#somewhere... gaining dust

[badookie]

No matter the universe, Hans will be a little brat who loves to play matching dressup with their Henry [nods nods]

[naomis-daydream]

courtside // paige bueckers

summary: request fill:) you attend one of your girlfriend’s games in hopes of surprising her, by watching her play live for the first time. though when the jumbotron catches you courtside, you both learn that you’ll have to be more discreet if you want to remain private.

warnings: ass grabbing, alludes to sex

a/n: wiping the dust off my drafts & writing skills…

✧

december 7, 2024

the barclays center was packed with energy this saturday morning.

the stadium is sold out with thousands of fans bathed in navy blue & white or the opposing team’s red & black. the university of connecticut faces louisville in the women’s champions classic, currently holding a 20 point lead with the game 50-30.

you wouldn’t previously consider yourself a fan of women’s basketball, or sports in general. aside from the olympics, you hardly tuned in to watch athletic competitions of any kind.

until you saw her.

number 5, senior guard of the huskies. the young woman responsible for nearly half the points illuminating on the scoreboard. driven, supportive, unstoppable on the court, and arguably the best player in women’s college basketball at the moment. though it wasn’t her impressive game that drew you to her. it was her charm, her character, and a certain irresistibility about her.

you came across her social media one day, and like many others, found yourself pressing the ‘follow’ button atop her page. though contrary to most, and to your surprise, she reciprocated the action shortly after. somewhere in between then and now, the two of you got especially close. during late night video calls, pre-game messages, and post-show evenings in your high rise apartment.

those moments led you here, sitting pretty in floor seats at the blonde’s game.

you watch as jana dribbles the ball from half court to the three point line, fakes out a louisville player and then pretends to shoot. she passes the ball to azzi, who catches it with ease, stepping back as the ball leaves her fingers and flows through the net with a sharp swish!

the shot clock rings with vigor, signaling the end of the first half. the sound is soon drowned out by the cheers of fans and slapping of noisemakers as the players from each team clear the court.

a short cheer leaves your lips, hands clapping as the star-studded team makes makes their way past your seat and to the coaching staff.

your chin lifts to watch the players as they lightly jog in front of your row, a few of them giving quick waves as they make their way past. you spot a familiar pair of blonde braids near the back of the line, and just as she passes you, her eyes remains focused on her teammates ahead.

your gaze nor smile falters though, because you’re well aware she felt your eyes on her, that is if the smile she’s fighting as she makes it to geno is any constellation.

you and paige had the discussion of keeping your relationship private the minute you starting dating. you were both gradually becoming high profile people in your respective industries, and wanted the focus to be what you do during the day rather than who you did at night.

you first gained traction after your role in clueless: the musical. even more so following the conclusion of mean girls on broadway prior to the pandemic. now, you’re building your career as a actress and singer outside of the theatre, soon releasing your first album.

for paige, she’s had eyes on her since she was a freshman in high school. she’s had both her proudest and most difficult moments broadcasted to tens of thousands of people. and now, she has millions watching her, waiting for her next move on and off the court.

she doesn’t mind the attention, she enjoys it most of the time, but she shares so much of herself with everyone. she just wants to keep some aspects of her life hers. including you.

so you guys aren’t public, not yet, anyway. paige wanted to wait until it was right, and you were okay with that. you know how much she wants that title, and how hard she’s pushing to earn it. that’s what people’s focus should be on. though, you still wanted to support one another. so you’re content sitting on the sidelines silently cheering her on.

well, kind of silently.

with the game paused until the second half, you pulled out your phone, swiping though tabs before you finding yourself on instagram.

you’re scrolling lazily through your social media as you wait for the game to resume, double tapping on a mutual’s post when the noise around you grows exponentially.

you look left and right, trying to see what the commotion is about, only seeing that those around you are at staring at…you.

a bearded man to the left of you sees your confusion, tapping your shoulder. he chuckles as he juts his head towards the ceiling.

your brows furrow, though you follow his eyes towards the stadium screen, to which you see yourself from the waist up in 120 inches of HD LED.

your eyes widen as your jaw drops, the stadium cheering almost impossibly louder at your expression.

a grin sweeps across your face as you give the screen a wave before making a heart with your hands. you read the bottom of the screen which shows a title card with your name followed by broadway actress.

you are onscreen for another few seconds before the camera hard cuts to uconn’s bench, showing a blonde gazing intently up at the jumbotron with remnants of a smile pulling at her lips.

the girl quickly closes her mouth and looks down at the court, hands on her hips as she lazily attempts to hide the growing heat on her face before she reorients herself with her team.

down the court, you shake your head, smiling.

gosh, this is gonna be harder than you thought.

-

the heels of your boots hit the tunnel’s concrete floor with a sharp click clack as you make your way to the visitor’s locker room.

“you do know it’s obvious, right?” you hear from down the hall.

you continue to walk towards the noise, slowing your steps down as the conversation continues closer. the responder bears a smooth tone, one of striking familiarity you notice as they reply. “man, it was the stupid delay on the screen! messing up my inconspicuousness.”

the first voice breaths something of an unconvinced chuckle, prompting the other to continue.

“this is the nonchalant final boss you’re talking too.”

you snicker at her comment as you turn the curve of the tunnel, finally spotting the player a few yards away. “yeah, it was super nonchalant when you were practically drooling onscreen.”

paige’s whips forward at the sound of your voice, seeing you walking towards her. you stop a few feet from her and azzi, though your eyes are on her.

“hey, superstar,” you say smiling.

paige’s nose scrunches, lips curling at the sides. “hi.”

the pair of you stand there for a beat, admiring each other in silence, as if to commit the other to memory.

azzi adjusts her duffel bag, starting to walk again. “right. so, i’ll just catch you guys later.”

“tell coach i’ll meet y’all at the airport?” paige asks, as azzi passes you, a knowing smirk on her face.

she snorts. “yeah, okay.”

“bye y/n,” she calls from behind you, voice echoing against the cement walls.

you laugh, looking down, “bye azzi.”

there’s another breath of silence that falls between you two, similarly to the space that separates you now. almost like the distance that usually parts you two still lingers, and is what’s currently keeping paige a yard away from you, holding her bookbag straps with a adoring yet hesitant look in her eyes.

“she’s right,” you say walking closer, “if you wanna keep things private, you really shouldn’t go staring at me like that in front of twenty thousand people.”

she smacks her teeth, eyes slightly downcast now that you’ve closed the gap between you two.

“hard not to stare when you come up in here looking like that,” she says, “you look fuckin’ amazing.”

you smile almost impossibly harder, a soft, “thank you,” living your lips. she takes your left hand, holding it your above your head, eyes still cast on yours as her brows raise in silent question. spin for me.

paige holds your hand loosely as you slowly turn, a giddy grin on your face as you let her eyes again.

“next time you come see me play you’ll be repping #5, right?”

you hum in agreement.

“you were incredible out there, p.”

“thank you, baby,” she says softly. “how come you didn’t tell me you were comin’?”

“just wanted to surprise you is all.”

she pulls you in with warm hands on your waist. “i would’ve dropped 30 if i knew you were here sooner.”

a giggle escapes your lips as you reply, wrapping your arms around her neck. “i think twenty is enough.”

“how long are you here for?” you ask, looking up at her.

“just tonight. we leave right after breakfast tomorrow.”

“well then i guess i’ll have to give you the spark notes version of the tour,” you say. she raises her brows in question.

“what, you thought i’d let you leave the city without seeing my favorite spots?”

“as cute as you’d be as my tour guide, who needs to see the city when i got the best view right here?” she replies, bringing a hand to cup your cheek.

you frown into her palm.

she rubs your cheek tenderly. “come on, don’t pout at me, mama.”

“next time?” you ask.

“next time,” she assures.

“besides,” she sighs, hands trailing down to cup the fat of your ass. “before i leave i need to take a bite out of the big apple,” she says, enunciating her words with a soft squeeze.

your lips pull a smile as your nails scratch the nape of her neck. “that can be arranged.”

new york: the city that never sleeps, and trust, you and paige didn’t get much that night.

✧

[gatorbites-imagines]

Hello gatorbite, I really liked your imagines with Mark Grayson, could you do an imagine of Mark with a Male Reader who is a vampire?

Mark Grayson x vampire king male reader

Headcanons

Cooking my own headcanons for vampires, how else are they gonna go on cute dates on the beach as the sun goes down?? Ive been listening to abracadabra by Lady Gaga for days, its been keeping me sane.

Mark and the bad bitch he pulled by being a nerd. i had a lot of fun writing this, i would love to write more about these two, or more vampire reader,,,

You guys would first have met after he became a hero, sometime during season 2. Probably before he got Oliver but after his dad left the planet and Mark wanted to fix everything and started working with Cecil.

The GDA knew of your existence of course. You were the first ever vampire, created through horrible magic and rituals against your will. This meant you couldn’t die, even from the sun or a stake or silver.

Every other vampire someone would meet would come from you in some way. Or rather, they were bitten by someone who was bitten by someone, so on and so forth until it reached you, kinda like a disease. The further out you go, the wilder and more animalistic the vampires are.

The few vampires you have bitten and turned yourself are strong and can walk in sunlight, and have other otherworldly powers, but those they bite have weaker powers, etc etc. and all other vampires but you can die. As long as life and death exist, so will you.

How you guys meet can be a mixed bag, but the most plausible is that some rabid vampires have run wild somewhere, and Mark was sent to deal with them since his skin can’t be pierced by their fangs.

The vampires he encounters are naked, human-looking creatures with warped faces, a mouth full of sharp teeth, shark bat-like features and the like. The only thing human about them is their shape.

A nest of vampires has run wild, and as the so called “vampire king”, “vampire well” or even “first vampiric ancestor”, its your duty to take care of it when it gets out of hand.

At this point Mark isn’t at his strongest, so the nest of vampire spawn gain the upper hand. Even with super strength, its hard for Mark since he also doesn’t want to kill at this point, and these technically were humans once.

So, imagine Marks shock, as he’s being overpowered by hundreds of these creatures that are more instinct than sense, when these creatures are sliced in half and turn into dust.

As the vampire king you can teleport all over the planet, you could probably even warp other planets if you focused hard enough. You might have done that once or twice, leading to vampirism spreading to different parts of the universe… but nobody has to know that…

What you wear can be up for debate, do you wear something from the time you died? Something Victorian? Or modern? I can’t imagine you are too involved with the current fashion since time passes so fast for you, so maybe it’s a bit out of fashion. You still look great though.

Maybe it’s having been beaten so hard by the now dead spawn, or maybe it’s just your vampiric influence, but Mark finds himself blushing and breathing a little harder.

The first time you meet doesn’t lead to much other than you taking care of the spawn, apologizing to Mark for causing such a mess and telling him you will take more care of your offspring. Mark just kinda goes “yeah, okay, thanks man…” before passing out.

You end up teleporting mark back to the GDA, or wherever hes being brought, like to the new guardians or whatever. Because obviously none of their protection measures can keep you out. It’s only weaker vampires that need an invitation inside.

They are all pretty damn uncomfortable when you comment about how nice Marks blood smells, because being thousands of years old also means you don’t have any shame in stating the obvious.

You say hello to Immortal before leaving. Of course, you guys know each other, both being immortal and all that. You guys play cards at least once every ten years or so, sometimes more, sometimes less.

This is also why Immortal is the most chill about you showing up, coming and going as you please, and saying Mark smells delicious. You once said he smelled delicious too when you first met, the stronger the person the better their blood and all. Now you guys are friends though, in a way.

After that you guys meet every now and then, mainly because you take his interest and Immortals friendship as an invite to come and go as you please, like a big scary housecat dressed in black.

You also follow him around (stalk him pretty much), and maybe it’s just him secretly loving steamy vampire fanfiction, or some viltrumite instinct, but being hunted is exciting.

You guys finally starting to date would also happen at some random moment when you guys are alone. You would have known about Marks attraction from the very moment you met, but your cold unbeating heart had started warming up around him too.

All his rambling about heroes and fictional stories worked like a charm. The many many questions about vampires and pop culture was cute too. He couldn’t believe that the whole weak to garlic thing started as an inside joke amongst vampires and spread out, when it wasn’t even true.

Mark was positively shocked when the whole pop culture idea that being bitten felt good turned out to be true. Later you would explain it was all about intent and reception. If you wanted it to hurt and he feared you, then it would have hurt. But because he was a little freak who was really into it, then it brought pleasure.

Mark also never thought you would be able to bite through his skin, but you could. Only because of your whole, king of the vampires, first original vampire, deal. Any other vampire wouldn’t be able to bite through vultrumite skin.

Being able to rip through vultrumites will be useful later, and not needing to breathe and being able to fly as well. But that’s for later space adventures.

When the whole thing with Oliver happens, you are of course there to support Mark, but also his family. Cecil also knows not to fuck with you, because its all thanks to you that the dead don’t rise and come for him every single day.

This may mean it doesn’t end as badly as in season 3, or, Mark just has some more support, very powerful support that the GDA knows to fear. Because how is Cecil gonna manipulate the original manipulator? The one strong enough to bewitch the entire planet if he wanted to?

You also have a better time explaining morals and powers to Oliver, since you are still stronger than him at this point, so you can put him in his place when he needs it. Being nonhuman also helps a lot, since Oliver feels his power disconnects him from humanity.

This gives Mark some more room to find himself and settle, and yeah, I feel like him and his family end up moving into wherever you stay. Be it some massive gothic castle in Romania, or a Victorian mansion at the edge of a massive cliff in England, who knows.

Both because its safer, more comfortable, and they get to feel like they don’t always have to look over their shoulder.

You don’t survive the coffin allegations though, since you sleep in a grand one, and have at least 100 different coffins you switch between. Most were gifts from your spawn, or one or two from immortal as “congrats on living another hundred” gift. You gifted him weapons or houses in return.

Mark can’t sleep in the coffins with you, since he hates how claustrophobic it makes him. But he will sleep beside the coffin. You guys keep the lid pushed to the side enough for you to stick a hand out, so you guys can hold hands.

I feel like Oliver would thrive a lot under you and your spawns, since you keep your “children” in line. Being direct descendants of you means they are powerful enough to play and roughhouse with, but also help him train.

Mark trains with you instead, and it regularly ends up with him almost giggling and kicking his feet as you pin him down, barring his neck all “oh please, vampire king, please don’t bite me”.

It takes Debbie a while to settle in, but maybe she meets one of your spawn to gets on with well, or she doesn’t at all. Maybe she just takes the time to heal and find herself when she sees her sons are happy.

You end up getting the shovel talk from her though, which all your direct descendants peek around the corner of the doorway to watch. Somehow you look meek as she points a finger at you and tell you to treat her son right and with respect.

I haven’t read very far in the comics so I cant tell you what happens after this, but Mark will have you by his side when everything goes down, and that might help change it to a more positive outcome.

It might help to have a lover who isn’t held back by his humanity and morals. You are more than willing to turn entire planets into your mindless spawn if it means keeping your dear ones safe. It does lead to a horrible argument and Mark not talking to you for a while, but he forgives you at some point.

Reading his secret fanfic does help with that, even if it means you have to dress like a man from the current era, style your hair and stalk him when he sleeps (as if you don’t already do that).

Being a super ancient and rich vampire also means you can pile gifts on Mark, Oliver and Debbie. Mostly Mark, but you don’t want his kin to be left out. So, Mark gets to live out his nerdy dreams to the extreme.

You’ll remodel a whole part of your house for him if it comes down to it. Your direct spawn will coo at you becoming soft. You let them, for now, but you’ll get your revenge, especially seeing them all tied around the Grayson’s fingers too.

You are so used to dealing with the GDA that it also isn’t hard to keep them at bay, how are they gonna invade a place that’s existed longer than democracy? You will burn the whole place down if you have too. Anything for your nerdy little hero.

[scrivenger-grimgar]

ok actual ghost king xie lian hours now.

xie lian dies in that coffin, fully and wholly. repeated deaths wear his body down to the point where even the curse shackles cant bring him back.

his ghost body, that of a wrath, looks divine. his clothes are simple and white, golden stitching and patterns barely visible.

his fingers, once worn out, having repeatedly fallen off in his attempted escapes, are now made of gold.

all of his scars are filled with gold, in fact.

the hole through his chest, directly piercing his heart, flows over with gold and spreads out around his torso like shattered ceramic.

the flesh once covered by the cursed shackles is a line of gold, cracks flourishing like vines, under his jaw and up to his cheeks and eyes like tear tracks.

his lips once chapped and torn and bitten now shine gold under the sunlight.

his ears are pointed and he finds joy in wearing jewelry that jingle when he walks.

his red blood is now golden.

he makes his lair overtop of his grave, a cave that was only barely passable as a yong'an mausoleum, with no visible markers that anyone was buried there.

the blood from his hundred year burial infected the land around him for miles, and now its just as much his own as ruoye or fangxin. it listens and responds to him, and he can feel it move.

he still travels, but now he has somewhere to return to, and with his luck returned to normal, things are mostly fine.

instead he hosts markets in order to find cursed goods and keep them out of the hands of mortals. his lair is filled with so many cursed objects.

when he becomes a calamity, his motivation is to keep others from stumbling upon his lair and becoming hurt. as soon as he's out of the kiln he dissolves into gold dust and glitter, teleporting right back to his den and confusing the officials sent to observe him.

he still finds his human disguise being involved in the conflict between banyue and yong'an, and becoming general hua xie, and "dying" that same death.

his third ascension happens after he deals with a particularly nasty curse, he ascends in his human disguise which is basically just canon him. he gains the title as the martial god of curses and spells, which is quite accurate but he can't exactly tell people that he's been studying weird objects for centuries now can he? no one knows that he's the calamity known as White Gold Gathers...

[ruewritesoccasionally]

The "Almost" Moments | Terry Richmond

pairing: teacher!terry richmond x black!mom reader

warnings: fluff, fluff and more fluff

summary: a compilation of moments stolen and moments gained between terry and certain parent.

word count: 2.3K

a/n: request from my girl - @atasteofmir

The classroom buzzed with the soft hum of crayons scratching against paper and the occasional ripple of giggles from the reading corner. Terry knelt beside one of the desks, brow furrowed in concentration, but not with frustration. His large hands moved with careful precision as he adjusted a little girl’s grip on her pencil.

“There we go,” he murmured, voice gentle, thumb brushing lightly along her fingers to reposition them. “Nice and loose. Don’t strangle it, sweetheart - the pencil didn’t do anything wrong.”

She giggled at that, looking up at him with missing teeth and ink smudged on her cheek. He smiled back, fond and warm, then stood with a low groan - his knees weren’t what they used to be.

He moved from table to table like that, patient and soft-spoken, offering praise as naturally as he breathed. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, tie a little loose by now, as he crouched again to tie a stubborn shoelace for a boy who had already tried (and failed) three times.

“There,” he said, tugging the knot snug. “You’ll be zooming across the playground in no time.”

The boy grinned. “Thanks, Mr Richmond.”

Terry gave a wink, brushing the dust from his knees as he stood once more, taking in the room like he always did - a quiet headcount, a moment of peace.

That was when he saw her daughter - sat at the back, nose in her book, with her lunchbox already halfway unpacked though it wasn’t even close to break time. A bright snack pack peeked out from the zippered pouch, folded neatly, like everything else she touched.

Terry strolled over and crouched again, voice dropping just slightly.

“Did your mum pack this?” he asked, lifting the snack with a soft smile.

She nodded, not looking up from the book.

“She says you forget to eat. She said you’ll get all sleepy again.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, warmth blooming somewhere behind his ribs.

“Yeah? Guess I’ve been caught, huh?”

The little girl shrugged, matter of fact. “Mummy says teachers work too hard.”

Terry’s throat went tight for a moment. He looked down at the note tucked beside the snack - folded paper in her handwriting, looped and lovely.

It didn’t say much. Just Don’t skip lunch today - there’s more where that came from. And a tiny smiley face.

He tried not to overthink it - he really did. But he always knew when the snacks were from her. Thoughtful. Practical. Like she’d packed a bit of herself into them. Like she couldn’t help but be kind, even in the smallest, quietest ways.

Terry folded the note carefully and tucked it into his back pocket.

“Tell your mum thank you,” he said softly. “That was really nice of her.”

The little girl didn’t look up, but she smiled.

“I think she likes you.”

Terry froze, caught mid-step as he rose.

His heart gave a stupid little thump.

“Oh, yeah?” he managed.

“Mmhm,” she said, still reading. “She smiles more on school days.”

He didn’t know what to say to that -  so he just ruffled her hair gently and turned back toward the front of the room, the corners of his mouth twitching with something he wasn’t ready to name.

Not yet.

The school day wound down the way it always did - with mismatched mittens, forgotten jumpers, and high-pitched goodbyes that echoed down the hallway like bird calls. One by one, the kids filtered out in a flurry of backpacks and brightly coloured coats, trailing crayon drawings and half-finished crafts in their wake.

Terry stood by the classroom door with a soft smile, shoulder leaned lazily against the frame. He offered gentle waves to parents as they passed, bending occasionally to help zip up coats or remind a child not to forget their bookbag again. It was quieting down now, just a few stragglers left - including her little one, who sat cross-legged by the reading corner, humming to herself as she flipped through the same book from earlier.

She was always one of the last.

Terry didn’t mind.

He turned back toward the girl just as the familiar creak of the hallway door opened behind him - and there she was, breathless and radiant.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, brushing wind-blown hair from her face with one hand, her coat half-buttoned and cheeks a little flushed from the outside chill. “Got caught in traffic after a meeting.”

He straightened without meaning to, suddenly far too aware of the way his tie was crooked, and his sleeves had wrinkled. Her voice - low and warm, just the slightest bit husky - wrapped around his name like something intimate.

“Thank you for staying back, Mr Richmond.”

That did something to him.

The way she said it - like it was a private joke, soft on the edges, a little playful - made something twist low in his chest. Made him forget whatever he'd planned to say. She probably didn’t even realise the effect she had on him. Or maybe she did.

“No trouble at all,” he managed, voice a shade deeper than usual. “She’s been good as gold today. Kept me company.”

Her eyes crinkled when she smiled - tired, but so bright it made his brain short-circuit for a second.

“She always says you’re her favourite teacher,” she said lightly, stepping into the room. “I think you’ve ruined every other grade for her.”

Terry chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as her daughter bounded up and clung to her legs.

“I’ll try not to let it go to my head,” he replied, but his eyes lingered, just a little too long - on the way her hand curled instinctively around her daughter’s hair, stroking it absent-mindedly as they chatted.

She wasn’t dressed up, not really. Just work trousers and a jumper, sensible boots, a scarf loose around her neck. But Terry noticed everything - the faint scent of something floral when she stepped a little closer, the curve of her mouth when she laughed, the way she looked at her child like nothing else in the world mattered.

He felt like a fool.

“Have a good weekend, Mr Richmond,” she said eventually, gathering the little girl’s bag over one shoulder. “Don’t forget your snack, by the way. She’ll ask if you ate it.”

He smiled, half shy. “Tell her I saved the note.”

That made her pause, just a heartbeat and when she looked at him again, her eyes had softened.

“Did you?” she asked.

He nodded, quiet. “Made my whole morning.”

There was a beat of something unsaid between them. Then she nodded once, almost bashful.

“See you Monday,” she murmured.

And just like that, she was gone - hand in hand with her daughter, coat fluttering behind her as they disappeared down the corridor.

Terry stood there for a long moment, staring at the space she’d just occupied.

God help him.

Another day followed on from that; the classroom had settled into its midday rhythm — a soft hum of little voices, crinkling wrappers, and juice cartons clicking open. Terry sat behind his desk, half-pretending to mark some worksheets, but mostly just keeping an eye on the room.

He didn’t usually eat much during lunch - too busy making sure sticky fingers weren’t painting the tables or someone wasn’t trying to trade a banana for five gummy bears.

But today, there it was, a little lunchbox tucked neatly on the edge of his desk. Something about it made him pause.

Inside, he found a granola bar and a sandwich wrapped in parchment. Nestled on top, folded in half, was a small note in soft purple ink:

“Just in case you forget again. Don’t make me send a full meal prep next time. — M.”

Terry stared for a second longer than he meant to. His lips curved, slow and helpless.

He didn’t need to read it twice to know who it was from. Terry laughed softly, his throat suddenly tight. The sound was gentle, almost fond, like it came from somewhere deep in his chest.

He unwrapped the sandwich carefully, like it might fall apart if he rushed. Like it meant more than it should.

Because, honestly, it did.

He felt ridiculous, a grown man undone by peanut butter and a granola bar -  but there was something about her thoughtfulness that clung to him all afternoon.

It stayed with him through phonics and finger painting, through storytime and scribbled spelling tests.

And when the end of the day finally came and he heard her voice in the doorway again, saying his name in that low, warm way that twisted something inside him?

He was already gone.

The school car park was nearly empty, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. Most of the parents had already come and gone, but she’d stayed behind, chatting briefly with the headteacher before emerging with a box in her arms - supplies for the bake sale, if he remembered correctly.

Terry spotted her from across the lot, and before his brain caught up, his body was already moving.

“Let me help you with that,” he offered, reaching for the box just as she adjusted it against her chest.

Their fingers brushed, warm skin on skin, and the touch was brief, but electric. It grounded him and rattled him all at once.

“Oh thank you,” she said, letting him take the weight from her arms. She smiled, a little flustered, and pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Then, for the first time, she said it.

“Thank you, Terry.”

His name on her lips - not Mr Richmond, not the usual school-friendly courtesy, but soft. Familiar. Like she’d been holding onto it for a while and finally decided to use it.

He almost dropped the box.

Almost said something stupid.

Almost kissed her then and there.

But instead, he just swallowed hard and nodded, carrying the box to her car in silence while trying not to fall apart completely.

Because that name, from her, meant something.

And now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

It had started drizzling just after lunch, a slow, misty rain that made the whole building feel quieter somehow. Terry noticed her daughter wasn’t her usual cheerful self. Her face was drained, movements sluggish. One of the teaching assistants offered to escort her to the front office, but Terry had already set down his clipboard.

“I’ll take her,” he said, gently resting a hand on the child’s shoulder. “Come on, sweetheart.”

He walked slowly, crouching to her level to make sure she was alright, every step a small ache in his chest. When they reached the office, he didn’t hand the phone to the receptionist - he called her himself.

He told himself it was to be thorough. Just protocol.

But truthfully? He just wanted to hear her voice.

She answered on the second ring, worry already thick in her tone. And twenty minutes later, she arrived - a blur of damp curls and a dripping umbrella, the rain clinging to her coat like silver.

She burst into the room, eyes wide and scanning. “Sweetheart, are you alright?”

Terry stood to the side, hands in his pockets, trying to act composed. Her daughter perked up a little at the sight of her, nestling into the familiar comfort of her mother’s arms.

But Terry couldn’t look away.

God, she was beautiful. Hair damp, cheeks warm, eyes full of love and worry. And she was right here, inches from him and he wanted to wrap her in his embrace. Shelter her from more than just the rain.

She glanced up and caught him watching.

He offered her a small, reassuring smile. “She’ll be just fine,” he said gently. “I thought you’d want to know right away.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to say something. Maybe thank him. Maybe something more.

But then the receptionist spoke, breaking the moment.

And Terry was left standing there, heart pounding, soaked in everything he couldn’t say.

Friday rolled around, almost too soon – Terry loved the weekend of rest ahead always spent those two days missing the buzz of chatter. The last parent had left twenty minutes ago. The halls had fallen quiet, the buzzing lights overhead the only sound left. Terry stood near the classroom door, flipping aimlessly through some worksheets, pretending he wasn’t waiting.

Then her heels clicked down the corridor.

She looked a little windblown, like she’d rushed to make it in time, cheeks flushed from the evening chill. He straightened without thinking.

“Sorry I’m late,” she murmured, her voice low, her smile soft. “Didn’t want to miss the chance to check in.”

She stayed for longer than necessary. They talked, about her daughter, about the school fundraiser, about nothing at all. The air grew heavy with something neither of them named, something that had been building since the first day she said his name with that teasing lilt.

She leaned a little closer when she laughed. His hand brushed hers once when passing her a newsletter. Neither of them mentioned it.

As they lingered by the door, her eyes lingered too.

“You’re good with them,” she said softly, gaze dipping to his mouth and back. “But you’re terrible at hiding a crush.”

Terry blinked, caught completely off guard. “That obvious, huh?”

“A little.” She grinned, slow and warm and absolutely stunning.

And then - bold, quick, she leaned in and kissed him.

Not quite on the mouth. But not quite not, either.

Just enough to make him lose his breath.

“I’ll see you Monday, Mr Richmond,” she whispered, her smile a secret just for him.

And with that, she turned and walked away, heels clicking, curls bouncing, like she hadn’t just wrecked his whole night with five syllables and a kiss that wasn’t quite innocent.

Terry stood frozen for a second, blinking.

Then leaned against the doorframe, dazed and grinning, like a man who’d just been hit by something divine.

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[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Eight

CW: Drinking (ish)

WC: 7k

Notes: 29383828 hours of studying later and here we are. Please leave thoughts/reactions I live for them

They left Colorado on a private flight as the sun was barely stretching over the mountains, soft morning light spilling through the clouds like it didn’t know what kind of weight the next few weeks would carry.

Azzi didn’t sleep much on the plane. Paige did. Or pretended to. Hood up, headphones in, her long legs stretched out with that practiced ease only athletes carried — like she knew her body was a machine and she knew when to shut it down. Azzi didn’t bother pretending. Her mind was too loud.

By the time they touched down in the Netherlands, Paige had reassembled herself.

It was kind of incredible, honestly. Less than twelve hours ago, Azzi had her hands tangled in Paige’s sweatshirt and her name caught in Paige’s throat, all softness and low gasps in the dark. And now here Paige was — hair tied up, sunglasses on, gear bag slung over her shoulder like she was walking into war — completely locked in. A full reset. Like she’d flipped a switch somewhere over the Atlantic and become Ferrari’s golden girl again.

Part of Azzi admired it. The other part… well. The other part watched too closely, wondering if maybe Paige flipped that switch a little too easily sometimes.

They didn’t talk much once they got to the paddock. They didn’t really need to. It was Thursday — track walk, media, data briefings, and updates from the engineers. Azzi dove into her own schedule without hesitation, greeting a few familiar faces, nodding at the camera crew hovering around the hospitality building.

Ferrari’s garage was already humming with activity by the time she stepped in. Mechanics hunched over laptops, engineers wheeling tires into place. She could smell brake dust and rubber. It felt good — sharp and focused — even if the air was heavier than Colorado’s. More humid. The track at Zandvoort was tight and technical, the banks more old-school than she preferred, but she didn’t mind the challenge. She never had.

Mateo found her near the back of the garage, arms folded, eyes scanning the rear wing on the new spec. His ever-present clipboard in hand.

“Welcome back, Champion,” he greeted, voice dry but fond. “How’s the altitude detox?”

Azzi gave him a look, one brow raised. “We were in the mountains, not Mars.”

“Still,” he shrugged, scribbling something onto a tablet. “Glad you survived.”

He said it casually, but his eyes flicked up just a beat slower than usual. The not-so-subtle question was there, right beneath the surface: How was your break? Who were you with?

Azzi didn’t bite. She just lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug and turned back to the car. “Didn’t forget how to drive, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Mateo smirked. “Wouldn’t dare suggest it.”

They walked through the changes together — revised floor, some rear suspension tweaks, and updates to the diffuser they’d been testing in the sim. Small gains, mostly. They weren’t expecting to dominate this weekend, not with Red Bull’s pace at this circuit. Zandvoort had always been their guy’s playground. The orange-clad home crowd would make sure of that.

Ferrari’s real target was Monza. That much was clear from the way everything was framed — “data for next week,” “building confidence in the new package,” “testing race pace over quali speed.”

Fine. Azzi could play the long game. She always had.

She was mid-way through some telemetry comparisons with Mateo when she caught the tail end of movement across the garage — just enough to draw her attention.

Paige.

Standing in the opposite corner, talking to Luka, her posture easy but attentive, one hand gesturing slightly while the other held her drink bottle. The headphones she always wore before debriefs sat loose around her neck, and the red of her Ferrari polo hugged her biceps in that stupid, unfair way that made Azzi glance too long.

There was a faint sheen of heat in the air — maybe from the track, maybe from jet lag — but Azzi felt it anyway. A flicker low in her spine.

She looked good. That was the problem.

Azzi looked away before her stare could become obvious.

Mateo was still talking, oblivious. “We’ll get the baseline this afternoon, and I’ll push the long-run setup to the sim files tonight.”

Azzi nodded, lips pressed together.

And then — because of course — she caught movement again.

Dirk.

Dirk van der Meer — with his annoyingly symmetrical face and stupidly strong jawline and that half-foreign, half-familiar charm that always made the media swoon. He was lingering just outside the Red Bull hospitality tent, talking to someone from Alpine but looking way too comfortable doing it. He spotted her, of course. He always did. Gave her that little two-fingered salute like he thought he was clever.

She didn’t return it.

Instead, she turned back to the car and focused on what actually mattered — the downforce data, the tires they’d be testing in practice, the mounting pressure of being Ferrari’s two-time champion while still having to chase Red Bull every other weekend.

But it still gnawed at her.

Dirk. Paige — with her jaw set like she hadn’t just spent a week letting Azzi drag her back to bed every morning.

It was stupid. She knew it was stupid. Paige wasn’t her girlfriend. Dirk wasn’t Paige’s boyfriend. None of it meant anything. They were all just doing their jobs.

But Azzi couldn’t shake the feeling crawling under her skin — the tightness in her chest, the flare of something ugly and sharp every time Dirk smiled at Paige like that, every time she caught him looking over with that faint, knowing smirk.

They hadn’t even been back a full day and the game face was already back on. Paige was composed, professional, unreadable. Azzi couldn’t decide if it was impressive or just… a little sad.

And maybe that was the thing that bothered her most.

Because under all of it — the jealousy, the tension, the stupid tightness in her jaw — was the knowledge that if Paige looked at her right now, Azzi wouldn’t be able to hide a damn thing.

–

Friday at Zandvoort was unremarkable, which, in Formula One, was almost worse than a disaster.

Practice One and Two came and went in a blur of engine notes, tire graining, and the occasional puff of beachside sand swirling into the corners. The Ferrari was… fine. Balanced enough to keep the rear from sliding, but not punchy. Not aggressive. Not what they’d need to really fight at the front.

It was clear from the first stint that this wasn’t their weekend. At least not yet.

Azzi felt it in every corner — the way she had to fight for grip, the way the rear end drifted just slightly out of sync with her hands. She didn’t complain. Mateo knew. Everyone did. This wasn’t a race car built for Zandvoort. It was a placeholder — a test bed. All eyes were already on Monza.

Which meant this weekend was about staying clean. Stay sharp. Collect data. Don’t crash. She could do that. She had done that, season after season. But it didn’t mean she liked it.

Paige, naturally, said nothing. Not to her, anyway. They’d exchanged a few clipped words in the garage between runs — tire temps, brake feedback, pressure settings. All technical. All safe. Nothing that touched anything real.

Azzi didn’t know if it was the car or the heat or the jet lag, but something felt off in the garage. Disconnected.

Even when Paige was only a few meters away, helmet under one arm, hair damp with sweat at her temples — she still felt too far.

And Azzi didn’t like that.

She didn’t say anything, of course. Not with the team crowding around, not with engineers sticking mics into their faces and media staff ushering them toward interviews. So she kept her head down. She signed the papers. She gave the sound bites. And when it was finally over — when the day had burned itself out and the sun dipped low behind the dunes — Dr. Liao’s assistant found them in the paddock.

Just a routine check. A post-break wellness evaluation. For both of them.

Which was fine. Boring, even. Azzi had nothing to report. She’d gotten sleep, eaten well, even managed a few hikes in Colorado that didn’t leave her knees screaming. Her vitals were perfect. No issues, no fatigue. Dr. Liao nodded, pleased, and made a note on her tablet.

And then it was Paige’s turn.

Dr. Liao was gentle, but thorough. There was history to consider — Paige’s crash before the summer break had almost been enough to warrant concussion protocol (It should have. Paige just ignored the doctors). She’d been cleared for this race, obviously. Otherwise she wouldn’t be in the car. But Liao still asked the questions.

“How’s your head?”

“Fine,” Paige said, without hesitation.

“Any nausea? Sensitivity to light?”

“No.”

“Sleep disruptions?”

“No.”

“Memory issues?”

“No.”

Dr. Liao studied her for a second. Paige’s expression didn’t move.

Azzi did her best not to roll her eyes.

Because Paige was lying. Not about everything — but enough. Enough for Azzi to know she was brushing symptoms under the rug. She’d seen the way Paige blinked harder under the bright lights in the garage. The way she’d rubbed the bridge of her nose after second practice. The tightness in her jaw when she thought no one was looking.

Azzi knew Paige. Knew how good she was at convincing people she was fine even when she wasn’t.

And it pissed her off. Just a little.

But she stayed quiet.

Eventually, Dr. Liao cleared her, if only with a subtle note to monitor and check again after Quali. And just like that, the session was over.

They walked out into the narrow hallway between medical and hospitality, neither of them saying much. The sun was setting fast now, slanting gold through the paddock windows.

Azzi was halfway through reaching for her phone when Paige said quietly, “Can we get food?”

Azzi blinked, a little surprised. Paige didn’t look at her — not directly. Just kept walking, slowly, voice a notch lower than usual.

It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t even really a suggestion. More like a reach.

Azzi studied her for a beat. Paige was tired — she could see it now, beneath the bravado and the sunglasses and the pressed polo. Her shoulders were still tense from the car, and her eyes had that faint glaze that came from staring at telemetry for hours.

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. There’s a restaurant in the hotel.”

“Okay,” Paige said, and something about the way her voice dropped again — quiet, like relief — made Azzi’s chest go warm and tight at the same time.

They didn’t talk as they made their way to the car. They didn’t need to.

But something had shifted — small, subtle. Like a gear had finally clicked back into place.

Azzi didn’t know what Paige would say over dinner. If she’d finally open up. If she’d deflect and pretend like always.

But for the first time all day, she didn’t feel like she was driving alone.

–

They ended up not bothering with the restaurant.

Paige had looked at the elevator buttons like they were a puzzle she didn’t have the energy to solve, and Azzi didn’t feel like pretending to enjoy lukewarm hotel pasta while surrounded by stiff-backed diners and wandering photographers.

Instead, they took the quiet route: room service menus tossed onto the bed, shoes kicked off in opposite corners, and phones left somewhere between the floor and the windowsill.

Azzi’s room was on the twelfth floor. Not penthouse, but close. High enough to see the curve of the sea on clear days. Tonight it was dark, low clouds rolling in over the dunes. The sky looked heavy.

Their food came in less than twenty minutes, wheeled in by a teenager who looked like he was trying not to trip over his own feet at the sight of two Ferrari drivers sharing a hotel room. Paige tipped him before Azzi could move. She didn’t say anything about it.

Dinner was unremarkable — a grilled chicken sandwich for Paige, a salad bowl for Azzi that she only ate half of. Neither of them was particularly hungry. Not really. It was just a thing to do with their hands. Something to fill the space.

Azzi didn’t ask until Paige had finished most of her sandwich. Her head was leaned back against the headboard, one leg bent, hotel slippers on. The sleeves of her polo were rolled just slightly up her arms. It looked natural. Comfortable.

Azzi set her fork down.

“So,” she said, quiet, careful. “Headaches are better, huh?”

Paige blinked. Her jaw shifted like she was debating whether to lie again.

“They’re not gone,” she said finally. “But yeah. A lot better.”

Azzi watched her. “And the light stuff?”

Paige hesitated. “Still happens sometimes.”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. That one lingers.”

She wasn’t saying it just to say it. She’d had a concussion once — Suzuka, her first year in F1. A tire wall, a misjudged braking point, and three days of brutal nausea and floating vision. She hadn’t admitted it at the time, of course. But she’d remembered the way it felt. The way it stayed.

Paige didn’t say much else. She just pushed her plate a few inches away and leaned back again, letting her phone rest flat on her stomach.

Azzi didn’t push. She could tell Paige was spent — not in the physical way, but that mental burnt-out silence she slipped into when her brain had been on fire all day and needed something stupid to cool it off.

Sure enough, within a few minutes, Paige was on TikTok. Earbuds in. One in, one out. Azzi didn’t even notice at first, until Paige snorted — an actual laugh, low and surprised — and nudged her foot.

Azzi looked over.

“What?”

Paige turned the phone toward her, grinning faintly. “Someone made an edit.”

Azzi squinted at the screen. It was an F1 fancam — clips of the two of them stitched together to some overdramatic song about tension and unsaid feelings. Garage glances. Post-race hugs. Press conference smirks. All edited in glossy, high-contrast color correction and captioned in shaky all-caps.

Azzi leaned closer, chewing the inside of her cheek as she read.

Paige tapped the caption. “Read it.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but obliged, deadpan: “they hate each other so bad that it’s sexy as hell.”

Paige broke into a full laugh then — not loud, but real. Her head tilted back against the headboard, and she smiled like it wasn’t something she had to think about.

Azzi didn’t laugh, but she smiled too.

She didn’t know what this was — them, like this. Quiet. Not fighting. Not faking. Just… here.

It wasn’t complicated. But maybe it was something.

She didn’t need a caption to tell her that.

–

Race day at Zandvoort was uneventful, which, in Formula One terms, was nearly a gift.

No crashes. No surprise rain. No pit stop disasters or last-lap tire blowouts. Just a clean, controlled 72 laps around a twisty Dutch circuit with more orange smoke than actual drama.

Paige finished fourth. Azzi, fifth.

It wasn’t great. But it wasn’t bad either.

The team radios had been calm, almost boring. Fred had come over the line once — just once — with an even-toned directive: Hold positions. No fighting.

Paige had been ahead by a few seconds at that point. Azzi could’ve pushed. Would’ve, maybe, on a different weekend. But her tires weren’t fresh and her car wasn’t magic and she knew when to live to fight another day. So she sat behind her teammate and took the points.

22 total for Ferrari. Solid haul.

But now? Now they were back in the paddock, the post-race haze still clinging to their skin and hair like sweat and champagne residue, and the meeting room smelled like engine oil and air conditioning.

Azzi sat in the middle of a long glass table, hair still damp from her driver’s room shower, Mateo on one side of her, Fred on the other. Across the table sat Paige, elbow on the armrest, eyes half-lidded like she was bored already. Luka leaned in to speak to her every so often, murmuring something Azzi couldn’t hear.

Fred cleared his throat.

“Monza,” he said, which was the only word necessary to command the room’s attention. “We’ve got the car. And we’ve got the drivers.”

The weight of that hung for a second.

Azzi knew what it meant. So did Paige. They’d been in this position before, only not quite like this. Not with the standings as tight as they were. Not with Ferrari actually expecting them to win, not hoping.

Paige had scored more points in the Netherlands. Which meant that now — after months of clawing her way up — she was one single championship point behind Azzi.

One.

Azzi should’ve felt threatened, probably. But she didn’t. Not really. If anything, she felt… awake. Like the season was finally breathing down their necks for real.

Fred continued. “You know how important Monza is. You know what it means to this team. This car was built for the straights — we’ve been saying it all year. You two kept it clean today, and that’s good. But Monza’s not about clean. It’s about finishing first.”

He paused. “And second.”

Azzi felt the burn of it — that Ferrari expectation. It wasn’t new. But it was heavy in a way that always seemed heavier here, in red, under the weight of a tifosi-filled grandstand and every Italian sponsor who fancied themselves a team principal for the weekend.

“There are going to be eyes on us,” Fred said. “From inside and out. We need results.”

Mateo nodded beside her, sliding his tablet around to show some figures — wind tunnel improvements, tweaks to the rear wing, the new engine mapping that would open them up on the DRS straights. Azzi took it in, quiet but sharp-eyed.

Paige didn’t ask questions, but Azzi could see her tapping a pattern against her thigh — a tiny rhythm she only did when she was deep in her own head.

Fred looked at them both now.

“You two have gotten good at toeing the line,” he said. “But Monza’s not about points anymore. Not about strategy. Not this year.”

He looked at Paige. “If you’re ahead, finish ahead.”

Then to Azzi. “If you’re ahead, stay ahead.”

Azzi just nodded. There wasn’t much to say.

When the meeting wrapped, the engineers peeled off first, muttering to each other about sim time and cooling ducts. Fred stood, gave them a final nod, and left without ceremony — the kind of exit that told you he expected them to deliver without needing a damn pep talk.

It was just the two of them now. Azzi and Paige. Left behind in a room that had gone quiet too fast.

Paige pushed her chair back and stood, arms crossed, still looking every bit like the girl who’d just driven an entire race without breaking a sweat.

Azzi raised an eyebrow.

“Fourth place,” she said.

Paige smirked. “You’re welcome for the points.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “I could’ve taken you.”

“Yeah?” Paige tilted her head. “Guess we’ll never know.”

The thing was — Azzi knew she was right.

But Monza was coming. Home turf. Flat-out speed. And only one point between them now.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

–

The air in Monza buzzed different.

Not louder. Not even heavier. Just… sharper. Finer. Like the entire track had been scrubbed down to the grain and polished in Ferrari red, every sound bouncing twice off the barriers and settling in the bones. This wasn’t just another Grand Prix. This was the Grand Prix.

Home race. Temple of Speed. The place where miracles happened and legends were made or broken at the apex of Parabolica.

Azzi knew the pressure before she even landed. Knew it in the pit of her stomach, the way she always knew things she didn’t need to be told. The whispers. The media tension. The sponsors with private suites and fake smiles. The team principals who circled like hawks around each garage.

She handled it. She always did.

So did Paige.

That was the thing — whatever they’d done in the break, whatever they’d said or hadn’t said, they were back to being what they’d always been on track. Razor-edged and separate. Focused. Locked in. Like nothing else existed the second the helmet went on.

And the helmets — God, the helmets. Ferrari had let them pick the colors this weekend, in honor of the near-all-white car that paid tribute to the Scuderia’s earliest years. A throwback. An homage. Whatever you wanted to call it.

Azzi’s helmet was soft pink with white accents, clean and subtle, sharp where it needed to be. She hadn’t told anyone why she’d chosen pink. She didn’t need to.

Paige’s was lilac — almost silver under the Monza sun. Not loud. Just… unexpected. Understated. Cool. Very Paige.

Together, in their white fireproofs and red accents, they looked like two halves of something calculated.

Qualifying day brought with it a heat that shimmered off the asphalt like a dare. Azzi stood at the edge of the garage, engine rumble in her chest, helmet under one arm, watching the clouds hover behind the paddock. They weren’t going to interfere. They were just there to spectate, like everyone else.

The Ferrari was fast.

Shockingly fast.

They’d expected improvements — Monza was the race the car had been built for — but this? This was something else. This was a weapon on wheels. The straight-line speed alone was enough to punch a hole in the air and never look back.

Azzi felt it in Free Practice. So did Paige. The lap times were low. The tire wear was minimal. They weren’t fighting the track — they were floating over it, slicing through turns 6 and 7 like they had grip written into their blood.

But qualifying was a different beast.

First run went well. Clean. Azzi went fastest initially, but she knew it wouldn’t last. Paige hadn’t even gone out yet. Luka always held her back for traffic. Mateo glanced at Azzi after her run and gave her the familiar, unreadable engineer nod. The one that said, “Good, but don’t get comfortable.”

Second run, Q2, they were within two-tenths of each other. Azzi was smoother through turn 10. Paige was faster on the straight. They both knew it, even if no one said anything.

Then came Q3.

The big show.

Azzi went out first, nailed every sector, and took provisional pole.

The lap had felt like silk. Perfect entry into Turn One. No wobble through turns 4 or 5. The rear stuck like glue into turn 7 and opened up like a dream into the straight. It was the kind of lap that made you believe in the car, in the team, in yourself.

She parked it in the pit box and took off her gloves, eyes flicking to the screen.

Purple, purple, purple.

For now.

Then Paige went out.

Azzi didn’t need the timing monitor to know it was a good lap. She could feel it — from the sound of the throttle, the way the garage fell silent, every mechanic and engineer listening with the kind of reverence they usually saved for podiums.

Then the board lit up.

Purple, purple, purple.

Final sector: fastest of anyone. By two-hundredths.

Pole position: Paige Bueckers.

Azzi let out a breath. Didn’t even realize she’d been holding it.

On the other side of the garage, Paige pulled in, visor still down, engine ticking as it cooled. Luka came over the radio and said something only she could hear, but whatever it was made her laugh — quick and short and low.

She climbed out of the car like she’d just walked off a street corner. Calm. Loose. The purple helmet under one arm like it belonged there.

Azzi watched her from the monitor wall. Just for a second.

She wasn’t angry. Not exactly. Pole was pole. It could’ve been either of them. But the way Paige looked right now — like she expected it — made something churn low in her stomach.

Confidence was dangerous.

Paige had it in spades.

And tomorrow, they’d both have clean air.

Front row, Ferrari one-two.

Monza.

Game on.

–

The Monza crowd was electric, and the Ferraris lit the fuse.

It had started clean. Paige on pole. Azzi beside her. Front row. Home race. Red everywhere. Real red — the kind that lived in flags and banners, not just sponsorship decals. The kind of red that vibrated when the engines started and roared like a religion when the lights went out.

The first corner was textbook. Azzi tucked in right behind Paige, both Ferraris making it through the chicane without drama, the McLarens too far back to threaten. From there, it was clear: this wasn’t going to be a race for position. This was a race for pride. For the championship lead. For each other.

Lap after lap, they pushed. Hard. The kind of hard that made your hands sweat inside your gloves. That made your neck ache in the third stint. That made the team radios go quieter, not louder, because the engineers knew they couldn’t really manage them right now. They could only monitor.

“Paige’s pace looks like a one-stop,” Mateo said into Azzi’s ear around lap twelve. “She’s starting to lift through turn 10.”

Azzi didn’t answer at first. She was adjusting a brake bias setting with one hand and flicking her DRS closed with the other. Her eyes were locked on the faint shimmer of red in the distance — Paige, just outside the DRS window. She had been there for five laps. No closer. No farther.

“Copy,” Azzi said eventually. “Tell me when she boxes. I’ll follow.”

A beat. Then Mateo, dry: “You two should probably just get married.”

Azzi snorted. “I’ll propose if I pass her in pit lane.”

They went with the one-stop.

It wasn’t strategic genius — just a necessity. The car was quick on mediums, and track position mattered here more than almost anywhere. The McLarens were falling behind. Ten seconds. Then fifteen. This race was theirs alone.

Azzi finally got close again on lap twenty-four, just before the stops. Paige had been backing her up subtly, taking the corners wider, slowing entry speed to ruin her air. But Azzi knew the tricks. She’d done the same to Paige in Austria.

She ducked around the outside in turn 7 and nearly made it stick. The rear of the car twitched just slightly, the gravel taunting her, and Paige closed the door — not aggressively, just enough to remind Azzi who had track position.

They pitted one lap apart. Paige first. Azzi right after.

The outlaps were chaos — warm tires, heavy fuel still, and just enough wind picking up at Turn Three to make the front wing feel loose.

Azzi came out behind again. Just behind.

And then the race became something else.

It was the kind of fight they hadn’t had in months. Since Miami, before the break. Before hotel rooms and private flights and secrets. Before TikToks made them go viral for sharing water bottles and brushing shoulders in the garage. Before the way Azzi looked at Paige had changed from rivalry to… whatever this was.

They raced clean, but hard. There were no team orders. None would’ve been followed anyway.

Paige left space. Azzi took it. Azzi attacked through turn four and Paige held her off in turn ten. Then Paige defended into Turn One and Azzi nearly dove on her. Inches apart, no contact. Pure trust. Or something close to it.

They swapped positions twice more — once through sheer ERS timing, and once because Azzi went purple in sector two and Mateo told her to “stop playing nice.”

But Paige was holding something back. Always, always holding something back. She’d been nursing her tires for twenty laps and it showed in the final five. Her car came alive again just as Azzi’s started to slip.

The last lap came fast. Too fast.

Azzi was in DRS range but only just. She caught the rear wing coming out of the second Lesmo and knew that if she didn’t go for it in turn 11, she wasn’t going to get the chance again.

She lined it up. Wide entry. Early throttle.

But Paige had launched earlier. Perfect exit. Enough to keep her ahead.

Azzi crossed the finish line three-tenths behind her.

Three-tenths.

Close enough to taste the carbon dust from Paige’s rear wing. Close enough to count the track marbles dotting her diffuser. But not close enough.

Still, the fans loved it.

The whole straight erupted in applause. For Ferrari. For both of them.

And Azzi, hands on the wheel, staring at the cool-down screen in front of her, finally exhaled. The kind of breath you didn’t know you were holding until the checkered flag waved.

Mateo came over the radio.

“2nd. Amazing drive, Az. You gave her hell.”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She just let the silence fill the cockpit.

Then: “She’s the leader now, yeah?”

“Yes,” Mateo said. “We’ll think about that next week.”

Azzi nodded once, not that anyone could see it. “Alright. Next week.”

–

The post-race media was exhausting. It always was at Monza. Flashbulbs, press pens, microphones shoved in every direction. Paige handled it like she always did — calm, smiling, hands on hips in her race suit with the light purple helmet at her feet. She didn’t gloat. Didn’t need to.

Azzi kept it tight. Professional. Said all the right things.

“We raced hard. That’s what people want to see.”

“Yes, I think we can bounce back.”

“I’m proud of the team. The car was incredible.”

And then finally, they were done.

The sun was starting to dip behind the paddock towers when Luka found them in the debrief room and tossed a folded piece of paper onto the table. “There’s a party tonight,” he said. “Private one. Team only. Some important sponsors are coming. You two are expected.”

Paige looked up from her water bottle. “Expected?”

“Celebration,” Luka said, shrugging. “It’s Monza. We won.”

Azzi met Paige’s eyes across the table.

It wasn’t about the race anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

A party, then.

Jew a few points between them.

One week off.

And a long season left to go.

–

The Monza night was warm, the kind that clung to your skin even after the sun had gone down. Somewhere beyond the Ferrari hospitality suite, fans still lined the fences, hoping for one last glimpse of the red suits, the miracle lap, the miracle finish. But inside the party, it was just team now — team and sponsors, catered food and strong drinks, and a playlist that hadn’t been updated since the 2010s.

Azzi stood near the long bar, sleeves of her Ferrari sweatshirt shoved halfway up her forearms, a pair of black shorts stopping just above her mid thigh. Her hair was still a little damp from the shower she’d taken post-race, and there was something about the hum of the celebration that didn’t quite touch her.

Paige was close. As she always was lately.

Not in a clingy way. Not in a way that screamed anything specific. Just… close enough that Azzi noticed when she stepped away to grab another drink, and close enough that she noticed when Paige came back without one.

Paige didn’t party with coworkers. That was something Azzi was learning. Oh, she could party — she’d seen it firsthand in Colorado. Paige had game when she wanted it. But this? With engineers in polos and sponsors in button-downs and camera phones sneaking in between fake toasts? Paige wasn’t at home here.

So she stayed close.

They made their rounds — smiled for a few pictures, shook hands with people who pretended to know what “tire deg” meant, accepted compliments from VIPs who asked the same questions in slightly different accents. Azzi took a few sips of a spritz she didn’t really want. Paige nursed a bottle of water like she was keeping score.

Their PR director eventually approached, all efficient smiles and phone in hand. “Can I borrow you both for just a minute?” she said, motioning toward a side area where a few higher-ups had gathered.

Azzi knew what that meant.

She didn’t expect Dirk van Asshole to be standing there when they arrived.

But of course he was. Hair pushed back like a 90s teen idol, linen shirt unbuttoned to an offensive degree, watch too big and too gold. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something that definitely wasn’t water. He smiled too easily, like he thought they were all in on a joke that didn’t exist.

“Azzi,” he said, stepping in with the kind of friendliness that made her want to physically recoil. “What a race.”

“Thanks,” she said, too flat to hide it.

“And Paige,” he added, like he was just remembering her name. “What a finish. I mean — we all thought Azzi had it in the bag.”

Paige’s smile didn’t move. “Guess not.”

Dirk laughed, too loud. “Well. She’s still the people’s champion, yeah? Always a favorite.”

Azzi felt Paige glance her way. One of those side glances that wasn’t really a glance at all. More like a signal.

Get me out of here.

Azzi didn’t hesitate. She blinked slowly, dropped her gaze to the floor like she was trying to focus, then lifted a hand to her forehead.

“Sorry,” she said quietly. “Headache. I think… I think I need to sit down.”

Dirk’s eyes widened — just enough to confirm the trick worked. “Totally fine. You’ve had a long day. I’ll grab you some water.”

“No need,” Paige said quickly, hand already grazing Azzi’s elbow. “I’ll take her to the bathroom. She just needs air.”

Dirk blinked. “I could—”

“You couldn’t,” Paige muttered under her breath, just loud enough that Azzi caught it.

They left the circle with enough polite nods to make it believable, slipping through a small hallway toward the guest bathrooms.

Once the door clicked shut behind them, Paige leaned against the marble counter, exhaled hard, and said, “I’m so done with that man.”

Azzi laughed softly. “No, he sucks.”

“He talks like he’s in a reality show,” Paige muttered, tugging her sleeves over her hands. “And not a good one. One of those ones where everyone ends up engaged after four episodes.”

“He’s not even a sponsor or a driver,” Azzi added. “He’s just, like… related to someone important.”

“So was Napoleon.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“Exactly.”

They didn’t get much further. The door creaked open and in stumbled a girl who couldn’t have been older than nineteen, wearing a mini dress that looked stolen from an influencer’s closet and a pair of heels that were definitely not made for standing. She squinted at them, half-recognizing, then muttered something about champagne and disappeared into a stall.

Paige raised her brows.

Azzi nodded once.

Time to go.

They slipped out of the bathroom like nothing had happened, back through the suite with practiced smiles and quiet waves. The party was still going strong, but they walked out unbothered, not making a scene. Just two drivers leaving a team function, still in uniform, still technically on the clock.

They were halfway down the corridor back to the elevators when Azzi’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out, thumbed open her notifications, and froze.

“What?” Paige asked.

Azzi turned the screen so Paige could see.

A photo.

A little grainy, but clear enough. Paige, slightly turned toward Azzi at the bar. Azzi leaning in to say something. Both smiling. Both unguarded. The caption was dumb — something about chemistry and Ferrari fire — but the tweet had gone viral in under ten minutes. Thousands of likes. Hundreds of retweets.

Paige blinked. “Already?”

“We didn’t even make it to the elevator.”

They stared at it for a second longer.

Then Azzi hit the side button, locking her phone.

Paige didn’t say anything else, but she smiled. Real this time.

And Azzi, without realizing, smiled back.

–

It was almost midnight when they finally made it back to Azzi’s room. Her hair was up now, loosely twisted into a bun that had started falling apart the second they left the party. She’d kicked off her sneakers near the hotel door, and now her sweatshirt hung off one shoulder, oversized and a little too warm for the air conditioning she’d turned up as high as it could go.

The TV was on, volume low — something stupid in Italian she wasn’t even pretending to follow. Paige was stretched out on the bed, half under the covers and still in her Ferrari shorts. Her legs were bare and tanned and pulled up at the knee, phone balanced on her stomach, one earbud in, the other dangling.

Azzi flopped down beside her, not quite on top of her, but close. Her legs slid under Paige’s, her bare foot brushing the side of Paige’s calf as she tugged a blanket over them. The room smelled like clean skin and leftover hair product. Not unpleasant. Just lived-in.

She unlocked her phone without thinking. Scrolled to TikTok.

And immediately choked on a laugh.

“Oh my God.”

Paige glanced over with one eye still on her own screen. “What.”

“We have ship edits.”

That got her attention.

Paige lifted her head slightly, frowning, until Azzi turned her phone toward her. Onscreen, the now-viral party photo zoomed slowly toward them with the dramatic flair only TikTok could summon. Some soft indie track played in the background — something with too much reverb and lyrics about fate and stars and “the way she looks at her.” Then came the slow dissolve into clips from the paddock, podium glances, moments where they brushed shoulders walking to the media pen.

The caption read:

“She looks at her like she’s the checkered flag.”

With a string of red heart emojis and a #F1Lesbians tag thrown in for good measure.

Azzi blinked. “I—okay, the effort is wild.”

“There’s music,” Paige said, dry as hell.

Azzi laughed, scrolling to another. This one had a heavier beat, more edits cut to radio calls — Mateo’s voice shouting “Paige is right behind you!” followed by a slow-mo of them walking through the tunnel in Miami. A pause, then a hard cut to the photo from tonight again. It was the final frame.

Azzi snorted. “That one’s a little dramatic.”

“They’re all dramatic,” Paige said, leaning her chin lightly on Azzi’s shoulder now. “We drive cars in circles. This is what people do to make it seem deep.”

Azzi kept scrolling, letting the edits autoplay. They were everywhere. Some were sweet. Others full-on romantic. A few were just reaction videos — fans freaking out, screaming into cameras, holding up their phones with wide eyes. One girl was fully crying. Actual tears. The caption just read: “I KNEW THEY WERE ENDGAME.”

Azzi raised a brow. “Endgame?”

Paige shrugged. “Bold of them to assume I make it to the end.”

Azzi tilted her head toward her. “You planning to DNF this storyline or…?”

Paige made a low sound in her throat. “I don’t know. I think I might be in a multi-season arc.”

Azzi smirked, but the words made her stomach flip a little. Not in a bad way.

They kept watching, switching between TikTok and Twitter now. The comments were a trip. Half were cute — people talking about how they always knew, how the looks in their eyes were “different.” Others were strange. Intense. Too much. A few men had decided to throw in their opinions, which, unsurprisingly, made the vibe go downhill fast.

“Why are there always men in the lesbian edits?” Azzi muttered, flicking past a comment that started with “this is why girls are single these days…”

Paige didn’t respond right away.

Her hand, warm and absent-minded, was tracing circles near Azzi’s knee under the blanket. Nothing too serious. Just… casual. Thoughtless, but not cold. Familiar. Her other hand came up to tug lightly at a piece of Azzi’s hair that had fallen from her bun.

Azzi paused.

Paige wasn’t like this all the time. Not even most of the time. But when she was — when she let her guard drop for even half a night — it felt like gravity shifted. Like Paige wasn’t just near her, but orbiting her. A little too close. A little too much.

But it didn’t feel bad.

Just confusing. In that warm, electric way that made Azzi forget what she was even watching.

“Don’t let Fred see these,” Paige murmured suddenly.

Azzi laughed. “Because?”

Paige sat up a little, propping her head on her fist. Her face was blank, but her eyes weren’t.

“Because he’ll ask if we’re ‘managing our brand well enough,’” she said, but her tone was light — like a joke.

Only it wasn’t really a joke.

Azzi didn’t say anything for a second. She just watched Paige, her face half-lit by the blue glow of the screen, the corner of her mouth turned in that almost-smile that meant she was pretending something wasn’t bothering her.

Azzi broke the silence. “He’d survive.”

Paige didn’t look up. “Would he, though?”

Azzi closed the app.

“Okay. Then we don’t let Fred see them.”

Paige met her eyes finally. Something in her gaze softened — not exactly gratitude, but something close to it. Relief maybe. Or something she wasn’t ready to name.

Azzi pulled the blanket tighter around both of them, settled back into the pillows. Paige adjusted too, falling in line like she always did, head dropping next to hers, arm brushing hers, breath slowing down with the quiet.

The room was still now. The edits were gone. The fans, the tweets, the noise — all of it faded into the low hum of hotel air and the gentle weight of Paige’s arm resting against her own.

Azzi stared at the ceiling for a long time before turning off the lamp.

Whatever they were — whatever people wanted to call it — she didn’t know. But she knew this: Paige had stayed.

And that mattered more than anything the internet could say.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Witch /// Part 1

Rhiana is your dear friend who lives just out of town in a cozy cottage in the forest. You met while shopping. You two talk about the different spices she suggests to flavor meat and veggies. It leads you to a fast but close friendship with Rhiana, close enough that it becomes a usual event to visit her monthly while you’re in the area. Whether it’s shopping, karaoke, or just coffee date hangouts there is one thing that comes up a lot.

“Rhiana you’re so pretty.”

“Aw (Y/n) thank you!”

“Seriously though you’re like a painting. I still can’t believe you don’t model.”

“Honestly (Y/n) you’re such a charmer!”

Your dear friend Rhiana doesn’t do anything for a nightly routine or facials or specific remedies to look how she does. Seeing her when you do it seems like the scale of her looks ranges from glowing to immaculate. It certainly makes getting free stuff with her much easier. She just will credit one thing to her looks and even then she doesn’t talk about it much.

“Maybe it’s what I eat…I have been eating more meat, lately.”

But your dear friend Rhiana doesn’t explain anymore, usually going on a tangent about how she can season her meat. She’ll refuse to tell you just how stringent her beauty is on her carnivorous diet. Because on top of being a good friend to you, she is a Witch. Specifically, the kind that maintains her health and youth by devouring the souls and bodies of human beings. She usually prefers eating children but since she’s met you she’s decided to reign it in.

“What if me and (Y/n) had a baby? Hehe, I can’t believe it’s making me blush so much.”

“Aaaaahh please let me go home!!! I promise not to tell!”

“Hmmmm maybe we’ll have 3…or 5 or 10. They won’t be allowed to leave if we have that many right?”

Rhiana the Witch has been doing this for hundreds of years and she’s had her fair share of lovers and harems. But she’s never found out about someone so early in advance. When she was much younger much dumber of 113  she’d seen a vision featuring you, of course at the time she didn’t know. Nor was she aware just how much seeing the future you had awakened something in her. Now she’s well in her 600s and she realizes how all of her flings in the past have features of yours or they speak like you. Or how her familiars mirror different aspects of your personality and as she delves into her past she realizes how all her life she’s been building up to be with you.

“(Y/n) is my….special person….their mine. All Mine!”

Now on top of feeding her voracious appetite, she’s trying to gain your affections so that she has your consent to make you immortal like she. If you might think it’s because she respects boundaries, then you’d be wrong. The potion she’s perfected over centuries only works if you give your express consent, with as little pressure as possible. So she’s refrained from drugging you on her many outings with you…for now. 

If I wanted to I could sprinkle a light aphrodisiac dust into the food they just keep shoveling into their mouth.

“But then I–HACK—*cough cough*”

“Hon, maybe don’t talk while you’re eating.”

“Right! So as I was saying–”

But Elements do I adore just watching them eat so happily.

She feels like a hapless teen all over again as her stomach flips and turns the more time she spends with you. No longer can she get a wink of her enchanted eyes and some choice sugar-coated words to get you exactly where she wants you. She has to try with you and she’s never wanted to do so more than with you. She’s even begun to tailor her meals with the ones that seem to bother you most. It’s risky but the satisfaction of a full tummy while she reads your letter about the creepy vendor finally stopping their emails makes her happy. 

“That is convenient.”

“I know. It’s not right to celebrate anyone going missing—”

“But it doesn’t take away from the harm they’ve done. Don’t feel bad hon it’s probably just an extended trip somewhere to the underworld.”

She thinks about how she’ll hide her rejuvenating diet when she finally gets you closer to her. You might not notice when she uses magic but you're not an idiot; you’d figure it out eventually. Not to mention the added trouble of her familiar’s growing interest and past suitors budding their noses in her business with you. She’s got a lot of work on her hands—and not a lot of time.

“Hey (Y/n) why don’t I come visit you every once in a while? Two days a month just isn’t enough time to make you fall in hopeless love with me+. What do say to me spending a night or two at yours?”

She's giving the former mc going for the side character reader Debating about a part 2 🖤🖤🖤🖤

I did it! Part 2: Here 🖤🖤🖤

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | part thirty-four preview

You stare down at your shoes, where a thick piece of ash settles on the scuffed leather. The weight of the backpack digs into your shoulders as you steal one last glance at the distant chapel, its flames sputtering, the frame collapsing into embers. Near the ruins, one of the women you’d held at gunpoint clutches a chubby infant, her body wracked with silent sobs. You tear your gaze away, swallow the ache in your chest, and push forward with the others.

Whether they can survive without the last few men Price and Kyle locked inside the chapel isn’t something you can afford to dwell on—not when Simon's adrenaline has faded, his skin paling even as he stubbornly carries Blue, and the air is thick with the scent of blood. You need to get somewhere safe.

After the others found you, Nereida helped you gather as much medicine as you could, cramming it into a backpack you’d scavenged from one of the farm homes after forcing the women to reveal its location. You’re certain they have more stashed away—especially since this doesn’t account for what they took from you—but you weren’t willing to waste the time searching. A small part of you even wanted to leave them with something.

You'd wrapped Ghost's back in gauze, the best you could do for now, and hoped the clotted blood would hold long enough for you to properly tend to him. But not even a kilometer out from the commune, his steps falter. He nearly loses his grip on Blue, quickly adjusting her weight in his arms.

You inhale sharply and grip his elbow. "Let Kyle or Price carry her now." When he silently disregards you, jaw tight, you nibble at your cheek. Softer now, almost pleading, you try again. "Simon… you need a break."

He hesitates through an exhale, casting a wary glance at Price before finally relenting, loosening his grip on her.

Blue hugs Price's shoulders, carried on his back, for the next hour until you insist Ghost must stop. His skin feels cold when you touch him despite the fact all of you are sweating profusely, and when you ask him a question he takes too long to respond for your liking. Price seems satisfied with the distance you've gained, or maybe not even he has the energy left to travel under the beating sun. 

Up a lone gravel road and hidden within a neat perimeter of plum trees is a grand estate that you cross through in thick silence. The grass is lush and overgrown, the air wearily peaceful. You can't help but grip the gun tightly, metal burning in your palm. The property stretches at least two or three acres, with a small pond and an untended garden where some wealthy fucks must have lived. The house is large enough for a family of ten and appears strangely untouched. You accompany Kyle to sweep the interior, only finding the skeletons of an old man and woman. The furniture is caked with a thin layer of dust.

"They must've been living here awhile after the spread," you murmur, heaving the backpack on the floor.

He nods. "It should be a decent spot for now."

[yaespook]

Run 4 - In Progress.

✧ Room Content: Dom! GN! Reader x Yan! Sub! Android! Wanderer, no gendered terms used for reader, no actual penetration, unhealthy obsessive and possessive relationship from Wanderer, memory manipulation. Leave a note if anything was missed out. ✧ Retrieved Notes: If possible, use the InteractiveFics extension to change the phrase “My name” (without the quotation marks) to the name given to your Wanderer.

There’s an unfamiliar android sitting atop your worktable.

You must have picked him up two or three weeks ago, when he was still worse for wear. In your memory, he was in pretty bad shape when the two of you first met, his main panel wrenched open leaving his circuitry a mess and rough scrapes all over his superficial layer.

Now, with your constant repairs, he’s been more lively, tailing you around the house as you go about your day. While fussing about, dusting off a muzzle laying on a fur pelt, you sense a presence lingering outside your room.

"You know, I don't recall androids being quite so clingy." In return, you get a light huff from behind the door frame. 

"And you’ve come across other androids? I didn’t know you run a junkyard here,” the eye roll in his tone is audible.

His feet pad into the room and his gaze hones in on the clerical collar placed on a nearby shelf, glaring at it. Clicking his tongue, he crosses his hands on his chest.

“Whatever, what you do is mostly up to you anyway. Do you think you’re almost done cleaning? I think there’s an internal problem again, I’ll wait for you at the worktable,” the android saunters off nonchalantly, throwing you a light wave over his shoulder.

Sighing, you quickly finish up your task at hand before complying to his request, briskly making your way over to the worktable where he's already perched smugly on, his gaze expectant. 

You easily go through the rehearsed motions of plugging him up to your computer, your muscle memory kicking in as you boot up the required softwares before gingerly prying the main panel located on the front of his torso to gain access to his internal workings. Over time, you've gradually figured out the parts that make up the android sitting before you, growing used to the sight of the lengths of wiring and cables running throughout his body, the faint low mechanical whirring of motors and cooling systems. 

Most importantly, you now understand how sensitive his central core is. Nestled securely in a latched transparent casing, his core is what powers and sustains him. It emits a constant turquoise light and is also reflected in the glowing markings that lay beneath his synthetic skin that occasionally activate. (Although, you haven't quite gotten an answer for what makes them light up yet.) 

“So what's your problem today?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from him as you go over to your computer to check if any bugs have been identified.

“I think that cable all the way at the back came undone and got tangled with the rest.” 

You shoot him a pointed look, “Again? Didn’t we just fix that same cable last week?” Shifting your chair so you’re seated before him, poised to conduct your repairs, you make a passing remark, “Maybe taking you to another mechanic might be the better choice, get everything checked out, you know?”

How long have you kept at your task of finally fixing him up to tiptop condition? It’s almost daily when he reports back to you with a new disconnected wire or another loose joint somewhere on him. Diligently, you’ve been trying to repair him but the android is like a never-ending to-do list. And it’s only natural to be concerned if the constant damage stems from a more serious underlying issue that you haven’t managed to discover. The only next logical step would be to get another pair of eyes to help discern the root cause in case anything takes a turn for the worse.

But the reaction you get from him is one unexpected. His head snaps to face you, a scowl evident on his face. 

“So you’re handing me off like an unfinished project to someone else now?”

You know how snippy he can get however, this is on a different level from his previous behaviour. Maybe something left over from the days before you found him. It’ll be a good idea to look into his past logs to diagnose any present problems, you make a mental note of it.

“I’m just worried for you, that’s all. What if there’s an urgent issue I can’t fix alone? And we both know I can’t leave you as is.”

His expression mellows to an annoyed pout, looking away as his core glows faintly along with the patterns under his skin, he mumbles, “I’ll be fine.” (“I just need you.”) (“I'm the only one for you.”) (“No one else deserves you.”)

He allows you to work without another complaint, silently watching as your hands venture into his chest, a focused air to you while you look for the problematic cable. He senses your touch when you make contact with it, sucking in a sharp breath as you grip it between your fingers, twisting it around to free it from the surrounding wires before you finally connect and plug it into its rightful place. 

“That’s it for your cable issue. Anything else?” He quickly shakes his head.

Giving it a few light cursory pulls to make sure it’s finally secured, (if you weren’t mistaken, his core brightened in time with your tugs), you spare the rest of his parts one last look over. Then, shutting the panel, you unplug him from the computer.

Immediately, he scampers off the worktable with a clipped “thank you” and runs into his room. You hear the door to his room close before its lock clicks. 

The next few days prove to be better, the repair requests for any troubles that seem to have cropped up overnight growing more and more infrequent. Perhaps, bit by bit, the end of the repairs start to come into sight. 

Although, you have noted that his internal temperatures have been hiking recently whenever you have his chest panel open to patch him up. 

This time, you have him lying on the worktable on his back to access the further areas in him. He’s positioned facing upwards but his eyes are darting everywhere, unable to meet your gaze. Once again, the programme open on your computer screen shows how his temperatures are quickly rising even though there are no obvious reasons for such a sudden change. It records the recurrence into its troubleshooting log like before, more times than you can remember.

He’s panting lightly, the android’s chest moving up and down as your ears pick up the sound of his inner fans whir louder, his pre-programmed functions activating to try to cool him down. With no clue as to what could cause this issue, you reach in to look for a fault. Yet, the more you poke and prod around, the higher the warmth within him rises. 

Left with more questions than answers, you turn to his core for a closer look. When your fingers brush against the transparent casing, a moan slips out from him, and instantly his head whips to look at you dumbfounded.

An artificial blush takes over his face, a low pink glow blooming from beneath the synthetic layer. A beat passes before he cracks his lips apart, voicebox working as he pleads.

“...Again.”

Gently, you let your fingertips dance over the clasp hinging the casing shut and his response is instant. A shudder rolls through him, as real as it can be, and a shaky exhale leaves him. The android’s back arches up slightly, hastily chasing after your touch when you remove your hand.

Your caress returns when your hand dips deeper into his circuitry, where you hook two fingers underneath his thicker cables, attentively stroking them between your thumb and fingers, before tugging on them forcefully enough to elicit a reaction from him. 

His eyes fly open at your ministrations, a greed for more overtaking his processors. You’ve always been so gentle with him when he’s opened up for you, when you have access to the deepest parts of him, when he’s at his most vulnerable. So, to have you toy around with him, show him the indulgence of human flesh, can you really fault him for falling for you?

The tips of your fingers ghost along the length of his metal spine, and the android keens from under you.

“Please, more, I can take it!”

Taking his cue, your hand encircles his spine, grinding the heel of your palm against the ridges of the sensitive metal elements as you pump up and down. 

“Sss- so good! Hah…!” He can’t control how he behaves when you treat him so well, like he’s the only one worthy of your attention. He shakes under your touch, trembling as the addictive pleasure overrides his programmed commands.

“No more blubbering, just focus on me.” Your other hand goes to cup his chin, and obediently, he parts his lips for you, allowing you to slip your thumb into his mouth. You can feel his tongue work and when you press down, he jolts suddenly. A gag reflex? In an android? How amusing.

When you stop stroking him, he whines pitifully, muffled moans and begging for you to continue but his complaints stop when he feels you unlatch the lid of his core casing.

“Would you let me?” And the flurry of nods from him confirms his enthusiasm.

With bated breath, he counts the seconds before you make contact with his core. And when he senses your caress on his glowing core in his exposed chest cavity, he breathes out a gasp, as if he requires the intake of air. None of this is written into the basis of his behaviour, not fed into the dataset that makes up how he’s supposed to act, so everything he feels for you must be real.

His eyes go unfocused as his neural network is flooded with the raw pleasure of being enveloped with love and lust down to his literal core. Desire burns within him, evident from the fans whirring even louder than before to bring down his temperatures. It’s just so much for the android’s computations to handle. Broken moans leave him as he tries to vocalise his love for you (as best as he can with his thumb in your mouth). 

And when you press a kiss to his unprotected core, his vision whites out.

Eyes wrenched shut, his whole mechanical body jerks upwards, back arching off the worktable as his body propels himself to sit up, his limbs trying to ensnare you in his embrace, to keep you with him as long as he can. Every command in his system is overwritten to hone in on all the sensations of you on him, your touch, your warmth.

The patterns under his skin glow with a pulse, akin to a human’s heartbeat and when his eyes open again, glimmering faux tears roll down his face. His chest heaves as you close the distance between the two of you, cupping his face with both your hands and kissing his tears away.

The android breaks the intimate silence as he quietly asks you, “Can you give me a name?”

When you whisper a name into his ear, he breaks into sobs in your hands.

The days pass by, uneventful, and the time for a final cursory check before deeming him fully repaired comes. He’s poised on the worktable like any other previous session, a bored expression on his face as you flit back and forth between him and the software on your computer.

“You really are a clingy case,” you say and get a huff in return, “But a welcome one.”

Remembering your mental note from before about accessing his past logs, you access it from your computer, pulling up the window with his stored recorded data. The log operates in the background constantly, one of the built-in functions of the android and a quick glance over just to make sure everything is in order should do.

However, the logs prove to be worrying in a completely different way.

[Log: Day 10 - Run 1 - Failed. Werewolf. They’re with that mangy mutt. I don’t know what they see in him. I still remember the care they showed me. There’s always the next run.]

[Log: Day 20 - Run 2 - Failed. It seems I’m too late this time around. That vile selkie captured them first. How irritating. I need to stop hesitating. It’s my love on the line after all.]

[Log: Day 30 - Run 3 - Failed. Incubus. That damn priest and incubus. I can feel my temper reaching its breaking point.]

[Log: Day ??? - Run 4 - In progress. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.]

Your eyes rake across a multitude of grainy snapshots of yourself, all with different people that you can’t find the ability to recall, your mind pounding from the discovery. 

He’s gazing expectantly when you look back up at him from the screen. A grin twists its way across his face, canines glinting under the dizzying harsh lighting.

“So now you’ve seen how much I love you, even if you don’t remember it.” There’s a sick obsession dripping in his tone, an uncanny level of emotion that androids normally shouldn’t be able to replicate, one that sends a heavy uneasiness through your whole being, one that roots you to the ground. 

When he doesn’t get the adoring reaction from you he expects, the proud expression on his face falls instantly. 

He’s despondent, despairing as he tears the connecting cables off of him, launching himself off the worktable, lunging across for you, frenzied, pure scorching mania surging through him. 

“You… even after all these runs. You’ve always given me the same thing. My name. I thought this time- You-” 

Voice shaky, “It’s a shame this run didn’t work out either.” 

He steels himself, hand outstretched, “No matter.”

You blink.

There’s an unfamiliar android sitting atop your worktable.

Thank you kindly for reading. Consider supporting on kofi if you enjoyed this or visit the other doors.

[maeintree]

not so alone | l. laufeyson

Summary: Drifting through space after Asgard’s fall, Loki faces an uncertain future. You’ve known him since before fate pulled him in every direction—before the lies, the losses, the wars. Now, for the first time, he has a choice. And maybe, he doesn’t have to make it alone. Pairing: ragnarok!Loki Laufeyson x fem!Reader Word Count: 1.4k Author's Note: set after thor: ragnarok, this explores a quiet moment between loki and the reader, someone who’s known him and thor since childhood; kinda sad that he has to die after this. like actually die. maybe that's why i wrote it :( 🥲

You had been by their side long before fate demanded Thor wield his hammer and Loki master his tricks.

Before the weight of Asgard’s future pressed heavy on their shoulders, before battles and betrayals, before gods became myths on Midgard—you were there. A childhood friend, a warrior, an ever-present constant between Thor’s blinding light and Loki’s flickering shadows.

But time changes even the strongest bonds.

When Loki fell into the void, you mourned him. When he returned, leading an army against Midgard, you fought against him. When he played his games, shifting alliances like a man changing cloaks, you told yourself that whatever remained of the boy you once knew was gone.

And yet, here you are.

Sakaar had been its own kind of nightmare. You had been dragged through one of the scavenger’s wormholes, thrown into the gladiator pits, forced to fight for the Grandmaster’s amusement. You survived on sheer will, your skills as a warrior keeping you alive long enough to plot escape. Then Thor crashed into your world again, bringing his usual chaos with him. And Loki, of course, was never far behind.

Reuniting with them had been strange.

Thor had embraced you as if no time had passed, laughing despite his predicament. Loki, on the other hand, had been more reserved, watching you carefully, like a memory he hadn’t expected to see again.

He had still played his tricks, still maneuvered for his own gain, and yet… he had come through in the end. He had stood on that bridge, side by side with his brother, fighting to save what little of Asgard remained.

Now, that home is gone.

You step onto the deck of the ship, the silence of space stretching endlessly beyond the viewport. Asgard’s remnants—the people, the legacy—are somewhere aboard, but right now, you seek only one person.

Loki sits near the edge of the ship, gazing out at the stars. The firelight from the torches nearby casts flickering shadows across his face, but his expression is unreadable. He doesn’t turn as you approach.

“You should be celebrating with Thor,” he says, his voice measured. “He won, after all.”

You lower yourself onto the bench beside him, folding your arms over your chest. “So did you.”

He lets out a quiet scoff, though there’s no real venom in it. “Did I?”

“You made the right choice,” you say simply.

Loki tilts his head slightly, considering you. “And yet, here we are. Asgard is nothing but dust, and I find myself adrift on yet another ship, a passenger in my own fate.”

You study him for a moment, taking in the way his hands rest idly on his knees, his shoulders not quite holding their usual poised arrogance.

He looks… tired. Not just physically, but in the way a man looks when he has spent too long pretending not to care.

“You could’ve left,” you point out. “You had a thousand chances to walk away.”

“Yes, well.” He exhales, a slow, measured thing. “Perhaps I’m growing sentimental in my old age.”

You huff a small laugh. “Old age. Imagine that.”

Silence stretches between you, but it isn’t the heavy, expectant kind. It’s a silence laced with familiarity, with something that has always existed between you both but has long gone unspoken.

After a while, Loki shifts, his voice quieter when he speaks. “Do you ever wonder if we were meant for something else?”

You glance at him. “What do you mean?”

He keeps his gaze on the stars. “I spent my whole life believing I was meant for something greater. That I was destined for a throne, for power, for recognition. And yet… every path I take seems to lead me further from it.” He exhales. “Now, I wonder if the fault was in me, or in the dream itself.”

Your chest tightens slightly. This isn’t the Loki who taunted Midgard, nor the one who stood smugly beside the Grandmaster. This is the boy you once knew—the one who always felt like he had something to prove, the one who reached for things always just out of his grasp.

You shake your head. “I don’t think it’s either.”

He raises an eyebrow, finally looking at you. “No?”

“No.” You offer him a small smile. “I think you’re just still figuring out who you are without someone else telling you who you should be.”

Loki blinks, as if the thought had never occurred to him. He studies you, something unreadable in his gaze. “And who do you think I am, then?”

You hold his gaze, unflinching. “Someone who’s still here.”

For a moment, he says nothing. Then, slowly, his lips quirk into the barest hint of a smile—not his usual smirk, not something sharp or mocking, but something softer, something real.

“Perhaps,” he murmurs.

He leans back slightly, resting his arms along the edge of the bench, glancing back at the stars. “Thor wants to take them to Earth,” he says after a long pause.

You nod. “It’s the best option.”

“Maybe,” Loki concedes, though there’s doubt in his voice. “But I’m not sure what place I have there.”

You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”

He exhales, rubbing his fingers together absently. “Thor will be their king. He’ll do his best to lead them, to rebuild. I have no doubt he will thrive. But me?” His lips curve slightly, wry. “I’ve never been good at following.”

You smirk. “That’s an understatement.”

Loki chuckles, shaking his head. “If we go to Midgard, I will be seen as a villain, a threat. If I stay with Thor, I will be his shadow, lingering on the edges of a throne that was never meant for me.” He glances at you. “So, tell me, where does that leave me?”

You study him carefully before saying, “Wherever you want to be.”

Loki arches a brow.

“I mean it,” you continue. “For the first time, you get to choose your path without Odin’s expectations, without Thor’s shadow, without anyone telling you what you should be.”

Loki looks at you, searching for mockery but finding none. He exhales, thoughtful. “And if I don’t know what I want yet?”

You shrug. “Then you take your time figuring it out.”

Silence settles again, but this time, it feels lighter. Less uncertain.

Loki tilts his head slightly. “And what of you?”

You hesitate, then smile. “I suppose I’m still figuring that out, too.”

Loki smirks more.. softer, something shared. “Then perhaps,” he muses, “we can be adrift together, just for a little while.”

You meet his gaze, warmth stirring in your chest. “Perhaps.”

And for the first time in a long, long while—Loki doesn’t feel so alone.

You rest your head gently on his shoulder, the quiet of the universe wrapping around you both. Loki, after a moment’s pause, shifts, his arm snaking around your shoulders, pulling you closer. His head rests against yours, and for once, there’s no distance between you.

Just the comfort of shared silence and the promise that, for now, you are not alone.

missing loki and i just knew he needed comfort. fuck thanos man :( hope you enjoyed! likes, comments, and reposts are greatly appreciated.

[sawarusi]

abby anderson x reader

Lucky

fluffy fic, bc abby deserves more love. tried to keep her as canon as possible. reader patches abby up and gives her the affection she didn't know she needed

Seattle wasn’t a destination. it was a mistake. at least, that’s what you told yourself when you first saw the skyline - half-drowned, crumbling behind rain and ash-grey clouds.

you didn't mean to come this far.

what started as a two-day lookout run turned into four. and after those long days, you were still empty-handed. almost every store you came across was already emptied. you kept following roads, trails, shadows of trails. it was supposed to be quick run for replenishing medical supplies.

you were the group’s medic. you were supposed to be back days ago.

painkillers, antibiotics, gauze. everything was running low. infection had already claimed one of your own last week. another was coughing blood. someone had to go out. but it wasn’t supposed to be you. you were too valuable for that - too essential to lose.

and yet here you were - soaked, exhausted, lost somewhere in the husk of a city you didn’t recognize until it was too late. you didn’t know you were in Seattle until the signs started showing up. patrol routes, WLF tags on walls, a rusty checkpoint gate.

still, you kept moving. you didn’t have the luxury to turn back empty-handed. by the time you stumbled across a pharmacy, the rain had soaked through every layer you had. your boots were heavy with mud and your limbs were aching with fatigue. the building leaned to one side, part of its frame collapsed under a fallen tree. but the windows were mostly intact, the signage faded but legible - madison pharmacy.

hope has yet again filled you.

you approached slowly, eyes sweeping corners, scanning for movement, traps, anything out of place. a piece of broken concrete served as a makeshift step through the shattered door. you entered and paused, listening for any potential threat. luckily, no clicking noise.

inside, it was silent. dust floated in narrow beams of grey light spilling from a crack in the ceiling. the shelves stood crooked, but, again luck was on your side. although some shelves were looted, you noticed the ones in the back still had plenty of suplies. you rushed to them.

you dropped your backpack next to you and unzipped it with numbed fingers - it was way too cold. you shuffeled through the shelf. you found a sealed bandage roll, four bottles of painkillers. there was even a surgical kit missing half its instruments, but still usable.

you hit the jackpot. you allowed yourself one content exhale. you weren't empty-handed now.

and that’s when you heard it.

a click - a mechanical click.

your breath hitched. every muscle in your body went still. it was a sound of a rifle safety being disengaged.

someone was behind you. and that someone now pressed the rifle's muzzle against your back.

"don't. move."

the voice was low and firm - commanding. it came from a stern and trained woman.

the pressure of the rifle now nudged harder into your back. you lifted your hands slowly, pulse hammering in your ears.

"what are you doing here? it's WLF territory. you're tresspassing. you shouldn't be here"

"i know." you said quietly. that gained a scoff from her. the pressure of the rifle against your spine didn’t ease.

“i'm not here for trouble,” you said. “i'm just looking for medical supplies. i’m a medic.”

"that’s not how this works." her voice edged toward warning now. “you don’t just wander into Seattle and take what you want.”

“i didn’t wander,” you replied. “i just happened to walk straight in. i got lost.”

another pause, heavier this time. she wasn’t expecting that.

“turn around.” she withdrawed her rifle so it wasn't touching you anymore, but she still had your chest at range. you obeyed and turned around, slowly, with your arms still up.

the first thing you noticed wasn’t the rifle. It was the blood.

her shirt clung to her right side, soaked in rain and red. the fabric was torn, bandaged haphazardly beneath her jacket - too fast, too shallow. it was still actively bleeding. not bad enough to drop her, but bad enough to slow her down. her weight shifted unevenly, favoring her left leg. her knuckles were tight around the grip of the gun.

the next thing you noticed were her eyes. not as sharp as you thought, they were fogged by tiredness.

“gosh, you’re bleeding.” you said, voice full of concern.

“keep your eyes up,” she snapped. “don’t think about getting cute.”

“i wasn’t,” you said. “i was thinking about how long you have before that gets infected.”

aflicker of something passed behind her eyes—pain, maybe. Or the first edge of doubt.

“i can patch you up.” you offered. “but you gotta put the gun down.”

she scoffed. “right. and have you stab me the second i do?”

you met her stare. “if I wanted you dead, i’d let the infection do the work.”

another pause. the rain outside beat softly against the broken windows, a dull rhythm filling the silence between you.

finally she lowered the rifle. not all the way. just enough.

“you patch me up,” she said. “then you get the hell out of my city.”

you nodded. “fair deal. get comfortable, this will take a while."

she leaned against the counter, her weight hit it harder than she meant to. "are you trying to make your condition even worse?" you said sarcastically with a raised brow.

she put her elbow of the hand with the rifle on the counter, still hesitant to fully trust you. but at least it was now only pointed to your leg. her teeth clenched, breath sharp through her nose, pain written across her face in flickers she probably didn’t mean to show. her free hand pressed against her side, fingers already sticky with fresh blood.

you dropped to your knees in front of her, unzipping your backpack and taking out the supplies you found moments before.

gloves - powdered and crinkled from being compressed for too long. gauze, still sealed in cloudy plastic. a needle with thread. your fingers sorted through it all without hesitation, the ritual familiar, almost sacred. you prepared everyhing you needed.

she watched you the whole time, silently studying your every move. you tried to ignore it, but the weight of her gaze wasn't helping.

when you gently peeled back her jacket, she flinched. her shirt had stuck to the wound, soaked through in a dark, glistening red. you worked carefully, easing the fabric away from torn skin. she grunted, a low, involuntary sound pressed hard behind grit teeth.

“breathe through it,” you murmured, voice low and gentle. “it’s deep, but looks clean. you got lucky.”

she gave a humorless huff. “doesn’t feel lucky.”

you glanced up - just for a second, eyes meeting hers. sweat was beginning to pearl along her temple, her jaw was locked tight, but not from fear, from pure endurance. she was doing everything she could not to flinch, not to move, not to make a sound.

not to look vulnerable.

her chest rose and fell in careful, practiced breaths. inhale. hold. exhale. like she was trying to control her own pain the way you'd control a trigger pull.

and in that moment, something shifted. she failed to keep the tough facade.

“easy, baby,” you said, hands gentle as you began to clean the wound. “i’ve got you.”

the words were out before you could stop them.

she froze and so did you.

the silence that followed wasn’t sharp - it was soft, fragile. she didn’t react, not really. just blinked once, slowly, then looked away. let it pass. she was processing whether that really happened or she just started to hallucinate from the pain.

you didn’t say it again. but you didn’t take it back, either.

the word still hung in the air like smoke, warm and quiet, curling into the silence between you.

your hands kept moving. you poured antiseptic over the wound. she hissed between her teeth, whole body going rigid for a beat. her hand curled against the counter, white-knuckled, but she didn’t pull away.

"almost done cleaning, you're doing great." you said, the praise was what you said to everyone you patch up, but this time, you said it more genuinely. you looked up at her "stictching's next."

"just do it." she muttered.

but her tone had lost its edge. it was less commanding, and more vulnerable and shaky.

you threaded the needle. hands steady. back hunched. full focus. knees sore from the cold tile. your fingers brushed the curve of her waist as you leaned in and started to stitch. the skin there was warm, a bit feverish. you felt the tension coiled in her body, in the way she tried to breathe around the pain, in how she twitched slightly every time the needle bit through her skin.

still, she didn’t curse or bark. she just endured.

"you're used to it." you said softly. it wasn’t a question.

her voice was dry. "more than I care to count."

"to others, or… to yourself?"

"...both"

the stitches went in clean, fast. your hands worked like they always did - reliable, careful, practiced. you could feel her watching you, again, with that heavy gaze. her head tilted slightly.

when you finished the last stitch, you cut the thread and wiped the blood away with a clean square of gauze. you didn’t speak. Neither did she. you peeled off your gloves and let them drop into your bag. then slowly, you stood up, back aching from being hunched so long, knees cracking from the cold tile.

you looked at her. "all done. atta girl"

she blinked up at you. the words hung in the space between you. 'atta girl'. no one said that to her.

her jaw flexed like she wanted to say something back, but no words could leave her mouth. she didn't know what words to use.

you turned away before the silence could stretch into something awkward and started packing up what little you had left - thread, wrappers, bloodied gauze. you stil needed it back at yor camp.

but you still felt her eyes on you, and still felt the shift in the air.

"thank you..." she said and paused, waiting for something.

"[y/n]"

"thank you, [y/n]. i'm Abby"

"thanks, Abby, for not shooting me on the spot." you replied, half jokingly half serious. at that comment, she put the rifle down on the counter. you stood up and tured to face her "and you're welcome."

“i meant what I said,” she murmured. “you shouldn’t be here.”

“i didn’t mean to be,” you followed. “didn’t even know i was in Seattle until i started seeing your goddamn signs.”

Abby huffed through her nose. “hell of a place to get lost.”

you gave a half-smile. “you tell me.”

for a moment, it was quiet again. not tense or awkward.

“well, [y/n],” she said, tilting her head toward the back exit, “if you’re gonna disappear, that’s the door.”

you didn’t move. neither did she.

“take care of yourself,” you said. “and that stitch job. don’t push it.”

Abby smirked faintly. “you think i won’t tear it just to spite you?”

you rolled your eyes, but there was no heat in it. “you tear it, i’ll hunt you down and fix it again. rougher this time. and without any painkillers"

she looked at you for a long second and crossed her arms on her chest. then, with something like amusement in her eyes, she said, “you’re not what I expected.”

You tilted your head, one brow raised. “what were you expecting?”

“someone scared.” she paused. “someone softer.”

you shrugged. “pfft i am soft.” you looked at her dumbfounded. "and i was scared. but as a medic, whenever i see someone hurt - i help. whether they're an enemy doesn't matter"

Abby definetely wasn't expecting that your response would be this... pure.

she shifted closer - barely a step - and lifted a hand like she might touch your arm, or your shoulder, but stopped herself half-way.

instead, she said “if you ever end up here again…” her voice dropped low, almost conspiratorial. “…don’t come into a pharmacy alone.”

you scoffed "noted." you put on your backpack and twent to the exit.

but before your hand hit the door, she called out “hey.”

you glanced back. Abby looked at you for a beat. her face unreadable.

“…thanks again. for not letting me bleed out."

you gave her a lazy, but a warm smile. “anytime, baby.”

there it was again. was it also accidental this time? nah.

she shook her head, a slight blush creeping onto her face "i better not see you around, baby." but she didn't mean it. she wanted for your paths cross once again, maybe in more safe circumstances.

[the-scandalorian]

Pairing: Din Djarin x female sex worker!reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 3.1k Content Warnings: touch-starved Din; reader is blindfolded; smut Summary: Mando makes regular visits to the healing baths. Note: A big thank you to @frannyzooey for always enabling my depravity and finding the dope ass images for my header ❤︎

He always waits for you inside the door.

“It’s the least I can do,” he says, when you’re surprised by the unexpected touch the first time. A light hand cups your elbow, guiding you to the middle of the room, until you can feel the smooth tiles that mark the edge of the sunken pool with your bare toes.

The marble is slick with condensation, heated by the same geothermal source that warms the spring water. The air is steamy and humid, braided with the rich scents of cardamom and argan oil, of rose from the petals you know are strewn across the surface of the bath. Candles flicker languidly in the shadowy corners of the room, but you can’t detect any of their light.

When you lower yourself to the floor—carefully, blindly—he checks the tightness of the black silk wrapped around your eyes with gentle fingers. He reassures himself it’s secure, that you can’t see a thing through the fabric in the dark, hazy room. A reassurance he needs every time.

You come to expect it. To expect him.

He’s consistent. He’s hesitant.

It takes dozens of visits before he lets you join him in the bath. You always offer; he always refuses—politely, always so politely: a no, thank you, eventually paired with a fleeting touch. A warm hand placed over yours. Two fingers stroked down the red silk of your dress. If you’re lucky, a squeeze to the thick of your thigh or a graze of your cheek. His denial is so soft, so warm—so regretful—that you ask every time just to hear him want it.

When he inevitably says no, you sit behind him on a velvet cushion on the edge of the pool instead, swathed in the inky blackness of your blindfold, your feet dangling in the warm water, and work scented oils into his skin and tension out of his shoulders, his neck, his arms, his back, his chest. Your existence is reduced to tactile information, your world narrowed to the sensations in your hands—the textures at the tips of your fingers. The taut muscles of his shoulders, the raised scars that litter his arms and chest, the hair dusted over his pectorals, the callouses on his palms. All slick with water, slippery with massage oil.

The helmet stays on for the first handful of visits. You know by the modulated sound of his voice, by the brush of beskar against your wrist when you work a knuckle into the base of his stiff neck. It disappears somewhere around the tenth visit. When he meets you at the door, your name sounds markedly different. You don’t mention it, don’t draw attention to it, but you do enjoy the unfiltered, raw quality of his voice from then on.

The noises he makes when you touch him are always better than you remember. Their tone and cadence mark a gradual progression from high strung and uneasy to mellow and sedate as the tension coiled in his muscles dissipates under your hands. The harsh exhales devolve into low groans, quiet grunts. Sounds of pleasure waited too long to be had, of physical release so desperately needed. Every once in a while, when you work out a particularly stubborn knot, he murmurs a hushed, rumbling oh, fuck.

Once, when you earn a delicious moan paired with a strained, needy fuck, just like that, he bites off the last word so harshly that you know it was involuntary.

It turns you on more than the touch of any client ever has.

Even with the blindfold, you can feel the burn of his eyes on your skin. Its weight is familiar from the start, when you meet him at the entrance to the baths, the echoing stone entry hall with its gilded fixtures and branches of guttering candles. A balled fist rested on the counter, he nods at you in all his armored glory, a cordial gesture that seems to gain gravity and intimacy each time he offers it. The black visor follows your walk down the long hallway to your rooms, dips to your hips when he thinks you’re not looking. Heavy, substantial. Pressure that could be measured, harsh enough to leave an imprint in its wake.

It stays on you until you shut the door between you, leaving you in the antechamber to tie on your blindfold and him in the main room to undress.  

When you knock and enter, you can still track his gaze despite the layers of black silk—the feeling of it like a searing brand. Settled on your face when you smile up at him. Dragged over the curves of your breasts when you shamelessly tip forward to trail fingers through the water and they just barely begin to spill over the low cut of your dress. Trained on the movement of your tongue when you part your lips and lick a slow, gratuitous line over the bottom one. Riveted to the dark space between your legs when you spread your knees unnecessarily wide and the fabric of your thin, short dress rides up your thighs.

You tell yourself not to hope for more.

Then one day he shows up, and you can tell something is off. His usual steady, controlled energy has been replaced with a pent-up buzz. He’s worked up. You can hear it in his clipped words, feel it in the extra touches. The hand on your lower back guides you to the pool almost hurriedly.

His shoulders are even tighter than usual when you get your hands on them, his back a series of stony knots. He groans when you work at the tension in his neck, your thumbs digging into the tautness at the base of his skull. And when you offer yourself this time, feeling optimistic that you’ll get your most reluctant no yet, a strong hand guides you slowly and wordlessly down the smooth stone steps to join him in the water.

Reflexively, you pull your dress up and over your head, tossing it behind you before the hem can catch in the water. You lose his touch in the process, but a path of goosebumps down your body echoes the course of his gaze as it pulls along your curves. You can feel his attention, his captivation at your nakedness in the fervent tension that snaps taut between you.

His invitation is so unexpected, though, that once you’re standing in the hot, waist-deep water, you’re stunned motionless. Disoriented. You don’t know where he is for a moment; you feel his hot gaze everywhere, all at once. You never actually thought you’d get this far with him, and now it feels daunting—the darkness of blindfold, the ever-changing line of his limits and preferences. You feel untethered.

Until the water shifts and he touches you.

“Beautiful,” he says, damp fingers following the curve of your cheek so lightly you can only just feel them.

You take his hand in both of yours and kiss his palm, soft lips brushing over rough skin. He catches you under your chin, and one fingertip traces your lips, his other hand settling on your waist, flexing. 

You don’t want to push him too fast, and you also want to take full advantage of this opportunity while you finally have it.

You part your lips, and his fingers still.

You let your tongue peek out to circle the pad of one finger, inviting. To your delight, he responds by carefully pushing two fingers into your mouth. When you close your lips around them and suck, he lets out a broken, pained sound, pressing down on your tongue lightly before he eases them back out and drags a wet line down your chin to settle his hand around your throat. 

You smile up at him, unseeing, as you trail fingers down his chest, the soft give of his stomach, dipping below the water as you reach the ridge of his hipbone. Moving slowly, always slowly, so he can stop you if he wants to.

Sure enough, his hand finds yours, trapping it against his skin. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to," you interrupt. "I want to touch you.”

It’s an understatement. There isn’t enough time to share all the myriad ways you’ve fantasized about touching him.

“I’ve thought about this since the first time I saw you walk in here in your armor,” you say, letting your voice pitch low. “What you’d feel like under all that metal.”

His hand disappears, and yours slips further down the v of his hips to wrap around the base of his cock. Hard, thick, big like you knew it would be. 

“I think about it every time I work my way down your chest. How easy it would be to slip my hands lower...to see if you enjoy having my hands on your body as much as I do.” 

He breathes out slowly, but his whole body is rigid as you drag your other hand over his shoulder, down his chest, a granite statue under your touch even as you start to work him over in long, luxurious strokes. 

“I’ve been dying to know, Mando.”

His cock twitches in your hand, his skin hot and slick as it pulls over his hard length. He isn’t relaxing into your touch like he usually does, and this white-knuckled, shallow-breath, penitent version of pleasure is not at all what you’d intended for him, what he deserves.

You tip your face up toward his. “I need you to relax for me. Can you do that?”

A rough exhalation. Noncommittal, a little wry.

You step closer, gingerly moving into his space. He lets you. The water shifts around you as you move into him, close enough that your breasts brush his warm body and you can place a soft kiss on his chest. His ribs expand in a rapid, deep inhale, a rough hitching breath, and his hand comes up to cup the back of your neck.

You press him backward with a palm to his sternum, and he resists reflexively, his feet planted firmly. A man not so easily moved. Who is used to doing the telling, not being told.

“Sit for me?”

He relents with a hum, going pliant for you as you back him up to sit on the submerged marble bench. He helps you climb up, strong hands guiding your movements, settling you onto your knees in a straddle over his lap.

You dip your head to find the crook of his neck and lavish open-mouthed kisses on his throat, below his ear, automatically respecting the limits of where his helmet would be, as you move your hand between your bodies. You’ve never touched above his neck and won’t change that now, even though you’re dying to trace the contours of his face, to fit your lips to his.

Perched over him, you can feel his body gradually relax under your attention, his posture softening, his breath dropping into a more natural cadence. His hands find your hips, your thighs, slide back to grip your ass, as you begin to increase the pace of your stroke.

“Have you, Mando? Have you thought about this?”

You feel him nod once against the side of your head. Jerky, frantic.

“Good,” you purr into his skin, letting your teeth drag over his collarbone.

He groans, his hips lifting off the bench to push himself into your grip harder. The heat that always simmers in your core when you’re around him grows and spreads. It’s overwhelming—so much of his bare skin on your bare skin, after so long with so little. Almost feverish as you move together in the hot water.

Your hand pauses mid-stroke; his hands tighten in protest, sliding you a tiny bit closer on his tense thighs. “Do you think about me?”

His ragged breathing stalls. He nods again. “All the time.”

You hum, pleased, and resume the tight pull of your fist. Your own arousal is approaching a blistering point, so hot and bright, and he’s barely touching you—one hand on your ass, the other dragged up your body to palm your breast, his strong thighs pressed to the inside of yours. He rolls your nipple between two fingers, and you gasp. 

“Feel so good,” he rasps, the heavy weight of his hands reverent as they catalog the slopes and rises of your body. “Just like I imagined.”

You can’t help but think about how easily you could sit on his cock right now. All it would take is a slight shift and tilt of your hips and you could catch the blunt head at your entrance. He’d stretch you so deliciously—that girth and length—but your wetness would let you work yourself down onto his lap until he was filling you completely. You’d fuck an orgasm out of him, riding him until he found his release in the tight clutch of your body, milking his cock until he shuddered from the oversensitivity.

One day. Maybe.

He’s close—you can tell by the strain in his voice, by his ragged breath, by the way his hands tighten on your ass. By the way he wraps one large hand around yours on his cock, tightening your grip. 

“Just like that.”

You’d give anything to see his face when you feel the urgent flex of his hips as he fucks into your joined hands, the jerk and shudder of his large frame as it curves over you, his forehead dropping to rest heavily on your shoulder as he moans brokenly through the pleasure. It’s the most intimate part of all of this—so human, so trusting. So tempting to reach up and touch his face, to put detail to what you’ve imagined so many times.

You regret that your hand is submerged in water, that you can’t feel his hot release slide over the dips and swells of your knuckles. That you won't be able to lick it off your fingers—to taste it, for your own pleasure and for his. To listen to the sounds he’d make as he watched you eat his come.

Instead, when it’s over, when he’s finished, the weight of his forehead lifts from your shoulder and his touch abandons your body. You resist the urge to search it out, to ask for it back.

You imagine how he looks unwound underneath you, his head tipped back against the edge of the pool, muscles slack. His body finally truly relaxed.

Your part is done. 

He’s never spent this long here, and you imagine he’s hyperaware of that. Always on a timeline. Some small part of you thought maybe—hoped—this time would be different, that maybe he’d linger, that maybe he’d want to touch you. You slide backward off his lap to take your leave reluctantly, but when you reach blindly for the edge of the pool, there’s the sound of quick movement through the water and he closes a hand around your wrist.

Relief courses through your veins.

He doesn’t say anything, just guides you. You can’t tell what his aim is until he arranges your body over his just so—just the way he wants you. He has you straddle his lap backwards this time, your back flush to his chest, your knees opened wide by the spread of his legs between yours.

You think about what he does for work, the command and skill it requires. Those capable hands and sure grip have wrestled so many bounties into submission—into handcuffs, into rope bindings, into his carbonite chamber—and here they are exerting their power and ability for the sake of your pleasure. Blunt instrument, suddenly fine.

His breath is hot by your ear, his heavy hand settling meaningfully on your inner thigh. “Can I—?”

“Yes. Fuck, please—”

You guide his hand between your legs, desperate, and his mouth finds the back of your neck. His mouth. Stubble scrapes across your skin, soft lips molding to the contour of your shoulder. The heat that’s been building in your body, that started as a low smolder in your core, has been growing to a rolling boil the whole time you were touching him. And his mouth on your body? Like striking a match to gasoline.

The reality of the situation, the surprise of this touch, ratchets your arousal to a precipitous height. It’s the sheer brazenness of it—the unflinching way he’s taking such a huge step. In the name of your pleasure, of his desire to taste you.

The offering of such intimacy, a secret shared.

A warm tongue blazes a lazy trail from the notch of your vertebra to your nape as two fingers slip into the slit of your sex, beginning a slow massage of your clit. Your mind goes blank.

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he makes you come, how little time it takes with his hand between your legs and his lips on your skin. He fucks you with two thick fingers, another swirling over your clit, and you wonder vaguely how he knows how to curl the two inside you just right against your g-spot.

You reach behind you to grip the back of his neck as you arch, your hips circling. He hooks his chin over your shoulder and you go molten at the thought that he’s watching himself finger-fuck you to climax.

“Are you going to—?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

“Good.”

It's said through clenched teeth, a gritted jaw. He’s deriving so much pleasure from your pleasure, it's dizzying.

Teeth close over your shoulder and he bites down as you begin shudder and shake, as you clench and spasm around the thrust of his fingers—as you listen to his voice break on a groan as he feels it and draws it out—until the pleasure wanes and you melt back against him, boneless and sated, his strong body an anchor underneath you in the water.

You pant together, your head tipped back to rest on his shoulder, and all you can think about is how fucking close his lips are to yours. You could turn your face and kiss his jaw. He could angle your head and push his tongue into your mouth so easily. You’re so pliant; you want it so badly.

You consider asking. And then you consider the fact that he’s likely thinking about the same thing—your closeness is palpable, the tension a live, shivering thing—and he isn’t doing anything about it. He isn’t fitting a hand to your cheek to maneuver you just so.

You won’t ask for something he isn’t ready to offer.

When he finally does let you go, this visit that was so different from the others ends the same. He guides you back to the exit and hands you the robe that hangs by the door. As he helps you shoulder it on, he murmurs a sincere thank you, accompanied by a rumble of your name.

There’s one notable difference: as you're walking through the doorway, he catches your hand and squeezes it fleetingly before letting it drop.

The door shuts behind you with a click.

As always, a stack of credits far too high will be left in the room for you, and just like every other time, you’ll wait impatiently for his return. 

[tributedreference]

Dust canonically has zero changes to Classic!Sans, aside from determination and the Dusttale plotline. Technically speaking, he's identical in every way, including appearance-wise. So what happens if he exploits this fact? This is absolutely against Dust and his character, but imagine if he was forced into it in some way. Dust has to take the place in a timeline as the Classic!Sans there to scout out for information. Bonus points if its a timeline they're on the surface just to give his misery a little zing. On the flip side of this, what happens if a Classic has to pose as a Dust for a similar reason? Maybe to lay low or escape trouble by pretending to be a more powerful version of himself, of also to gather info on Dust's side of the multiverse, like the Nightmare Gang or something. I could absolutely see Classic running into some trouble and then sneaking through the NG base as Dust while the latter is busy or stuck somewhere. Perhaps Dust has to steal something from a TP timeline or gain leverage on something and needs to act like Classic to do it, or even better pretend to be Classic to gain more betrayal-flavoured negativity for Nightmare.

[mr-damian-s-power]

So Fat Nuggets being a gift to Angel Dust from Valentino kinda makes his existence feel less impactful. Angel finds comfort in a pet his abuser gave him. How does that work?

Worse yet, I'm sure I heard somewhere that originally, Angel rescued FN from a butcher. How is that not the better option? Angel felt sympathy for a small helpless animal and rescued it when he could have just as easily turned away and kept walking. He can feel positive emotions and thus, is viable for redemption. Organic character development, which Vivienne is allergic to, I guess.

Here, I thought up a scene for his introduction:

-

One day, Charlie notices Angel sneaking into the hotel. He seems very shifty, constantly looking around as he sneaks to his room. There's something in his hands, clutched to his chest. He keeps hiding behind stuff until he's able to dart up the stairs.

Charlie sees all of this and is naturally worried. Why is Angel sneaking around? What was he holding? Oh no, was he sneaking drugs into the hotel again? She has to confront him about this.

She goes up to his room and knocks on the door. A clatter is heard from inside, like something big fell on the floor, followed by a high squeal of all things that definitely didn't come from Angel.

Angel - What? Who is it?

Charlie - It's Charlie! Can I come in?

Charlie hears a quiet 'oh shit' followed by rustling from behind the door.

Charlie - Angel?

She goes to open the door, but it opens a crack as the Spider Demon casually leans against the doorframe.

Angel - Oh hey, Charlie, didn't hear you come in! What can I do ya for?

Charlie - Angel, I saw you creeping around the lobby just a minute ago before you came up here. I just wanted to know why.

Angel - *shrugs* I felt like it!

Charlie- *sighs* Angel, you know I don't like it when you lie.

Angel - I'm not! That thing I was holding was just...food!

Charlie- *narrows her eyes* I never said you were holding anything.

Angel looks visibly uncomfortable and begins sweating.

Charlie slips into the room and begins looking around.

Charlie - Angel, we've been over this. I don't want you sneaking drugs into the hotel anymore. Now where have you hidden them?

Angel - I wa- I wasn't doing drugs!

Charlie- Then what are you hiding?

She looks over at Angel's bed as her eyes move downwards. An empty bag lay next to it. There must have been something under there.

Angel - Charlie, wait! No!

Charlie gets down and looks under the bed. She gasps. Instead of drugs, she finds a small shivering Hellpig staring back at her. It dashes out and runs to Angel Dust, who quickly scoops it up.

Charlie - Angel, what is that?

Angel - Charlie, look, it's not what you think, okay? He's not violent or anything. He won't bite! Hellpigs a-are actually way cleaner than you think. I promise I'll keep him-

Charlie - Angel Angel Angel, slow down! Okay, take just take a minute to breathe and tell me what's going on? Where did you get this Hellpig from?

Angel - *sighs* Alright! I was walking back here from another job, when I walked past a butcher. I looked in and saw this little guy. He was in this tiny cage, squealing for help. I looked at the greasy bastard running the place and knew he was gonna enjoy chopping this one up.

The Hellpig oinks sadly and nuzzles into Angel's chest.

Angel - I couldn't just leave him there! He looked at me with his big eyes and I knew what I had to do. I opened his cage, grabbed him and ran! The guy chased me for a bit, but I gave him the slip.

Charlie - You...rescued him?

Angel - You should have been there! The poor guy was miserable! I guess I just know what it's like to be trapped with no way out. I couldn't leave him to suffer the same.

Angel brings the Hellpig up and hugs it to his face. The small Demon snorts and wags his curly tail.

Charlie - Aaawww, Angel~

Angel - *cringes* Don't fucking 'aww Angel' me! You would've done the same!

Charlie- But you did it! You had no monetary gain in this, you just did it because it was the right thing to do.

Angel - Uh.....yeah! Yeah, I guess I did!

Charlie- And he's so cuuuute~

She grabs the Hellpig's cheeks and squeezes them.

Angel - Yeah, hehe, he is! He's like a little fat nugget!

Charlie - Well that was really nice of you, Angel. I'm proud!

Angel - So he can stay?

Charlie smiles and nods. Angel cheers and snuggles his face against the wiggling Hellpig.

Charlie - I'll leave you two alone now.

Angel - Thanks, Charlie! Oh, by the way, if some asshole comes over here looking for a Hellpig, tell him to fuck off!

Charlie - ......I'll keep that in mind!

-

Thoughts?

[all-theabove]

𝑃𝑎𝑦𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑑 - 𝑀𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑥 𝑓𝑒𝑚!𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

𝑃𝑙𝑜𝑡 𝑖��� 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘 (𝑎𝑏𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑢𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙)٫ 𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘 (200%)٫ 𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘 (𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑔𝑢𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑒) 𝐼𝑛𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 "𝑅𝑢𝑙𝑒 𝑀𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑟٫ 𝑅𝑢𝑙𝑒 𝐵𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑟" 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑏𝑦 𝑀𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜

𝑇𝑊: 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔٫ 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 (𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓?)٫ 𝑠𝑢𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑔 (𝑓 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔)٫ 𝑠𝑒𝑥

𝑤𝑐: 5.1𝑘

Your assassin droid, IG-11, kept up, sending blaster shots towards the Mandalorian whenever you stumbled on your steps, reminding you of just another business deal you'd made with the man. He’d traded the droid to you after a piece of the Crest had malfunctioned, all since you'd refused to take his credits, determined on acquiring a bodyguard instead. People knew not to trust you and what you sold. Half of the time it was broken, or defective, you being too lazy to fix it. But you were one of the only people in the galaxy to have certain parts, so they landed on faith. It didn't get many of them too far. It made you hated, and a couple of unlucky sales later, it made you wanted. 

You managed to evade the bounties thanks to Mando’s IG-11, but you knew it was he, himself, who’d come after you if you ever did such a thing to him. But you needed the credits, and a functional engine capacitor was just not in your cards when he came asking. 

A quick turn of your head revealed a green blaster shot heading straight for the droid, hitting the coolant pipe on his left arm. Fuck, you thought to yourself as thick gray liquid began to pour form the punctured pipe. IG-11 wouldn't last long without it, especially not in the Naboo heat. 

And you were right, nearly 10 seconds later, it crumbled to the ground, leaving you no backup and a shitty aim to hold the bounty hunter off. He was relentless. No wonder he was so notorious. Notorious was not what you wanted after you right now. 

“Mando,” you yell without looking back. “Ill fix the fucking piece for cheap,” you try to reason with him, though you’re quickly shut down by a blaster hitting your close right, shuffling dust and debris on the ground, making you yelp, “for Maker’s sake, Mando!”

“Free,” he gruffed, you not realizing just how much he’d gained on you without IG-11 holding him off. “Yes, fine, fine- just put the blaster down,” you say, slowing down, turning around to see him slow to a walking pace as well. You back up, keeping distance between you. 

But he doesn't set his blaster back in its holster, rather pointing it directly at your temple and saying, “get on the ground.” 

“What?” You practically blubber. Did you just fall for a false promise?

“On the ground” He repeats, his voice a bit louder now through the modulator in the helmet. 

Without much of a better choice, you do as asked, lowering yourself to your knees, your hands up in surrender, eyes where you'd imagine his own were under the visor. 

Approaching you, he pushes your shoulder down into the dirt, removing the cloak off you and tossing it aside. 

He looks down your body, searching for any weapons, the useless blaster you'd been trying to shoot at him having been dropped somewhere along the way. 

With one hand, he pats down your sides, your legs, the edges of your boots. You wished you’d stored that knife in the footwear today, even if you knew it would make no difference against him.

With a pleased grunt, he cages your hands with cuffs, which you knew better than to question where he procured from. 

“Mando, please,” you utter as he pulls you to your feet, though keeps that insolence beneath the mask, straight backed and not bothering to look at you as he practically paraded you down the street. 

Heads turned and whispers shared, some of the men you’d stolen from, and some you’d sold to, cheering. 

It took more than a comfortable amount of walking to reach the Razorcrest, parked in Pell Motto’s workshop, and seeing the hunk of metal it was truly made you wonder what it would feel like to be frozen alive. 

You spot her, pit droids chirping at the sight of you restrained, and she gives you a solemn nod, greeting you before your imminent death. She was one of the only few people you purely sold undamaged goods to, so she had no problems with you, though she knew interrupting a Mandalorian from a bounty was not a good idea. 

As you pushed towards the door of the Crest, he instead threw you off to the left, towards the engine, which he’d needed the piece for. “Fix it.” He commanded. 

Your eyes turn to him for a moment, and you let loose a breath you didn't know you were holding. You felt like rambling of your thankfulness and extensively cussing him out at the same time. Instead, you settle on offering him your hands to remove the restrains. 

It took hours under his intense gaze, sweat and grease on your face and clothes and hands by the time you finished, an assortment of tools and metal scraps all around you. Turning back to him finally, silently commanding him to run it. 

He simply nods, the helmet dipping as he walks towards the hull’s entrance and disappears inside, a roar in the metal making you jump and retreat away from the ship. 

After a moment of steady humming, he turns it off once again, standing at the top of the ramp and saying, “Come here.” 

You're conflicted wether trying to run again or actually following direction. You knew that if you tried to escape him, you wouldn't get far, not without IG-11. 

So with slumped shoulders, you stride, ever so slowly, into his ship.

He doesn't make move to restrain you again, leading you through the cockpit, past the carbon freezing chamber, and towards a small cot, him resting his back on a storage container. 

“Like to play with your food, or..?” You ask, clearly a bit intimidated but not afraid enough to not poke at him as you usually did. 

“You pull some bullshit like that again, y/n, and I swear-- a bounty won’t be why I kill you.”  

The words make you sink back into the wall a little bit, his helmet fully trained on you, all dirty and disheveled after being chased, pushed, and forced to work. 

“You need to work better on who you trust then,” You respond through the clenching in your gut. 

You could tell immediately that he did not like that. As he takes a step forward, you raise your hands up in surrender for the second time today. 

“Business is business, Mando, and unless you think I’m pretty enough to be a working girl-- money is made however it needs to be made.” I say with a shrug of my shoulders. “I fixed it, didn't I?"

“After I wasted my time on you.” 

You scoff. “That was a great chase, im not sure what you’re referring to.” 

He took a long pause, not to agree, but also not to disagree. “You better get IG-11 before the Jawas get to him first.”

You took that as the last free pass you'd get to leave the ship alive. 

──────────═━━━┈┈━━━═───────────

It only took him a few weeks to return to your shop, if one could even call it that. It was a small hut set up near the outskirts of town, near the landfills, so that anyone passing by would think what lay surrounding your home was nothing more than scraps. The assassin droid had let him in, though his blaster had remained trained on a joint in the armor as the Mandalorian approached your work bench. You were hunched over the droid’s broken temperature regulator, a worn welding mask over your face, stick welders on either hand, melting a tube to the side of the device to replace the one Mando had broken. 

Right now, IG-11 had some scrap piece you knew would break down within weeks, something to hold him off while you worked on his actual replacement. 

“I need a landing foot.” 

Not hearing his words over the buzzing of the wands or noticing him from the blocked view of the mask, he hunkered behind you, gripping the wire running power to the equipment and pulling it. As they shut down, you look back, confused, and catch a glimpse of the beskar on his thighs, letting out a sigh that made him aware of your resignation. 

“Landing foot. Now.” He repeated as you raised the mask, your only response being, “1400 credits.” 

He let out what sounded like a smug chuckle. “Ill give you 400.” 

You twisted your face in slight offence “Are you insane?” your tone a lot more disrespectful than you knew you could afford to be to him. “400 or I take you in.”

Huffing, you say, “With his gun on you? I don’t think so,” gesturing towards IG-11.

“Oh, please, he makes one move too sharply and that haphazard tube will pop out of his arm.” He replies just as fast. “Don’t think the helmet is too thick for me to realize what a coolant device looks like.”

Watching him for a long moment, you get up and walk towards a pile of opened boxes, unorganized scattered pieces inside. “1050,” You finally say as you pull out a piece of clean metal, wide in your hands, the strip to support the ship the size of your abdomen alone. 

“600” 

“1000”

“800”

“900”

The mandalorian pauses for a moment. “850”

“Fine.” You utter, tossing the mask hovering over your head onto your desk, placing the foot in front of him, stretching out your hand. 

“Ill transfer you after it’s installed into the ship.” He says as he looks down at your palm, calloused and covered in cooling liquid. 

“Its a fucking landing foot, Mando, how could it be defective?” 

“You always manage to find a way.” 

“Maybe you just like me,” You shrug, knowing better than to tease him but unable to help yourself. 

A scoff from under the helmet and a shift in the cape around the skin of his neck, “Don’t start.”

And so, he made you come back with him to the ship. 

Kneeled under the raised hull, you twisted the wrench with a push to loosen the heavy screw, the muscles in your arm aching with the resistance of old metal. You gritted your teeth, finally feeling the bolt give, and reached back without looking.

“Smaller one,” you muttered, hand blindly searching.

He let out a grunt, clearly unamused by your tone, but passed you the thinner screwdriver from the box beside him. The thick fabric of his gloves grazed your palm, the contact hot despite the barrier. You felt it. You knew he did too.

“You're breathing on me,” you muttered, annoyed, but not enough to actually shift away. He was close. Looming, really. 

“I’m not leaving you unattended,” came the low, flat reply.

You snorted softly. “Afraid I’ll sabotage it again?” “No. Just know you like to test people when they’re not looking.”

Your hands paused.

You twisted your head over your shoulder to glance at him. He hadn’t moved. Still standing solid behind you, close enough that if you pushed back even slightly, youd hit hard, cold beskar.

“You always assume the worst,” you say, fingers still moving as you twist the next piece into place.

“I’m usually correct.” His voice dropped slightly. It wasn’t harsh if it was a simple fact.

You felt heat curl up the back of your neck. Maybe it was the sun. Or the proximity.

Still working, you asked, “Get tired of watching me yet?”

A long pause.

“Not yet.”

“Fuck,” you yelp suddenly, bumping back as a hinge from the top of the rusted landing foot almost lands on your stomach, making you drop the screwdriver, your back now pressed hard against the armor. 

He reached his hands under your arms to catch you from stumbling back further, his visor trained on you, as if silently asking if you were alright. 

“I’d bet all my credits this is the closest you’ve been to a girl in m-”

“You don’t want to finish that sentence.”

The stern words made you swallow whatever smart-ass remark you’d tried to make, his commanding presence practically beckoning you to never speak again. But his hands remained on you, one splayed across your ribs, the other just a fraction lower, right above your waist. His fingers had a firm grip on your shirt, as if you'd just fallen, as if he wasn't quite ready to let go. 

Still, you swallowed whatever begged you to just shut up and finish the job.

“Didn’t take you as the handsy type,” You say with a mocking smile, head tilted up to be able to meet the helmets view. 

“I’m not,” he replied, though it was low and cut short. 

He still hadn’t moved. The beskar pressing into your spine, the silence thick enough that you could hear the faint hum of the ship behind you, the sound of your own breathing. You were sure he could hear it too.

You twisted slightly in his grip, just enough to glance over your shoulder. “Then let go.”

His hands didn’t budge.

“You’re reckless,” he said simply like it explained everything.

“And you’re still here,” you shot back, barely a whisper.

Silence.

“Turn around.”

Your heart jumped. It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t threatening. But something in the way he said it, unreadable with that authority of his made you move before you even realized what you'd been doing.

You turned. Slowly, hesitantly, rotating in the tight space between him and the hull, until your chest brushed the curve of his chestplate. You had to look up to meet the black of his visor.

He didn’t step back.

The space between you felt too small now, filled with dust and tension.

“I’m not going to run,” you said, voice quieter than before.

“I know,” he replied.

His helmet tilted, just a fraction, as if scanning you. His gloved hand lifted and hovered near your jaw. Like you were a malfunction he couldn’t fix, just had to keep coming back to. 

He didn’t touch you. Not yet. Just traced the air near your face like he was deciding something.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Then, his voice came again, no less sharp.

“You think this is a game.”

You blinked once, slowly. “No,” you said. “I think it’s a job.”

His hand lowered to your side, settling at your hip, possessive in its stillness.

“I should lock you in the carbon chamber,” he muttered.

You smirked. “But you won’t.”

Another beat. Another breath.

“No, I won't."

You raised an eyebrow, heart thudding loud in your chest. “Then what?”

His hand slipped down, enough to curve around your lower back. 

“You fix things with your hands. Break them, too.”

A pause.

“I’m still trying to figure out which one you’re doing to me.”

Your mouth opened, but you didn’t have a witty comeback for that. Not when his hand stayed right where it was, not when his body was a wall of heat and beskar mere inches from yours.

“I’m not doing anything,” you murmured.

He leaned in just slightly, visor inches from your face, voice sharp and quiet through the modulator, “Exactly.”

Then his hand shifted once again, curling tighter on your waist, the leather of his glove warm now from your burning skin under your shirt. He leaned in, not enough to touch, but close enough that you felt the air shift when he spoke again.

“Inside. Now.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a threat.

It was a command.

You swallowed hard, smirk twitching at the edge of your lips. “You ordering me around on my own sale?”

“You're not selling me anything.”

His voice was measured, dangerous. You didn’t push further as he took a reluctant step back, his hand falling to his side. 

Stepping out from under the ship towards the ramp, you became aware of his steps behind you. The ship loomed, a dull silver in the afternoon sun. The air felt heavier with each footstep.

By the time the Razor Crest’s ramp closed behind you with a few clicks on the control panel at his wrist, your breath was shallow and your palms were sweating.

You turned, maybe to tease, to ask what the hell this was, but he was already a breath too close again.

“Don’t play dumb now.” His voice was a rumble at your ear, the modulator not doing much to mask the timbre in his voice.

You tilted your head up at him, biting back a smile. “I thought you didn’t come back for second rounds.”

A beat passed.

“Neither do you.”

The words between you sparked the memory; oil-stained hands on your hips, the sharp edge of your workbench digging into your stomach, biting back moans because his hand was over your mouth. The fact that you hadn’t spoken of it since made it burn hotter.

“I figured you were too proud to admit you liked it,” you murmured, stepping back toward the wall of the hull, letting it catch you, letting him corner you again once again.

He didn’t take the bait. Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he just stared. Helmet angled slightly, like he was assessing damage, or weakness. With a scoff, he took a step forward, knowing he was letting you win. His gloved hand came up slowly, dragging two gloved fingers along the underside of your jaw.

“You talk too much.”

You smirked, chin lifted. “You do too little.”

His hand moved in a blur, catching your wrist as you attempted to pull him closer, pushing you back, your spine thudding gently against the wall behind you. His other hand was already sliding down your side, trailing across waistband.

“Still remember how to beg?” he asked, tone flat, unbothered, his hand dipping under the pants and palming your ass roughly.

You refused to flinch. “I didn’t beg last time.”

He laughed, not much more than a sharp huff of air through the modulator, and bent forward, voice low.

“You know you did.”

You opened your mouth, something defiant on your tongue, but it turned to a breathy curse when his gloved hand raised back up, hooking on the loop of your pants and pushing them down, just enough to see your simple black underwear, expecting you to do the rest.

Which you gladly did, hastily removing them and tossing them god-knows where while he removed his gloves and discarded them as well.

His warm hand ran slowly down your thigh, hooking on your knee and raising it to give him access to your cloth-covered cunt.

Once raised, you knew, placing your thigh on his hip, calf wrapped around the back of his thigh as his hand traced back up, thumb kneading the soft flesh. 

But he just kept going up and up, thumb pressing into sticky fabric, tracing slow circles over your already throbbing core. 

“Already soaked,” he murmured. It wasn't a compliment, more like a confirmation to suspicion.

“You gonna stand here narrating it, or—”

His fingers wrapped around your throat, gentle but not soft, thumb pressing into the edge of your jaw. He leaned in close again, visor nearly touching your skin.

“You’re not in charge here, mesh’la.”

You shivered. It hit you harder than it should’ve: the nickname in that voice, underlined by steel. You remembered the first time he used it, gritted out under his breath as he fucked you from behind, fingers tangled in your hair. You’d asked what it meant, and he’d told you it was the word for “beautiful” in his language. You hadn’t been able to forget it since.

Now, his hand slipped between your waistband and skin, calloused fingers dragging rough over you as he pushed further down.

“You remember how to say thank you?” he asked.

Your breath only hitched.

“No?”

Two fingers pressed your clit teasingly, refusing to give you what he knew you needed as you practically dripped precum.

“Then I’ll make you remember.”

“Mando,” You utter, eyes lowering slightly, refusing to show him how good he made you feel without even being inside you. You knew he could tell anyways, skin burning and heartbeat pounding southward. 

You can practically hear the smirk in his voice when he responds, low and demanding. 

“Say it.” 

“Come on,” It’s an annoyed tone you take with him, and it makes him squeeze your throat just a bit tighter, dip the tip of one finger into you then remove it just as quickly to let you know exactly what you were missing. 

“God- Please,” you beg, whinier than intended. 

“Please what?” His voice was silk over steel, a rasp because of the modulator that somehow made everything worse. Or better. You couldn’t decide.

You tried to shift your hips against his hand, chase the friction, but his arm locked around your waist and held you still.

“Use your words.”

You scowled, even as your breath trembled. “You’re such an—”

He slipped two fingers into you, sudden and deep, and your insult died as a strangled moan instead. His other hand held you firm, pinned with nowhere to go but onto him.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, mesh’la,” he growled, voice low and amused, but there was a warning in it too.

You clenched around his fingers, hips rolling instinctively. It wasn’t enough, not with how slow he moved, not when he deliberately avoided that one spot you needed most.

“I didn’t know you were such a tease,” you gasped.

“I’m not teasing,” he said, curling his fingers just slightly, dragging a delicious moan from your lips. “You’re the one who begged last time, remember?”

Your head remained tipped back as you bit into your bottom lip to keep from groaning again. You hated that he remembered that. You loved that he remembered that.

Still, your voice came out sharp, defiant. “And what? You think I’ll beg again?”

His hand withdrew entirely, leaving you clenching around nothing. Cold air hit your slick skin.

Your eyes flew open. “Wait- !”

He tilted his helmet. “You were saying?”

“Fuck you.”

“Eventually,” he said, tone maddeningly casual.

You tried reaching for him, grab his wrist, to drag him back where you needed him so desperately, but he caught both your hands in one of his and pinned them to your chest. His other hand dipped back down slowly, so, so slowly, and you squirmed against the wall, practically panting.

“You don’t get to take,” he said, pushing your thighs wider with a knee, “until you give.”

You let go of your lip with a slight pop. “Fine.”

A pause. Then, “Please. Touch me.”

And Maker, he did.

His fingers worked you open with ruthless control, stroking slow and deep, your whimpers caught against the inside of your teeth. The sound of your slick was obscene in the silence of the ship, each motion dragging you closer to the edge.

“You’re gonna come like this,” he said, helmet pressed right at your ear now. “Just from my fingers. And next time…”

His hand slipped lower, thumb grinding over your clit, puffy and pink as you bucked against him.

“You ask nicely from the start.”

Your hands curled against his chestplate, nails scraping the cool beskar, desperate now.

“Say it again.”

“Please—fuck—please, Mando, don’t stop—”

“Good girl.”

That did it.

Your legs shook, body clenching tight as the orgasm hit you sharp and fast, his fingers never slowing. You gasped his name again, louder this time, barely caring how wrecked you sounded.

He didn’t stop until you were twitching, breath gone, head falling back against his shoulder.

Then, finally, he eased his fingers out and wrapped both arms around you from behind, holding you steady.

“Are you going to be good now?” he murmured, voice still dark, still in control.

You were already nodding, a little too fast.

Your legs still felt weak when he pulled you toward the back of the ship, your shirt pushed halfway up your abdomen. He didn’t give you a chance to fix it, only guided you forward with a hand firm on your hip, thumb stroking once through the fabric as if to remind you who put you in this state.

“Box,” he ordered simply, nodding toward one of the metal crates bolted down along the wall. You recognized it; some forgotten supply locker you’d helped him dig through once, heavy with scrap and spare parts. Now it looked like an altar.

He turned you around, hand on the back of your neck, pushing until you were bent over it, the metal seeping cold onto your chest flush against it.

“This feel familiar?” he asked, voice thick through the modulator as his fingers hooked onto your panties, pulling them off this time. “Last time it was a workbench.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, breathless. “You didn’t even buy anything.”

“Didn’t need to.” His hands ran down the curve of your back, stopping to grip your ass in both palms. “You offered.”

“I didn’t—fuck—”

He cut you off with a sharp slap to your ass, making you jolt forward with a gasp.

“Offered,” he repeated. “And begged.”

Your fingers dug into the edges of the crate as he spread you open with both hands. 

His thumb slid between your folds again, spreading the mess you’d already made. “Still soaked.”

“You gonna keep stating the obvious?” you shot back, trying to regain some control, even with your knees trembling and your spine curved just right.

Another slap. This time lower. You cried out.

“You gonna keep talking?” he said.

Then you heard it: the sound of his belt unfastening, that familiar shift of armor plates as he freed himself just enough.

A rough hand wrapped around your waist, hauling your hips back slightly, angling you where he wanted.

“Stay still.”

You barely nodded before he pushed inside—slow at first, thick and long and unrelenting, stretching you until you could barely breathe.

“Fuck—Din—”

He didn’t answer, only groaned low behind the helmet, hands tightening around your hips. His thrusts started slow, controlled, brutal. Every motion shoved you harder into the crate, the joining of your stomach and your thighs hurting from the sharp edge, but you didn’t care. All you could feel was him.

You could hear the restraint in his voice when he finally spoke again, his voice rough with strain. “You act like a brat just to get fucked like this?”

You moaned, louder than you should’ve. He snapped his hips harder.

“Answer me.”

“Yes—shit—yes.”

“Good.” His hand reached up, fingers tangling in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to see your face as you moaned for him.

Each thrust hit deeper, timed with the curve of your spine and the helpless gasp you let out every time his hips slapped against the backs of your thighs.

You couldn’t find words anymore. You just breathed, shuddering and barely holding yourself up on the crate as he used your body exactly how he wanted.

“You like being taken like this, huh?” he muttered. The modulator distorted his voice just enough to make it darker, more guttural. “Bent over. Obedient.”

You whimpered. Nodded. That was all you could do.

He fucked into you harder for that. One sharp thrust that had your toes curling inside your boots.

“I didn’t say nod.” He let go of your hair just long enough to slap your ass again, the sound echoing off the hull. “Use your voice.”

“Yes,” you choked out, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as your neck gave out, forehead now resting against your crossed forearms. “Yes, fuck—yes.”

“Good girl,” he growled, and you felt the shiver that rolled down your back like he’d pressed a cold blade there.

Then his hand returned to your hip, anchoring you in place, while the other found your clit again, fingers still bare, working quick, tight circles that had your thighs shaking.

“You’re gonna come like this,” he ordered. “Just like last time.”

You remembered last time. The mess. The way you’d been too dazed to speak after. And now, with his body pressed so tight behind yours, with his cock filling you just right and his fingers coaxing every bit of sensitivity from you, you were close, too close.

“Din, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice left no room for argument. “You will.”

Your body snapped.

You came with a cry that wasn’t a word, wasn’t even a thought. He didn’t stop, kept fucking you through it, letting you tremble, fall apart around him, squeezing tight, soaking his cock as you pulsed and gasped under him.

And only when he felt you start to come down, did he finally taper off. His hips slowed to a halt, body tense, hands gripping you hard enough to leave marks.

The air was thick with heat and the scent of pleasure. The only sound was your breathing, rough and shaky, and the low mechanical hum of the ship.

He didn’t speak. Just rested a hand on your upper back, slow and grounding, tracing along your spine with the pads of his bare fingers like he was checking that you were still whole, still alive.

You stayed like that a moment, bare and used, before finally murmuring, lips curved against the crate:

“So... do I get a bonus?”

But he moved. Stepped back, adjusted his armor with a quiet huff through the modulator. A moment later, something soft landed beside you on the crate. Your pants, folded haphazardly. Then your underwear.

And then the jingle of credits. A small handful of them, tossed down casually onto the same box you were still bent over.

“Keep the change,” he said flatly.

You turned your head to glare at him, but he was already walking off. Composed again, like nothing had just happened.

He paused at the threshold of the cockpit.

And with just the tilt of his helmet over his shoulder, voice low and dry, he added, “Next time I won’t let you overcharge me.”

Then he disappeared into the piloting room, the door sliding shut behind him.

Leaving you half-dressed, a little wrecked, and already thinking about that “next time.” 𝐼𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑠٫ 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑐𝘩𝑒𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑎𝑔𝑒٫ 𝑖𝑚 𝑡𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑜𝑐 𝑥 𝑜𝑐 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 "𝐶𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑒"٫ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡ˊ𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑒 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑٫ 𝑠𝑜 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑!

[meadow-of-daisies-and-lavender]

Deity! 141 AU HCs

A/N: Just some ramblings about the 141 as deities in my poly AU

(18+ only)

Please comment and reblog!

Captain John Price

God of the East Woods, who is represented by winter. He is known for his leadership skills, analytical abilities, and good faith in his men.

As he is known for leadership skills, he is known as the god most worshiped by leaders who seek guidance in their ability to command others. He is also known for being the one sought out by outcasts who are looking for community. He’ll help you find your way, don’t you worry. You belong somewhere; we just have to find where.

Contrary to popular belief, John does not participate in assisting those who force their command over others. He believes in leading by example and earning the privilege of leadership.

 He is most closely associated with cold metal, with his altar decorated in winter wreaths, warm spices, and delicate metalwork.

Kyle Garrick

God of the North Woods, represented by Spring and water. He is courageous, knowledgeable in the social and environmental climate, and can foresee the cause and effects of many actions on the battlefield.

He is worshiped by those beginning new endeavors. As the youngest and newest god (which, how new can ancient beings really be?), myths range from his grand displays of courage to self-doubt. His stories paint imagery of humbleness and of an eager learner. To those seeking new starts, he is the perfect divine being to guide you to ask questions and be courageous in the midst of change.

Kyle, while known best for being the god of changes, is also the patron of mystics for his foreseeing abilities (and beauticians. He likes his skincare and pretty things). As the foreseeing one, he knows all the outcomes and can assist divination practitioners in seeking knowledge of the future.

Just because Kyle can help doesn’t mean he will. Many fortune-tellers have reported trickery and confusion trying to get answers from him. He likes his jokes and finds seeing humans guessing about the future amusing. Won’t they find out eventually?

 His altar is decorated with bowls of water representing spring rain and winds. As spring flowers bloom, they are also decorated upon his altar. The seed of each planted crop is represented on the altar as a blessing for a productive sowing season.

Johnny McTavish

The god of summer and of the southlands. McTavish is known for quick, fiery actions mirrored by a thunderstorm's quick turn or a wildfire's spark.

While he might have fiery emotions, the god is methodological in his delivery of quick actions. For this reason, if you need help finding passion, McTavish is the god for you. He is the patron of athletes and artisans who harness passion into practice and dedication to their craft.

The god of summer is precise! If you seek his help, be specific and think about what you need versus what you want. His help will come on his timing, but it’ll be exactly what you asked for. He finds it funny when mortals get upset by this. Usually, if he is going to be helpful to the mortals, it is on his terms and conditions, and you’ll know by a sudden splash of warmth on your skin or by the way events just so happen to align that it could only be the work of a god.

His altar is decorated with an always-lit candle. There are summer fruits in bowls and an icon of a thunderbolt descending from the sky to represent his passions.

The one they call “Ghost”

The god of the south and autumn season, mortals know the least about him. His mythology is sparse, usually featuring him as a supporting character in someone else’s myth (usually Johnny’s) with a dry sense of humor.

He is the god of the ground that is transitioning into hibernation, the god of intelligence, knowing when to take ground and when to give ground. He is the wisdom gained from remembering the bones and dust from whence you came. He is the patron of the elderly and wise, of those who understand the power of listening before speaking to the aged ideals that came before you.

Hidden by shadows of the unknown, protected by the bones of the dying, Ghost is not a death god, but he represents the bridge between mortals and the spiritual, helping those who are dying.

Ghost is not a god you call upon lightly. He will make you search your shadows, forcing you to gaze upon those fearsome things that hide in all mortal souls. If you ask to see the divine, he will show you it when you are ready. But it will not look pretty or neat or holy. It will be sacred in its raw, awesome terror, a power unleashed that mortals cannot grasp.

Ghost’s alter typically has a buck skull on it- the first buck killed of the season. Black and grey altar cloths are laid beneath the walnut bowls holding the nuts and acorns offered to the god.

Once upon a time, there were four gods. Together, they took turns helping the mortals. But what spirit connects them all, centering their efforts? Of what clear mission banner do they unite under? To whom is the focal point of life’s great mysteries? It had always been assumed human mortals as a collective to be that focal point. But the myths do not end with the death of the old. They continue and will grow with the next generations and generations next.