “What the hell happened?”

“Guard,” Sam explained shortly. “Elevator. Uh… decapitation.” He made a gesture of the elevator coming down to chop the guard’s head off from above.

“Gnarly,” you grimaced.

“Right. So, uh, in there.” Dean pointed to a glass case containing a pair of gloves.

Sam noted, “P. T. Sandover's gloves.”

Dean made a clicking sound. “Yeah, how much you wanna bet there's a little smidge of DNA in there? You know, like a fingernail clipping or a hair or two? Something.”

“So, you ready?”

Dean blew out a puff of air. “I have no idea.”

“Me neither,” said Sam.

You shook your head but grabbed a fire poker anyway.

Sam and Dean followed your lead by grabbing a container of salt and the other poker respectively.

“Go for it.” Sam gestured at you and Dean.

“Right,” Dean gulped, and you rolled your eyes with a small smile.

You gave the glass a solid whack, and it shattered upon impact. Suddenly, you were flying through the air along with the two boys. Quickly, you scrambled to your feet just in time to see Sam throwing a bit of salt at Sandover. The ghost thankfully dissipated before it could get any closer to Sam.

“(Y/N)!” Dean shouted at you, and you caught the iron poker he threw at you like a reflex. You swung fiercely behind you, and you turned around just in time to see Sandover disappear again.

“Nice catch,” Dean told you, a slight air of bewilderment in his voice.

“Thanks,” you replied, staring down at the poker strangely. That fight almost made you feel like your body was possessed by someone trained in combat.

Then, Sandover appeared behind Sam.

“Sam, look out!” you yelled, and he threw salt behind him.

The fight that followed was mostly orchestrated by you and Dean against Sandover while Sam tried to make his way over to the gloves. It fell upon you and Dean to defend him, and the two of you did so in a way that was uncomfortably effortless.

You and Dean subconsciously pressed yourselves back-to-back and circled around waiting for Sandover to materialize again.

Sam grabbed the gloves, and Dean lunged forward to hit at Sandover with the poker while the taller man lit the gloves on fire.

Sam dropped the burning gloves to the ground, and Sandover appeared again to burn into nothing.

Breathlessly, Sam said, “That was amazing.”

****

“You got a first-aid kit?” you asked Dean. The three of you had gone back to his office to clean each other up.

He nodded and reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, then handed it to you. When he handed it to you, you noticed a nasty cut on his cheekbone. You sucked in a breath through your teeth and hissed. “You mind if I take a look at that?”

He hesitated but ended up nodding.

You gingerly cleaned the wound with a cotton pad and hydrogen peroxide, and Dean winced. “I’m sorry,” you told him.

“Y’know I can fix myself up, right?” he asked.

You nodded, heat rising to your cheeks again.

Dean still just let you continue your work before you moved on to Sam. When you went to address a wound on your arm, Dean shook his head and took the cloth pad from you. You offered a small smile, trying your best not to seem too bashful.

“Man, I gotta tell you,” Dean chuckled, “I've never had so much fun in my life.”

“Me neither,” Sam grinned.

“Was a hell of a workout, too, wasn't it?”

“We should keep doing this.”

“I know,” Dean replied.

Sam insisted, “I mean it. There gotta be other ghosts out there. We could help a lot of people.”

“Like the Ghostfacers,” you added, your voice a little smaller than you would have liked.

“No, really. I mean, for real,” Sam continued.

Dean snorted. “What? Like, quit our jobs and hit the road?”

Sam nodded, and you scrunched your brows together in confusion.

“How would we live?” Dean asked.

The brunet didn’t have an answer.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Dean scoffed. “How would we get by? With stolen credit cards? Huh? Eating diner food drenched in saturated fats? Sharing a crap motel room every night?”

“That's all just details,” Sam shrugged.

“Details are everything. You don't wanna go fighting ghosts without any health insurance.”

A silence settled over you.

“Alright, um, confession.”

You and Dean turned to Sam.

“Remember those dreams I told you about with the ghosts?” Sam asked. “I was fighting them.” He sucked in a breath, seeming uncomfortable. “With… the two of you. We were these, like, hunters, and we were friends. And we—” he gestured between himself and Dean, “were more like brothers, really. I mean, what if that's who we really are? I mean, you saw us back there, working together. The ghost was scrambling people's brains. What if it scrambled ours?”

You considered while Dean said, “That's insane.”

“Is it? Think about it for just one second. What if we think this is our life, but it's not?” Sam continued.

“Hey, man, the ghost is dead and we're still standing. I mean, I'm sorry, but—”

Sam cut Dean off. “Look, all I know is this isn't who we're supposed to be.”

“No. I'm Dean Smith, okay? Director of Sales and Marketing. I went to Stanford. My father's name is Bob, my mother's name is Ellen, and my sister's name is Jo,” Dean stated, getting to his feet.

“When was the last time you talked to them? To any of them?” Sam questioned, standing as well.

“Okay, you're upset. You're upset, you're confused—”

“Yeah, 'cause I only moved here 'cause I just broke up with my fiancée, Madison. But I called her number, and I got a damn animal hospital,” the taller man said.

You stood, too. “Dean—”

“Okay, what are you saying?” Dean scoffed. “Are you trying to say that my family isn't real? Huh? That we've been injected with fake memories? Come on.”

“Dean, maybe he has a point—” you tried.

“You’re seriously not going along with this, are you?” Dean asked.

“No, I’m just saying—”

Dean cut you off again. “C’mon, (Y/N).”

“All I know is,” Sam jumped back in, “I got this feeling in my gut. And I know— I know that deep down, you gotta be feeling it too. We're supposed to be something else. You're not just some corporate douchebag. This isn't you. I know you.”

Dean scoffed. “Know me? You don't know me, pal. You should go.”

Sam looked like he wanted to say something more, but instead, he just headed to the door. You collected your stuff and moved to follow him out.

“Not you, too,” Dean muttered.

You turned around. “Dean, I don’t know what is going on,” you told him. “I don’t want to live on the lam, but I also don’t want to stay here and just ignore whatever’s happened. I don’t know what the right thing to do right now is, okay?” You sighed, voice softening a bit. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” You turned for the door again.

Dean admitted quietly, “I don’t, either.”

You turned back around. “What?”

“I don’t know what the right answer is, either,” he said, more confidently this time. He hesitantly moved over to you. “What I do know is that we made a really great team earlier.”

You smiled lopsidedly. “Yeah, we did.”

“And… I can’t believe I’m saying this—” he murmured, continuing to approach you.

Your heart began to race, cheeks flushing.

“—but whatever you do, I’ll do, too. I trust you.” Dean stopped when the two of you were just inches apart.

You looked up at him with doe eyes. “I gotta think about it.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

****

The next morning, you felt resolute in your decision. Hardly minding the height of the building on your walk into the lobby, you marched up to Dean’s office while trying to gather your courage.

When you opened and closed the door to the office, though, an unfamiliar voice came from behind you.

“Ah, (Y/N),” the voice said.

You wheeled around to face an older man who seemed strangely familiar, but you couldn’t quite place his identity. He unsettled you.

“Good of you to join us,” he continued.

“Oh, (Y/N), this is Mr. Adler,” Dean told you as the two men sat down.

“What’s going on?” you questioned.

“We were just discussing Mr. Smith’s future at the company,” Mr. Adler explained.

“Oh,” you said, slightly dejected. If Dean followed through on his statement to you from the previous night, you’d be ruining a really solid opportunity for him.

“Wanna make sure he’s not going anywhere,” Adler chuckled. “And you, too, missy. You’re both Sandover material. Real go-getters. Carving your own way.”

“Well, uhm,” you laughed awkwardly. “About that…”

Dean’s and Adler’s eyes were nearly burning holes into you, but you were focused on quite literally anything else in the room.

“Is something wrong?” Adler questioned, looking between you and Dean.

Dean took off his headset. “Uh, well, thank you. Thank you, sir. It's, um...but… I am giving my notice,” he said.

“This is a joke,” the older man scoffed. “You're kidding me, right?” He was just as stunned as you were.

“No. I've—I recently—uh, very recently realized that I have some other work I have to do. It's, uh, very important to me.”

“Other work? Another company?” Adler rushed out.

“No, I—”

You cut Dean off from answering the man. “I don’t want to speak for us both, but… I'll be leaving, too.” Adler grinned widely.

You were confused by that and even further unsettled. “Is something wrong?” you asked.

“Finally,” he said. He pressed two fingers to your forehead, and the world around you seemed to dim.

“What the fuck,” you murmured, blinking at the world around you. Then, you jumped back in surprise at the man in front of you. “No…”

Dean seemed to have come back to as well. “What the hell? Why am I wearing a tie? My god, am I hungry.”

The older man before you laughed. “Welcome back.”

“Zachariah,” you breathed out, backing toward the door. Given how Uriel had treated you and the stories he’d told you about this particular angel, you were frightened of him.

“In the flesh,” the angel said.

“Oh, great. That's all I need is another one of you guys,” Dean scoffed, seeming to have caught on.

“I'm hardly another one, Dean. I'm Castiel's superior. Believe me, I had no interest in popping down here into one of these smelly things,” Zachariah sneered, gesturing at his body, “but back when you were stuck in the Pit, the higher-ups felt it necessary I pay a visit. And now I see why after the business with Uriel. Gotta get my ducks in a row.”

“I am not one of your ducks,” Dean grunted, moving toward you slowly. You were frozen near the door.

“Starting with your attitude,” Zachariah stated dryly.

“Oh, so, what? This was all some sort of a lesson; is that what you're telling me? Wow, very creative.”

“Dean, stop,” you begged.

He glanced over at you in concern. Your tone had seemingly put him off.

“You’d do well to listen to her,” the angel stated.

“What are we doing here?” you asked, trying to get the heat off Dean. “Was this just a dream?”

“Not at all. Real place, real haunting,” the angel explained. “Just plunked you in the middle without the benefit of your memories.”

“Just to shake things up? Hm?” Dean pressed. “So you guys can have fun watching us run around like ass clowns in monkey suits?”

“To prove to you that the path you're on is truly in your blood. You're a hunter. Not because your dads made you, not because god called you back from hell, but because it is what you are. And you both love it,” replied Zachariah. “You'll find your way to it in the dark every single time, and you're miserable without it. Guys, let's be real here. You're good at this. You'll be successful. You will stop it.”

“Stop what? The apocalypse, huh? Lucifer? What? Be specific, man.” Dean had finally come to a stop next to you, and you grabbed his wrist to try and stop him from aggravating Zachariah further.

“You'll do everything you're destined to do. All of it,” the older man stated. “But I know, I know. You're not strong enough. You're scared. You got daddy issues. You can't do it. Right?”

Dean’s jaw stiffened. “Angel or not, I will stab you in your face.” “Stop it,” you begged him, your breath catching in your throat.

“All I'm saying is it's how you look at it. Most folks live and die without moving anything more than the dirt it takes to bury them. You get to change things,” Zachariah shrugged, pacing the room a bit. “Save people, maybe even the world. All the while you drive a classic car and fornicate with this lovely woman.”

You grimaced, staring at the floor.

“This isn't a curse. It's a gift. So for God's sakes, Dean, quit whining about it,” Zachariah continued. “Look around. There are plenty of fates worse than yours; so are you with me? You wanna go steam yourself another latte? Or are you ready to stand up and be who you really are?”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-nesmith @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x y/n #spn #supernatural #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #dean x y/n #dean x you #spn series rewrite #supernatural series rewrite #supernatural reader insert

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noncompliantcyborg · 1 month ago

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A jellyfish that only lives for 30 minutes?

When I caught this itty bitty jelly last night, I knew I had something weird. What I didn't realize was that this little medusa is reported to only live for a few minutes, just long enough to pop off and spawn. I put it aside and texted Claudia Mills, planning to take pictures once I got back to the lab. Minutes later, I was racing the clock, bolting through the state park with a little vial in my pocket...

A graduate student who was with me scavenged for a microscope while I found some slides. The labs had just opened for the summer and nothing was really set up yet. I didn't have my camera mount or a phone mount and we didn't have a lot of time to work.

When we got it under the microscope, the medusa had already released most of its eggs, but it was still pulsing.

We were able to see it's marginal vesicles/statocysts - the little googly eye looking stuctures (left), and some of it's interesting looking eggs (right):

After getting some photos and video I went back out on the dock with it, keeping an eye on it but also looking for more in the water. Other jellies wafted by, but I didn't see any other Orthopyxis.

I decided to stay up to keep an eye on it and see how long it would keep pulsing. In between check-ins I put it's little seawater container in the fridge to keep it close to the temperature it would be in the wild. At just after two in the morning, 3 hours and 46 minutes since I had found it and far longer than it was anticipated to live, I took a final shaky video of it before heading to bed.

When I woke up in the late morning and checked on it, it had passed. I won't say that I'm not lucky; I'm certainly grateful to have gotten to see this animal, but I also love how I stacked the odds for this to happen. I've been making a practice out of going and being in nature at night at a few different spots in my local community and spotting critters. Last year, I was out on docks or in tidepools over half the calendar days of the year. I'm thinking a lot about how there are so many wonders that would go unnoticed if someone didn't choose to keep going out and patiently waiting for them. And as I'm thinking about that I'm wrapping up writing this so I can head back out in hopes I can see more.

Take care, and keep looking for critters,

#jellyfish #nature #sea creature #Orthopyxis #hydrozoa #medusa #marine lfimarine #marine life #Salish Sea #marine biology #sea creatures #ocean #my videos

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itachi-uchiha-week · 7 months ago

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『Itachi Week 2025 - Interest Check』

Hello guys! We are back. Or have we ever even been truly gone? Who knows. It's only been a few weeks ever since the conclusion of Itachi Week 2024.

Itachi was canonically born on June 9th. Unlike last year (which was a "belated" Itachi Week) Itachi Week 2025 will be "punctual", taking place from June 3rd to June 9th. This means we have approximately 5 and a half months left for organizing the event. But before us mods can really get started with the preparations, we need your help. We request that both potential participants as well as anybody who simply considers themselves an "observer" to take a look.

Below, we have prepared a Google Form with a couple questions, including the following topics: • Your interested in Itachi Week 2025 • Prompt Bingo or Prompt Calendar • Prompt suggestions • Expanding Itachi Week to other platforms Alternatively, we'd love for you to send us an ask (anonymous asks are welcome), comment, or reblog.

#itachi week #itachiweek2025 #itachi #itachi uchiha #uchiha itachi #naruto #naruto shippuden #interest check

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jamglii · 8 months ago

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SPECIAL COMPANY

It had been 1 year since you first killed another human being. You were only 19 at the time and since then you’ve had a lot to think about.

The warehouse which had been your home for only a short while became infested with zombies soon after you had got there. Thankfully the truck you’d borrowed still had enough gas in it to take you to your permanent home, a small little cottage farm tucked away in the grasslands just off of the coast of where you used to live and somehow had enough vegetables and food left behind to last you until your first winter.

You even came across a few abandoned farm animals, two cows, three chickens and a single horse whose name fortunately you were able to identify as Cookiedough. It made sense, the fur of the animal closely resembled the sweet mixture you wished still existed in a time like this.

Unfortunately for you however, in the year that passed things like desserts became such a rarity it was almost impossible to find all the correct ingredients that would make it. Most people didn't just have preserved chocolate chips lying around. It also was a waste of resources considering the situation. You weren’t a fully fledged country bumpkin but you had a few animals at home–experience aiding you in how to use your supplies wisely especially in the different seasons, thankfully summer was just around the corner, that meant harvesting all you had grown in the spring and making sure nothing dire happened while you did.

You breathed in the dewy morning air, flowing into a familiar morning routine. You reached for the journal under your bed, flipping to the very last page in the book, tapping the led on the bottom for a moment then finally began to write.

Dear Mom and Dad

This is Day 116 since I began writing to you and I’m sad to say this will be our goodbye. It’s been a long journey since having you and I’m so glad you were there with me. Since you guys died things have been so different, and while I hope to continue writing forever I know that may not be possible. I still plan on going to Paris, since you know, Im immune or whatever, but I don't know how long that will take or how much time will pass before I can keep writing to you guys, in the meantime though I’m working ( or looking I guess ) on a cure for the infection so hopefully people like you can continue living . See you soon.

Love, Your Daughter.

You breathed shakily and placed the pencil down, sliding the notebook back under the bed where it belonged. Wiping away tears you hopped downstairs to continue your day.

“Come on Cookiedough, this way.” You led the horse, ignoring its impatient huffs as you placed a large hay barrel in front of it. You continued on like this, glad to see no man eating creatures had snuck into the garden shed last night. It was a common occurrence to find zombies lurking around the area trying to find some unsuspecting human to eat.

The guns the owner left behind at this house easily took care of that though.

You glanced at the watch on your wrist then back at the sun, if you headed out soon you’d be able to explore a bit further. Eager to expand the map of the area you lived in to the edges of the old paper, you crossed a large red X onto the puppy spotted calendar in your room, today marked the almost-anniversary for Outbreak Day, not that you planned on celebrating.

It was only a bitter reminder of all that had transpired on the chilling evening.

You shook your head and made for your traveling gear, there was a pharmacy a few miles down you’d long been meaning to check out. Hopefully a raid of the store would take your mind off things and reward you with some useful supplies. You glanced at the doors of your home and contemplated on whether or not you should lock it, surprisingly in the 12 months that had passed you didn’t see many people.

Occasionally there was a passerby that glanced at the fence in home but you suspected they rather not take their chances with the ‘BEWARE OF ZOMBIES' sign you’d changed. It wasn’t like you didn’t want visitors per say, because speaking honestly, it was a bit lonely just you and your animals, but it was a peaceful life you’d take any day in comparison to the rampaging chaos that was happening in the denser populations of the world. The Cities had almost completely been taken over by the third day, which is where they suspect the disease originated in the first place so you were more than happy to be lonely in your home then in the midst of all the chaos.

You locked the door anyways.

Pulling a light cotton hoodie over your shoulders you trekked towards the fence peeking at the rising sun and loosening your jacket a bit. It was about 20 minutes out by foot to the pharmacy and though you planned on bringing Cookiedough along, you thought better of it. The horse was left behind for a reason, old and rickety with a small tolerance for any physical exertion ( much like yourself now that you think about it ) and although you didn’t want to admit it, she was nearing her last days. You shook your head, and picked your backpack up, glancing at the bandages around your neck in the mirror as you passed by.

Immunity was a funny thing, it should have been a blessing but nowadays it felt more like a curse. A black shadow followed your saddened figure as you trailed on the edge of the road. It was more likely for you to die before you’d come in contact with another person that would attack you but your fear got the better of you and you kept the bandages around you anyways.

You continued walking forwards, unaware of the squishy substance that suddenly planted itself on your foot, you looked down to see a rotten apple ground into the floor. You grimaced and wiped your foot, it reminded you of the monsters that plagued the surface of the earth—just as the name suggested the beings, ‘dead’ or ‘alive' closely resembled the once appetizing fruit when it was put in a decaying state. Not much could be said for a real name of the disease however, radio was helpful but limited and most people just resorted to calling them zombies. Which worked fine for you, no matter what they were called you’d shoot them down without a second thought.

You pulled out the miniature slip of paper holding it up as you continued navigating the road until eventually you reached the store. It was one of the nicer looking places that had thankfully been left mostly untouched by zombies and other humans that came by, you pried open the automatic doors and began searching, filling your bag with any preserved foods and or medical supplies you came across. It was almost mid day by the time you were finished, and you rushed to hurry back before it got too hot. Getting caught in a heatstroke with all this stuff in your bag really wouldn't do you any good.

You sighed as you saw your house come into view, and the closer you got the more your heart began to pound. Footprints leading up to your door, a broken fence where the warning sign was placed and finally the busted door and missing hinges as to your house. It made your hands shake as you reached for the small pistol you'd taken in your bag. You didn’t go in through the front door, instead opting to slink through the back window you always left open, it led you into the laundry room where you could finally hear voices.

“Hey, is it just me or does it look like someone's been living here?” one voice said, and you creeped forward on your toes, setting the bag down and looking through the small crack in the door. There were only two people in the room, both of them too distracted to notice your moving figure in the dark.

“Nah, look the stove hasn’t been used in years, this place was probably owned by some old person who was too weak and died in the next closet over.” he yawned and you swallowed shakily, trying to calm your breathing. There was a good chance they were armed too, more than ready for someone to attack, you couldn’t count on one of them to freeze while you tried to detain the other.

“But what if it isn’t? What if they come back and—”

“Lord have Merrcyyyy, fine if you're so scared you can go sit back in the car with Rin, I’ll just loot the goddamned thing myself.” The voice said tiredly, shuffling past the door and into the kitchen searching through your stuff.

“No thanks, I’ll be upstairs.” Footsteps faded into the background, that was your chance! You thanked God there had been enough exercising for you in the past year, otherwise you weren’t sure you would be able to pull this off. You sat there crouched watching as the mysterious body moved around the house, stuffing their bags with belongings, your belongings completely unaware of who was watching. Just a few more steps and you were sure you’d be able to tackle him, just a few more steps and—

Suddenly there was a voice, “Barou, dude, you have to come see this!”

Barou, thankfully, wasn’t in a rush to leave, he rolled his eyes and simply continued searching through your things. You were glad you kept the guns in the shed. “In a minute.”

The voice grumbled and you crept as close as possible to the door, waiting for the perfect moment. “Now! It’s important–”

You jumped, swinging the door open and slamming your full body weight into the intruder, thankfully catching him by surprise enough to fiercely grip his hair and immediately cock the head of your gun to his skull, not waiting for his male counterpart to realize what was happening.

“Listen here Barou and listen closely, I haven’t got the slightest clue what it is you're doing in my house but frankly I don’t care. In a few seconds I’m going to get up off of you, that means you drop your stuff immediately and hold your hands high where I can see them, understand?” You pressed the gun a bit further into his inky strands standing up just as you had said and thankfully he complied. You held a sigh of relief, you didn’t even want to think of what would happen if he didn’t do as you said.

Just then the voice from earlier came rushing down, to say he was shell shocked was an understatement. You didn’t let him speak and tilted your head towards Shouei again, “Hey there, you want him alive, I suggest you follow suit. No sudden movements, no funny business. No nothing.”

You didn’t need to repeat yourself, ignoring the pale looks the two men shared, more glad at the fact he also listened. You walked in a single file line through your broken door, senses keen on your surroundings. That's when you spotted it, a large jeep parked outside littered with more people inside than you thought originally.

They broke my fence, you thought, bitter and scared as to why anyone would completely ignore the BEWARE OF ZOMBIES sign. Your thoughts were interrupted as the other man, probably scared for his and his friends life, began to speak.

“Hey miss, we’re sorry for breaking in, we didn't know anyone was living here—”

“Great well now you do, that your ride?” You said, directing your head at the car but not taking your eyes off Barou.

“Yes, but like I said, this was a mistake, we were looking for someone ya’ see, we didn’t mean no harm.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you broke down my fucking door.” you spat, briefly directing your attention to his face, it wasn’t as terrified as you’d like it to be.

The man in question gulped but continued walking in the direction you were leading them, away from your house and closer to the car parked on your property. “Those your buddies?” you asked, about 10 feet away from the military truck where the participants inside seemed to finally realize what was taking them so long. About 3 more people’s heads began to peek out of the vehicle, tense and unsurprisingly a bit alarmed, but they said nothing. Watching, waiting for what would occur. You were sure they must have had weapons of their own but they couldn’t do much against the gun still held up to Barou’s head.

“Yeah, yeah they are.” You looked at the black haired man, who had been eerily silent this whole time. You glanced between him and his partner then finally decided on what was the best course of action. “Listen, both of you, I’m an excellent shot you hear me? An excellent shot, I want you both back in that truck, and back where you came from while I wait right here, walk slowly and tell your friends there won’t be any trouble so long as you keep your distance. Now leave.”

The men followed your command without another word, and you backed away slowly as Barou reached the car first, the other man however, seemed to linger behind. With his arms still up, he turned around to face you bravely. Your gun still in range to shoot him down if needed, you nodded your head for him to speak, curious as to what exactly he wanted to say in a situation like this. “We need your help.”

You paused, then blinked. “What?”

The man sighed and peered back at the men still waiting in the truck, you could faintly hear the sound of someone whisper-shouting to get back here while he still had the chance. “Me–us–” he nodded to the car again. “We need your help.”

You blinked again, then finally spoke. “Help, help with what exactly?” Your gun never left your line of vision.

“We're looking for a cure, and I know you are too.” Now that caught your attention, if it wasn’t for the barreled weapon still in front of Isagi’s face he would have smirked smugly and grinned at the look you wore.

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t yield your weapon, he was bluffing. “Oh really? And what makes you say that?”

The man looked at your face then slowly reached into his pocket, careful as to not alarm you into killing him. Then, slowly slowly, he pulled out your notebook. The one kept under your bed, that was for no one to see but you. You tense even more, an uneasy feeling pooling in your gut. “How did you get that?” You gritted out, looking from it to him, itching to have it in your hands but knowing you couldn’t do much as he stood between you and the people still lingering close behind.

“I found it upstairs, in your room I assume. Don't worry I didn’t read all of it, just the last page where….well, you said it yourself. Oh and Paris? That’s pretty ambitious of you, I’ll admit, you don’t seem the type to go for the city of–”

“Give it back, now.” You growled, and once again Isagi was reminded of the pickle he was in. He tossed the book lightly to where your feet lay and you snatched it up before anything else could happen to it. It was already bad enough that he and his goons were here and now he read your notebook, your private, very special notebook where you wrote to your dead parents and wished everyday you had died along with them. Great.

“Like I said, I’m sorry, for breaking into your house, and stealing your stuff, but really that’s not why we came here anyways.” he said, taking a step closer as your gun began to lower.

“What do you mean? Then why are you here?” you eyed him tautly.

“Like I said, we’ve been looking for a cure to this mess someone created. Heard from a friend that someone down this way might be the key to finding it. A 20-ish year old girl about yay high, with bandages all around her neck…(h/c) hair and (e/c) eyes, living out in the middle of nowhere. A girl that might happen to be immune?” He was even closer now, not close enough to put you in danger, but close enough that you could hear his voice soften and his eyes glaze into a sweet hopefulness.

You looked hard into the eyes of the man, still wondering if he was being for real or not. His gaze was steeled, and even though you wanted to call bullshit and shoot him right then and there, a part of you knew he was telling the truth.

Your gun was fully lowered now. “Who-who told you all this?” your voice cracked.

“Come with me, and I’ll tell you.”

_____

You glanced wondrously at the ocean blue sky, breathing in the sunny July air as tree’s whipped past you. It had been three days since you began traveling with the boys, and it was…eventful to say the least. Their personalities were like oil and water for some of them, others were just plain weird and while there were some that were friendly it was hard to get used to being with so many people at a given time. The year you have spent mostly alone seemed to take a toll on your personality, you never remembered being this antisocial. Or maybe that was your natural distrust for people that seemed to grow every passing day you thought about Sage, Amara or even those brutish pigs that had tried to kill you. Rin so far was your favorite of the 6, he didn’t say much, didn’t ask questions and for the most part kept to himself. He hardly even questioned you when Isagi first introduced you to the rest of his crew. He was currently also the person you were sitting by as Bachira, a yellow and black haired man sitting across from you tried to coax you into telling him more about where you came from.

“What did it feel like being bitten? Were you scared? Oh I bet you were, it must have been horrible having the feeling of all those creatures crawling on you.” He grinned at your scowl, teasingly reaching for your neck that was still covered by your bandages. “Can I see your scar?”

You made a face and he laughed boyishly, his creamy skin reddening into a light rose color. You turned away from him and hoisted your gun closer to your chest, this is why Rin was your favorite. Chigiri rolled his eyes and moved to whack Bachira in the face, you nodded at him appreciatively and glanced over the truck again. There were 7 of you in total, including yourself. Chigiri was a frontliner and probably the most opinionated man you’d met in your entire life. The two of you had developed a sort of dynamic, one that was akin to a sister sister relationship. He was also one of least talkative of the group, not including save for Rin who had hardly said a word the moment you got here.

Bachira who was seated next to him was also a part of the Infantry unit, he apparently was one of the best front line soldiers back at their base but you had been yet to see it. He was the epitome of childish, and practically a walking warzone. His golden-brown eyes gleamed at you and you grimaced at the memory of him attempting to eat an entire can of unopened beans after Nagi dared him to. The thought brought you to a pair of gray-ish cold eyes, Nagi who in all his tall and lanky stature was the probably the least bothered by your presence was the most unfitting of the group you’d think. Him and Barou bickered all the time, and for living in a zombie apocalypse he was unbelievably lazy at times. He was probably your least favorite of the group, and you're not even quite sure what exactly he did, as a help. His eyes pierced yours a for a moment it seemed as if he could see right through you, the blank stare on his face nerved you to no end and you looked away before any words could come out of his mouth.

Your eyes led you back to Rin who was on your left and Barou who was on your right. You had already contemplated Rin in your mind, and your opinions on him were mostly the same. He was quiet and you liked that. Barou was tall and brooding like everything you’d expect in a man. He was the tank of the group, in the past three days you spent with him you quickly realized he was not one to be messed with, which made it all the more surreal you had him under the barrel of your gun just a few days ago. Your opinion on Barou however always seemed to change, at first you thought he was a dick. He was somehow too pretty to be dressed in military gear with a shotgun at the ready. His hair was too perfect, his face too clean. It was strange how even at a time like this he always showed a way to make his teeth as clean as Chigiri's hair. One time you commented on it and while you weren’t exactly expecting him to be sunshine and rainbows you didn’t expect him to insult you, to your face. It was a while before your perception of him changed again, when he sped across the ground and shot an infected clean in the face as it tried to sneak behind you. He made light of his save, and you both hadn’t spoken after that but you know you didn’t need to. There was a secret mutual respect when you’d stood up to him that night, and since then things have been calm.

That left Isagi in the driver's seat, who you supposed was the leader of all of you, and more surprisingly, a sniper. A good one at that. It was like he didn’t have to see his target in the first place, it was like he already knew. He was also the sweetest which made it all the more surprising when at the command of his voice had all 6 of them standing to attention. The 7 of you had been traveling along the road for 4 days now. It came as a shock when you had accepted the man's offer to join them on their journey, but it was more than welcome.

You were the only immune person they knew after all.

You didn’t leave immediately, determined on staying until Cookiedough, the caramel and sandy brown horse passed, which sadly didn’t take long. You made the men camp outside in their truck until about a week after Isagi had recruited you she finally said her goodbyes.

You hadn't cried like that since the death of your mother and father.

You shook your head free of the thoughts and made to pack your bags, you didn’t bring much. Some food and water just in case, a change of clothes and your notebook which held your most precious memories. Isagi had told you the 6 of them lived somewhere near here, ( and by near he meant a week by car to get to there, 3 of which had already passed more slowly then the next ) and would be taking you back to run tests hopefully tests that would succeed in finding a cure to the disease. As compensation, he promised full meals, a warm bed, hot showers and a one way ticket to France. You questioned whether or not they were actually capable of fulfilling your last request but Bachira just winked and pointed at Rin as if to say, he ‘knows a guy’.

The journey there was far from over though, this you knew, “So, [Name]...didn’t take you for a grenade sort of girl…”

You arched your eyebrow at Bachira, unamused, “A what?”

Bachira looked around the room and a ceremonious groan rippled throughout the car. “A grenade sort of girl, you seem way more like a be-mine sort of girl to me.”

You turned away disgusted, and realized why the group had groaned so predictably, he must have done this sort of thing often.

Thankfully It wasn’t long before the 7 of you reached your destination, a tall gray building rose in front of you, there of course were a few pit stops you and the rest of the men had to make along the way to the base and this was one of them.

Usually 2-4 people were sent out to scout the area and grab the people left in the car if needed, this time however Isagi said only 1 person was allowed to go in, and that person was him. His eyes flickered from Bachira’s to Rin’s, a knowing look crossing both their faces, the rest of the group also seemed to get the message as they all grumbled and sat back down in their seats, busying themselves with cards and charades.

You sat back down as well, uncomfortably fidgeting in the cushion as everyone covered with one another. You felt left out, it was obvious there was some sort of unspoken code going around the group and you definitely weren't in on it. Luckily for you Bachira seemed to notice this and snaked his way over from the pitiful game of charades to fill you in.

“Wondering what’s this all about are you?” he grinned, casually slinking an arm around your shoulders and you fought to shake him off, keen on the information he could give you. Reluctantly you shook your head yes. “I’ll tell you only if you give me a kiss.” He sneered, making duck lips at your face, you pushed his mouth away, making the mistake of keeping it there a bit too long and recoiled violently as he stuck his tongue out from his mouth to glaze over your hand.

“Ugh! Stop it that's disgusting!” You shouted blissfully unaware of how your words really affected him, too disgusted to see his spread into a masochistic grin.

“You wound me darling.” he said smoothly, recovering by holding his burning chest and wiping a fake tear from his eye. You rolled your eyes and moved closer to Rin who was entertaining him by shuffling a deck of cards.

He side eyed you and stopped shuffling, watching you stare at the cards in his hands. “What.” his sharp gaze piercing your stomach.

You looked away. “I didn't say anything…” But that was enough confirmation from him, he probably already hated you, now he thought you had a staring problem. A wash of cool air passed over the vehicle, though it did nothing to ease the ridgid atmosphere. Great, you’ve only been here a full three days and somehow managed to piss off one of the members.

Thankfully the awkwardness in the air didn't last long as Isagi, your saving grace, came back from his short expedition carrying a mysterious black package with him. Bachira immediately stood up and took the contents, sliding the top of just a smidge then nodding at Isagi in confirmation. The black haired man smiled and took the box back, sliding it under the seat then finally turning to face the rest of you. You didn't exactly get the best look at what was in the box but you did get a peek as Bachira turned and saw containers of green valves, 3 to be exact. Hushed whispers were exchanged between the two, and finally Isagi’s eyes made eye contact with yours.

You gave him an incredulous look, “Oh, right you must be confused, Rin why don't you explain it to her? We're a bit behind schedule now.”

You're not sure if it’s because Isagi wanted to torture both you and Rin or if he simply wasn't in the mood for talking but he left for the drivers seat as soon as he got the chance, leaving you and Rin to stare awkwardly at each other before he cleared his throat to explain.

“Trading points, Cap’ has to have someone double check the trade as precaution.” You nodded waiting for him to continue but to no avail, you supposed that was the most you would be getting out of him. Thankfully Chigiri, noticing your distress, finished for him.

“The little green jars you saw are immunity developments, stuff like that is really valuable nowadays and even though most of them don’t actually work, Ego insists we trade for them. It’s also why only Cap’ was allowed inside, the U-Fights are really stingy about secrecy and whatnot.” Chigiri explained a bit bitterley, you were guessing the so-called developments hadn’t been all that helpful to finding an actual cure which is why you were found in the first place.

You cocked your head cutely, jerking forward a bit as the truck began moving. “Who’s Ego?”

“Boss Man.” A voice stated and you turned towards Barou. “Run’s all the business stuff back at base, he’ll be happy to see you.”

“Oh I bet he will.” You groaned, trying not to think about all the poking and prodding they would more likely have to do before you could even get all that you were promised.

“Don’t be scared, we won’t let anything bad happen to you.” Bachira spoke cheerily, nudging your shoulder. “Despite what it might look like, we're good people I promise.”

Sure, tell that to the man I murdered a year ago, You deadpanned. It’s what would have come out of your mouth had you not known any better but instead you gave him a tight lipped smile and tried to ignore the loud thumping in your heart.

Good people, yeah, whatever that means.

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an's ; this is main 6? yeas, okay 👍 and also no.

status ;; not proofread

wc ;; 5k

taglist 1/50 @egoistlino

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