#the tile... the window... the wood paneled walls

[aes-h]

not so berry gen 1 house (2)

[napleonsolo]

Victorian Living Room - Living Room

A medium-sized ornate enclosed living room library with a dark wood floor, beige walls, and no fireplace

[arnavjohnson]

Mudroom - Mudroom Mid-sized beach style porcelain tile entryway photo with gray walls and a white front door

[daily-borgia]

Enclosed Dining Room in Sacramento

Example of a mid-sized mountain style porcelain tile and beige floor enclosed dining room design with beige walls and no fireplace

[cartahstaph]

Miami Enclosed An illustration of a small, enclosed living room in an urban setting with carpeting, brown walls, and no fireplace.

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Interiors

As a followup to the very popular post on architecture, I decided to add onto it by exploring the interior of each movement and the different design techniques and tastes of each era. This post at be helpful for historical fiction, fantasy or just a long read when you're bored.

Interior Design Terms

Reeding and fluting: Fluting is a technique that consists a continuous pattern of concave grooves in a flat surface across a surface. Reeding is it's opposite.

Embossing: stamping, carving or moulding a symbol to make it stand out on a surface.

Paneling: Panels of carved wood or fabric a fixed to a wall in a continuous pattern.

Gilding: the use of gold to highlight features.

Glazed Tile: Ceramic or porcelain tiles coated with liquid coloured glass or enamel.

Column: A column is a pillar of stone or wood built to support a ceiling. We will see more of columns later on.

Bay Window: The Bay Window is a window projecting outward from a building.

Frescos: A design element of painting images upon wet plaster.

Mosaic: Mosaics are a design element that involves using pieces of coloured glass and fitted them together upon the floor or wall to form images.

Mouldings: ornate strips of carved wood along the top of a wall.

Wainscoting: paneling along the lower portion of a wall.

Chinoiserie: A European take on East Asian art. Usually seen in wallpaper.

Clerestory: A series of eye-level windows.

Sconces: A light fixture supported on a wall.

Niche: A sunken area within a wall.

Monochromatic: Focusing on a single colour within a scheme.

Ceiling rose: A moulding fashioned on the ceiling in the shape of a rose usually supporting a light fixture.

Baluster: the vertical bars of a railing.

Façade: front portion of a building

Lintel: Top of a door or window.

Portico: a covered structure over a door supported by columns

Eaves: the part of the roof overhanging from the building

Skirting: border around lower length of a wall

Ancient Greece

Houses were made of either sun-dried clay bricks or stone which were painted when they dried. Ground floors were decorated with coloured stones and tiles called Mosaics. Upper level floors were made from wood. Homes were furnished with tapestries and furniture, and in grand homes statues and grand altars would be found. Furniture was very skillfully crafted in Ancient Greece, much attention was paid to the carving and decoration of such things. Of course, Ancient Greece is ancient so I won't be going through all the movements but I will talk a little about columns.

Doric: Doric is the oldest of the orders and some argue it is the simplest. The columns of this style are set close together, without bases and carved with concave curves called flutes. The capitals (the top of the column) are plain often built with a curve at the base called an echinus and are topped by a square at the apex called an abacus. The entablature is marked by frieze of vertical channels/triglyphs. In between the channels would be detail of carved marble. The Parthenon in Athens is your best example of Doric architecture.

Ionic: The Ionic style was used for smaller buildings and the interiors. The columns had twin volutes, scroll-like designs on its capital. Between these scrolls, there was a carved curve known as an egg and in this style the entablature is much narrower and the frieze is thick with carvings. The example of Ionic Architecture is the Temple to Athena Nike at the Athens Acropolis.

Corinthian: The Corinthian style has some similarities with the Ionic order, the bases, entablature and columns almost the same but the capital is more ornate its base, column, and entablature, but its capital is far more ornate, commonly carved with depictions of acanthus leaves. The style was more slender than the others on this list, used less for bearing weight but more for decoration. Corinthian style can be found along the top levels of the Colosseum in Rome.

Tuscan: The Tuscan order shares much with the Doric order, but the columns are un-fluted and smooth. The entablature is far simpler, formed without triglyphs or guttae. The columns are capped with round capitals.

Composite: This style is mixed. It features the volutes of the Ionic order and the capitals of the Corinthian order. The volutes are larger in these columns and often more ornate. The column's capital is rather plain. for the capital, with no consistent differences to that above or below the capital.

Ancient Rome

Rome is well known for its outward architectural styles. However the Romans did know how to add that rizz to the interior. Ceilings were either vaulted or made from exploded beams that could be painted. The Romans were big into design. Moasics were a common interior sight, the use of little pieces of coloured glass or stone to create a larger image. Frescoes were used to add colour to the home, depicting mythical figures and beasts and also different textures such as stonework or brick. The Romans loved their furniture. Dining tables were low and the Romans ate on couches. Weaving was a popular pastime so there would be tapestries and wall hangings in the house. Rich households could even afford to import fine rugs from across the Empire. Glass was also a feature in Roman interior but windows were usually not paned as large panes were hard to make. Doors were usually treated with panels that were carved or in lain with bronze.

Ancient Egypt

Egypt was one of the first great civilisations, known for its immense and grand structures. Wealthy Egyptians had grand homes. The walls were painted or plastered usually with bright colours and hues. The Egyptians are cool because they mapped out their buildings in such a way to adhere to astrological movements meaning on special days if the calendar the temple or monuments were in the right place always. The columns of Egyptian where thicker, more bulbous and often had capitals shaped like bundles of papyrus reeds. Woven mats and tapestries were popular decor. Motifs from the river such as palms, papyrus and reeds were popular symbols used.

Ancient Africa

African Architecture is a very mixed bag and more structurally different and impressive than Hollywood would have you believe. Far beyond the common depictions of primitive buildings, the African nations were among the giants of their time in architecture, no style quite the same as the last but just as breathtaking.

Rwandan Architecture: The Rwandans commonly built of hardened clay with thatched roofs of dried grass or reeds. Mats of woven reeds carpeted the floors of royal abodes. These residences folded about a large public area known as a karubanda and were often so large that they became almost like a maze, connecting different chambers/huts of all kinds of uses be they residential or for other purposes.

Ashanti Architecture: The Ashanti style can be found in present day Ghana. The style incorporates walls of plaster formed of mud and designed with bright paint and buildings with a courtyard at the heart, not unlike another examples on this post. The Ashanti also formed their buildings of the favourite method of wattle and daub.

Nubian Architecture: Nubia, in modern day Ethiopia, was home to the Nubians who were one of the world's most impressive architects at the beginning of the architecture world and probably would be more talked about if it weren't for the Egyptians building monuments only up the road. The Nubians were famous for building the speos, tall tower-like spires carved of stone. The Nubians used a variety of materials and skills to build, for example wattle and daub and mudbrick. The Kingdom of Kush, the people who took over the Nubian Empire was a fan of Egyptian works even if they didn't like them very much. The Kushites began building pyramid-like structures such at the sight of Gebel Barkal

Japanese Interiors

Japenese interior design rests upon 7 principles. Kanso (簡素)- Simplicity, Fukinsei (不均整)- Asymmetry, Shizen (自然)- Natural, Shibumi (渋味) – Simple beauty, Yugen (幽玄)- subtle grace, Datsuzoku (脱俗) – freedom from habitual behaviour, Seijaku (静寂)- tranquillity.

Common features of Japanese Interior Design:

Shoji walls: these are the screens you think of when you think of the traditional Japanese homes. They are made of wooden frames, rice paper and used to partition

Tatami: Tatami mats are used within Japanese households to blanket the floors. They were made of rice straw and rush straw, laid down to cushion the floor.

Genkan: The Genkan was a sunken space between the front door and the rest of the house. This area is meant to separate the home from the outside and is where shoes are discarded before entering.

Japanese furniture: often lowest, close to the ground. These include tables and chairs but often tanked are replaced by zabuton, large cushions. Furniture is usually carved of wood in a minimalist design.

Nature: As both the Shinto and Buddhist beliefs are great influences upon architecture, there is a strong presence of nature with the architecture. Wood is used for this reason and natural light is prevalent with in the home. The orientation is meant to reflect the best view of the world.

Islamic World Interior

The Islamic world has one of the most beautiful and impressive interior design styles across the world. Colour and detail are absolute staples in the movement. Windows are usually not paned with glass but covered in ornate lattices known as jali. The jali give ventilation, light and privacy to the home. Islamic Interiors are ornate and colourful, using coloured ceramic tiles. The upper parts of walls and ceilings are usually flat decorated with arabesques (foliate ornamentation), while the lower wall areas were usually tiled. Features such as honeycombed ceilings, horseshoe arches, stalactite-fringed arches and stalactite vaults (Muqarnas) are prevalent among many famous Islamic buildings such as the Alhambra and the Blue Mosque.

Byzantine (330/395–1453 A. D)

The Byzantine Empire or Eastern Roman Empire was where eat met west, leading to a melting pot of different interior designs based on early Christian styles and Persian influences. Mosaics are probably what you think of when you think of the Byzantine Empire. Ivory was also a popular feature in the Interiors, with carved ivory or the use of it in inlay. The use of gold as a decorative feature usually by way of repoussé (decorating metals by hammering in the design from the backside of the metal). Fabrics from Persia, heavily embroidered and intricately woven along with silks from afar a field as China, would also be used to upholster furniture or be used as wall hangings. The Byzantines favoured natural light, usually from the use of copolas.

Indian Interiors

India is of course, the font of all intricate designs. India's history is sectioned into many eras but we will focus on a few to give you an idea of prevalent techniques and tastes.

The Gupta Empire (320 – 650 CE): The Gupta era was a time of stone carving. As impressive as the outside of these buildings are, the Interiors are just as amazing. Gupta era buildings featured many details such as ogee (circular or horseshoe arch), gavaksha/chandrashala (the motif centred these arches), ashlar masonry (built of squared stone blocks) with ceilings of plain, flat slabs of stone.

Delhi Sultanate (1206–1526): Another period of beautifully carved stone. The Delhi sultanate had influence from the Islamic world, with heavy uses of mosaics, brackets, intricate mouldings, columns and and hypostyle halls.

Mughal Empire (1526–1857): Stonework was also important on the Mughal Empire. Intricately carved stonework was seen in the pillars, low relief panels depicting nature images and jalis (marble screens). Stonework was also decorated in a stye known as pietra dura/parchin kari with inscriptions and geometric designs using colored stones to create images. Tilework was also popular during this period. Moasic tiles were cut and fitted together to create larger patters while cuerda seca tiles were coloured tiles outlined with black.

Chinese Interiors

Common features of Chinese Interiors

Use of Colours: Colour in Chinese Interior is usually vibrant and bold. Red and Black are are traditional colours, meant to bring luck, happiness, power, knowledge and stability to the household.

Latticework: Lattices are a staple in Chinese interiors most often seen on shutters, screens, doors of cabinets snf even traditional beds.

Lacquer: Multiple coats of lacquer are applied to furniture or cabinets (now walls) and then carved. The skill is called Diaoqi (雕漆).

Decorative Screens: Screens are used to partition off part of a room. They are usually of carved wood, pained with very intricate murals.

Shrines: Spaces were reserved on the home to honour ancestors, usually consisting of an altar where offerings could be made.

Of course, Chinese Interiors are not all the same through the different eras. While some details and techniques were interchangeable through different dynasties, usually a dynasty had a notable style or deviation. These aren't all the dynasties of course but a few interesting examples.

Song Dynasty (960–1279): The Song Dynasty is known for its stonework. Sculpture was an important part of Song Dynasty interior. It was in this period than brick and stone work became the most used material. The Song Dynasty was also known for its very intricate attention to detail, paintings, and used tiles.

Ming Dynasty(1368–1644): Ceilings were adorned with cloisons usually featuring yellow reed work. The floors would be of flagstones usually of deep tones, mostly black. The Ming Dynasty favoured richly coloured silk hangings, tapestries and furnishings. Furniture was usually carved of darker woods, arrayed in a certain way to bring peace to the dwelling.

Han Dynasty (206 BC-220 AD): Interior walls were plastered and painted to show important figures and scenes. Lacquer, though it was discovered earlier, came into greater prominence with better skill in this era.

Tang Dynasty (618–907) : The colour palette is restrained, reserved. But the Tang dynasty is not without it's beauty. Earthenware reached it's peak in this era, many homes would display fine examples as well. The Tang dynasty is famous for its upturned eaves, the ceilings supported by timber columns mounted with metal or stone bases. Glazed tiles were popular in this era, either a fixed to the roof or decorating a screen wall.

Romanesque (6th -11th century/12th)

Romanesque Architecture is a span between the end of Roman Empire to the Gothic style. Taking inspiration from the Roman and Byzantine Empires, the Romanesque period incorporates many of the styles. The most common details are carved floral and foliage symbols with the stonework of the Romanesque buildings. Cable mouldings or twisted rope-like carvings would have framed doorways. As per the name, Romansque Interiors relied heavily on its love and admiration for Rome. The Romanesque style uses geometric shapes as statements using curves, circles snf arches. The colours would be clean and warm, focusing on minimal ornamentation.

Gothic Architecture (12th Century - 16th Century)

The Gothic style is what you think of when you think of old European cathedrals and probably one of the beautiful of the styles on this list and one of most recognisable. The Gothic style is a dramatic, opposing sight and one of the easiest to describe. Decoration in this era became more ornate, stonework began to sport carving and modelling in a way it did not before. The ceilings moved away from barreled vaults to quadripartite and sexpartite vaulting. Columns slimmed as other supportive structures were invented. Intricate stained glass windows began their popularity here. In Gothic structures, everything is very symmetrical and even.

Mediaeval (500 AD to 1500)

Interiors of mediaeval homes are not quite as drab as Hollywood likes to make out. Building materials may be hidden by plaster in rich homes, sometimes even painted. Floors were either dirt strewn with rushes or flagstones in larger homes. Stonework was popular, especially around fireplaces. Grand homes would be decorated with intricate woodwork, carved heraldic beasts and wall hangings of fine fabrics.

Renaissance (late 1300s-1600s)

The Renaissance was a period of great artistry and splendor. The revival of old styles injected symmetry and colour into the homes. Frescoes were back. Painted mouldings adorned the ceilings and walls. Furniture became more ornate, fixed with luxurious upholstery and fine carvings. Caryatids (pillars in the shape of women), grotesques, Roman and Greek images were used to spruce up the place. Floors began to become more intricate, with coloured stone and marble. Modelled stucco, sgraffiti arabesques (made by cutting lines through a layer of plaster or stucco to reveal an underlayer), and fine wall painting were used in brilliant combinations in the early part of the 16th century.

Tudor Interior (1485-1603)

The Tudor period is a starkly unique style within England and very recognisable. Windows were fixed with lattice work, usually casement. Stained glass was also in in this period, usually depicting figures and heraldic beasts. Rooms would be panelled with wood or plastered. Walls would be adorned with tapestries or embroidered hangings. Windows and furniture would be furnished with fine fabrics such as brocade. Floors would typically be of wood, sometimes strewn with rush matting mixed with fresh herbs and flowers to freshen the room.

Baroque (1600 to 1750)

The Baroque period was a time for splendor and for splashing the cash. The interior of a baroque room was usually intricate, usually of a light palette, featuring a very high ceiling heavy with detail. Furniture would choke the room, ornately carved and stitched with very high quality fabrics. The rooms would be full of art not limited to just paintings but also sculptures of marble or bronze, large intricate mirrors, moldings along the walls which may be heavily gilded, chandeliers and detailed paneling.

Victorian (1837-1901)

We think of the interiors of Victorian homes as dowdy and dark but that isn't true. The Victorians favoured tapestries, intricate rugs, decorated wallpaper, exquisitely furniture, and surprisingly, bright colour. Dyes were more widely available to people of all stations and the Victorians did not want for colour. Patterns and details were usually nature inspired, usually floral or vines. Walls could also be painted to mimic a building material such as wood or marble and most likely painted in rich tones. The Victorians were suckers for furniture, preferring them grandly carved with fine fabric usually embroidered or buttoned. And they did not believe in minimalism. If you could fit another piece of furniture in a room, it was going in there. Floors were almost eclusively wood laid with the previously mentioned rugs. But the Victorians did enjoy tiled floors but restricted them to entrances. The Victorians were quite in touch with their green thumbs so expect a lot of flowers and greenery inside. with various elaborately decorated patterned rugs. And remember, the Victorians loved to display as much wealth as they could. Every shelf, cabinet, case and ledge would be chocked full of ornaments and antiques.

Edwardian/The Gilded Age/Belle Epoque (1880s-1914)

This period (I've lumped them together for simplicity) began to move away from the deep tones and ornate patterns of the Victorian period. Colour became more neutral. Nature still had a place in design. Stained glass began to become popular, especially on lampshades and light fixtures. Embossing started to gain popularity and tile work began to expand from the entrance halls to other parts of the house. Furniture began to move away from dark wood, some families favouring breathable woods like wicker. The rooms would be less cluttered.

Art Deco (1920s-1930s)

The 1920s was a time of buzz and change. Gone were the refined tastes of the pre-war era and now the wow factor was in. Walls were smoother, buildings were sharper and more jagged, doorways and windows were decorated with reeding and fluting. Pastels were in, as was the heavy use of black and white, along with gold. Mirrors and glass were in, injecting light into rooms. Gold, silver, steel and chrome were used in furnishings and decor. Geometric shapes were a favourite design choice. Again, high quality and bold fabrics were used such as animal skins or colourful velvet. It was all a rejection of the Art Noveau movement, away from nature focusing on the man made.

Modernism (1930 - 1965)

Modernism came after the Art Deco movement. Fuss and feathers were out the door and now, practicality was in. Materials used are shown as they are, wood is not painted, metal is not coated. Bright colours were acceptable but neutral palettes were favoured. Interiors were open and favoured large windows. Furniture was practical, for use rather than the ornamentation, featuring plain details of any and geometric shapes. Away from Art Deco, everything is straight, linear and streamlined.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

What a unique home! Have you ever seen gardens like this? It's a 1966 mid century modern in Eugene, OR. 3bds, 3ba, 3,095 sq ft, $1.295m.

Closets on either side of the front doors look like they can also be accessed from outside.

This home is a blend of Asian, Balinese, and Frank Lloyd Wright influences. It's loaded with windows to let in natural light and views of the extraordinary gardens.

They have lots of indoor plants, as well. This home is like one giant conservatory. In the sun room, look at the built-in cabinets. They can either be opened or closed, depending on what you display, which is unique.

Here's another sitting room.

There are several sitting rooms, but this may be an unused bedroom with access to the patio.

I've never seen such unique kitchen cabinets.

Wow, look at this great wood shop. It would make a nice big studio, too.

Very Zen bath.

That panel looks like old elevator buttons. Maybe there was an elevator here and they replaced it with stairs.

This home is decorated in minimalist style. This is the primary bedroom.

These stairs go up to a large home office with a deck.

Bath #2 is also a tranquil retreat.

Bedroom with a closet that acts as a dividing wall.

The 3rd bath is a shower room with mosaic tile.

Pagoda-like shed right on the deck.

Interior of the shed.

This looks like a potting area.

Here, they have outdoor storage. I imagine that they need a place for all the gardening equipment.

Very unusual design, like this courtyard.

More gardens behind the house.

What unusual roofs. 9,583 sq ft lot

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/2275-Floral-Hill-Dr-Eugene-OR-97403/60055343_zpid/?

[joemama-2]

a dead end | chap. 4

༺♰༻ gojo x fem reader

𓉸♱𓉸 synopsis: you were a star under stadium lights, gojo satoru a savior in sterile halls. now, the world rots, and survival is your only stage. amid the relentless dead and the horrors of the living, an unsteady bond forms—but trust is as fragile as life itself. in the shadows of ruin, love and death walk hand in hand. which will claim you first?

༺♰༻ wc: 7.8k

༺♰༻ tags/warnings: death, angst, violence, smut, cannibalism, murder, blood, gore, zombie apocalypse, crazy people, reader is a little bitchy at first, character development, torture, guns, weapons, alcohol, drugs, medical talk here and there, research talk, mentions of a leaked sextape, bullying, betrayal, lying, love, surgeon! satoru, cheerleader! reader, small age gap

༺♰༻ series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

The drive to his place was nothing short of insufferable. Not only did you practically scream at him to avoid the bodies littering the pavement of what once was a road. And not only did you have to remind him to drive slowly and vigilantly, but also to stay on the lookout for those things. He listened—sort of. 

Chatting your ear off about the most mundane, irrelevant things. You would’ve thought he’s just an insane man who finds normalcy in a now fucked up world. However, the way sweat subtly trickled down from his hairline to his eyebrows before being wiped off, the way his Adam’s apple bobs with what you can only assume is feigned nervousness, and the rhythmic tapping of his finger on the steering wheel told you otherwise. You didn’t voice any of this aloud. Why would you? You barely even know this man. 

His residence isn’t very far from this hospital, probably due to his occupation and the need to be on call and ready for any unforeseen emergencies. It’s a nice place—nicer than yours at least. You keep your saltiness to yourself—a two-story house that blends beautifully with a traditional style Japanese home, but also hints of modernity. 

The exterior is a perfect blend of old and new—dark wooden panels, clean white walls, and a gently sloped roof that gives it an almost temple-like serenity. A stone pathway leads up to the entrance, lined with carefully placed lanterns that would’ve looked beautiful at night—if the world wasn’t falling apart. The front yard is surprisingly well-kept, though some fallen leaves scatter across the stone tiles, a sign that he hasn’t been home for at least a day or two. Gojo parks in the driveway, killing the engine before leaning back with a dramatic sigh. “Ah, home sweet home,” he drawls, stretching his arms over his head. “Did you enjoy our little road trip?”

You unbuckle your seatbelt, unimpressed. “No.”

He grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Brutal.”

Stepping out of the car, you take in the finer details of his home. The four-panel, glass front doors at the entrance slide rather than swing, framed by sleek black trim that complements the modern glass windows scattered across the façade. A small porch extends from the front, complete with a wooden bench and a wind chime that barely moves in the dead air. It’s the kind of house that exudes both quiet luxury and warmth—something you wouldn’t have expected from someone like him. You assumed big, loud—something that screams ‘I’m rich! Look at me!’. Well, maybe that all went to his personality. 

You follow as Gojo unlocks the door and steps inside, flipping on the lights. “Welcome to Casa de Gojo,” he announces, kicking off his shoes.

The interior is just as polished as the exterior. Wide, open spaces with natural wood flooring and soft lighting. The living room is spacious, with a sunken seating area around a low, dark wood table. A modern sectional, black leather couch sits nearby, facing a flat-screen TV mounted above a fireplace that looks untouched. Built-in bookshelves line the walls, filled with a mix of medical texts, philosophy books, and an absurd number of manga volumes. Your eyes sweep across the space. The decor is minimal but intentional—warm-toned wood, neutral colors, and the occasional pop of blue that likely reflects his personal taste. There’s a quiet elegance to it all, but the subtle mess—an unfinished cup of coffee on the table, a jacket draped over the couch, a pair of house slippers kicked haphazardly near the entrance—suggests that while the house is expensive, Gojo himself isn’t overly meticulous.

He gestures grandly. “Make yourself at home. Just don’t go snooping in my room unless you wanna see something scandalous.”

You give him a flat look. “I doubt there’s anything in there worth seeing.”

Gojo gasps, clutching his chest as if you just stabbed him. “Ouch. Right in my fragile heart.”

You roll your eyes, stepping further inside. The house is nice—far nicer than yours—but right now, all you care about is whether it’s safe. The doors are locked, the windows are shut, and for now, it seems like you have a moment to breathe. But you both know that moment won’t last long. “Sliding front doors don’t seem very stable,” you comment.

“Stable enough, I’m still alive, right? No break-ins or bloody murders happening.”

Or maybe because you’re in a gated community. You sigh and run a hand through your hair. “What are you looking for again?”

“Gonna change, maybe shower and cook up a nice dinner.”

You whip your head to him. “No, we need to go to my place too.”

“We can,” he shrugs, walking to the kitchen. You’re right on his tail, annoyance slowly rising. Further inside, the kitchen is pristine—almost too pristine, as if it’s rarely used. Stainless steel appliances line the walls, a stark contrast to the wooden cabinets and open shelves that hold an impressive collection of tea sets and expensive liquor that looks like it’s just there for decoration. Another lone coffee mug sits by the sink, an abandoned stirrer inside, suggesting he hadn’t had the chance to finish it before everything went to hell. “Tomorrow morning.”

“No,” you’re quick to rebuttal, speeding up to stand in front of him, fixing him with a steely gaze. “I did not sign up for that. You said you’d do whatever you’d need to here, then we go to mine and then a gas station for your damn snacks. That was the plan, not you lounging around without a care in the world.”

Gojo tilts his head, lips curling into an easy smile. “I didn’t realize we had an itinerary. And technically? I never said when we’d leave for your place. Just that we would.”

Your fingers twitch at your sides, torn between wanting to smack that smirk off his face and wanting to drag him out the door yourself. “Don’t play semantics with me. You think it’s safe to just wait around here? The longer we stay, the worse things can get out there.”

He exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair. It’s slightly damp, strands clinging to his forehead from sweat. “Look, we just drove through what was essentially hell on earth. You’re on edge, I’m on edge, and neither of us knows what the hell is happening. So, we rest, get our shit together, and then we go. If you want to run off now, be my guest, but you won’t get far without a car, and I’m not giving you mine.”

Your jaw tightens. He has a point, and that pisses you off even more.

Gojo watches you, waiting for your response with that infuriatingly calm expression. It’s not that he doesn’t take the situation seriously—you saw the tension in his grip on the steering wheel earlier, the way his eyes constantly flicked to the mirrors, scanning for threats. But unlike you, he refuses to let the weight of it crush him.

You release a strained breath. “That’s not the point. My place has supplies I need. We don’t have time for you to play house.”

He exhales through his nose. “Relax, sweetheart. The sun will begin to go down in an hour and a half, give or take. And then what? Run around at night with no plan? Not exactly the best survival tactic.” He gestures vaguely toward the dimly lit window. “We stay here, get some rest, leave at sunrise. That way, neither of us end up dead before we even get there.”

You hate that he makes sense. You really, really do. But you also hate staying in an unfamiliar place, in a house that feels too open, too exposed, with a man you barely know. He reads the conflict on your face before you can mask it. “Tell you what,” he continues, crossing his arms. “We barricade the doors, make sure everything’s locked down. I stay far away from you when it’s time to hit the hay, and you do the same. If anything happens, we leave immediately. Deal?”

You exhale sharply through your nostrils, resisting the urge to curse him out. “...Fine,” you grumble. “But don’t get comfortable.”

Gojo grins, clapping his hands together. “Great! Now, dinner. Any dietary restrictions I should know about? Or do you just survive off anger and spite?”

You glare at him. He chuckles.

Yeah, this was going to be a long night.

Indeed it was. Hearing his grating voice sing in the shower was ruining your patience. You were this close to yelling at him to shut the hell up, but you held your tongue. Sitting stiffly on his couch, hands curled in your lap. Your eyes kept flickering to the doors that are now barricaded with a few chairs, a table from his study, and a piece of the sofa. He was in there for about twenty minutes already and you were starting to get restless. In order to keep your head, you stand up, deciding to get a good layout of the place you’ll unfortunately be camping out for the night. It’s good—you’ll know where the exits are in case something does happen. 

The house is deceptively spacious, its traditional-meets-modern design making it feel both airy and structured. The polished wooden floors don’t creak under your weight as you move, a small mercy given the situation. You start with the first floor, sweeping through the open living room, past the neatly arranged bookshelves and minimalist furniture. A framed picture of Gojo with a few other people—colleagues, maybe?—sits on one of the shelves, but you don’t linger on it.

The kitchen, you’ve already seen, is borderline unused. A dining area extends beyond it, the sleek wooden table looking like it’s only been touched when necessary. The house doesn’t feel particularly lived-in. More like a place of convenience rather than a home. Must be the life of a surgeon. You move toward the hallway, finding a guest bathroom, his study, and what seems to be a spare bedroom, but the door is slightly ajar, and from what you can tell, it’s practically empty aside from a neatly made bed and a desk with a shut laptop. No personal touches, no real signs of frequent use. Then, there’s a staircase leading up to the second floor. You hesitate, ears straining. Gojo is still singing, oblivious to your slow exploration of his home. Rolling your eyes, you take the steps carefully, mapping out each one in your head. 

The second floor is quieter, save for the sound of running water from the master bedroom’s en-suite bathroom. You glance down the hall—two more doors. One leads to what you assume is another office room, considering the slightly ajar door reveals stacked paperwork, books, and a white coat slung over the chair. The other…

You push it open slightly, peeking inside. A bedroom, obviously his. Larger than the guest room, but still frustratingly neat. The bed is king-sized, sheets dark and crisp, not a single wrinkle out of place. A dresser sits across from it, and to the side, a walk-in closet, the door left open just enough for you to see neatly arranged clothing—mostly work attire, some casual wear, and a few pairs of shoes lined up at the bottom.

Nothing about this place screams Gojo Satoru, the insufferable, obnoxious man currently singing off-key in the shower. It’s all calculated, controlled, sterile, even.

You don’t know why that unsettles you.

With a final glance around, you step back, deciding you’ve seen enough. Now all that’s left is waiting for Gojo to finish whatever the hell he’s doing so you can finally get some rest. However, just as you’re turning on your heel to walk back downstairs, something—or someone catches your eye. 

A framed picture, all by its lonesome—rested atop his nightstand. 

Your eyes squint and you pad closer. Satoru stands to the right, he looks younger. Wearing a cap and gown with a youthful smile. His arm is wrapped around the shoulders of a girl. You blink. She looks almost exactly like him. From the albino hair to the crystalline orbs, and even to the way both of their eyes crinkle when they smile. She seems younger—shorter. Your fingers hover over the frame, but you don’t touch it. There’s something oddly intimate about the way the photo sits there—deliberate, not thrown together like a forgotten memory. It stands alone, unlike the other, which was grouped with his colleagues.

A sister? You assume as much. The resemblance is uncanny. But there’s something about the way she’s smiling—so full of light, unburdened. It’s different from Gojo’s usual smirks, the ones laced with amusement, arrogance, or mischief. This is pure. Unfiltered happiness. There’s a warmth in the way Gojo’s arm is wrapped around her, in the way they’re both looking at the camera, like they’re sharing some private joke just between the two of them. The background of the picture is a blur of other graduates and family members, but your focus remains on them. It’s… unexpected. You’ve known him for less than a day, and yet the thought of him having a family, of having someone important to him, is strange. You never considered the possibility.

You can’t help but begin to wonder where this girl is now. Is he worried about her safety? What about the rest of his family?

You glance around the nightstand, noticing that this is the only framed photo in his bedroom. No others litter the dresser, no scattered images of friends, no sign of parents or anyone else. Just this one. Your stomach twists slightly. You don’t know why.

A sudden shift in the air—maybe the water shutting off—snaps you out of your daze. You blink, as if breaking out of some spell, and quickly step away from the picture. You shouldn’t be snooping. You shouldn’t care.

You can hear him shuffling around in there and you’re suddenly reminded of the fact that you’re in his room. “Shit,” you mutter to yourself, gaining your bearings and quickly turning around to leave. But just as you do so, your toe collides right into the damned protruding, sharp corner of his wall. "Ah, damn it!" you curse under your breath, clutching your foot. The sharp pain shoots up your leg, and you hop a little, trying to regain balance. But that only makes it worse as you stumble back and bump into the dresser. A few items clatter to the floor, and you freeze, suddenly feeling the weight of your situation. Of course, this would happen.

A brief silence follows and you feel like slapping yourself. 

The silence stretches on, each second feeling like an eternity. You wince, still holding your foot, and glance around the room in a slight panic. The last thing you want is for him to hear you making a fool of yourself, but it's too late now. You can hear him shuffling closer, the sound of his steps growing louder with each passing moment. Panic bubbles in your chest, and you quickly drop to your knees, trying to pick up the fallen items off the floor before he gets there. But with the way your foot throbs, it’s a slow, clumsy process. You curse under your breath again, wishing you could just disappear. Just as you're about to give up and admit defeat, the door creaks open behind you.

"Uhhh…everything okay in here?" His voice is light, like he's expecting something completely mundane.

You freeze for a moment, embarrassment creeping up your spine. "Yeah, just—" You take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. "Just tripped. Foot’s fine. Nothing to worry about." You can hear your own voice crack as you say it.

Satoru steps into the room, pausing when he sees you crouched by the dresser, items scattered around you. His expression shifts for a brief moment, eyes narrowing slightly before he lets out a quiet sigh. "Careful there, you're gonna hurt yourself."

You glare back at him from your position on the floor, biting back a sharp retort and the urge to linger your eyes on certain areas that are concealed by a mere towel wrapped around his waist—broad, glistening, sexy chest on display. “You really need to renovate around here. It’s a hazard.”

He raises a brow, leaning against the doorframe, arms casually crossed. “Maybe you should stop snooping around my stuff and focus on not hurting yourself.”

His tone only irritates you further. “I wasn’t snooping,” you mutter, standing up slowly, trying not to favor your injured foot. “I was just—looking around.”

Satoru nods, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Well, looking around doesn’t usually lead to this,” he gestures to the scattered items, his voice now tinged with exasperation. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ll survive. But next time, watch your step. Don’t want you getting all hurt before we even get out of here.”

You shoot him a glare, but decide it’s best to let it go. For now. The last thing you want is for him to think you’re making a bigger deal of this than it is. “Are you done now? I’d like to wash up too, if you don’t mind.”

He hums lightly, pushing off from the doorframe. "Yeah, yeah. Go ahead, I’m almost done here anyway." His eyes flicker down to your foot a hint of concern crossing his features. It’s brief—barely noticeable—but you catch it, and for a moment, you almost feel like you might not be completely annoying him.

Almost.

"Take it easy on that foot," he adds casually, shrugging his shoulders. "Wouldn't want to carry you to the hospital, would I?"

You snort, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. "I’ll be fine. Not everyone needs a knight in shining armor." The words escape before you can stop them, and you feel a slight tinge of regret immediately after.

Gojo walks over to his dresser, passing you in the process. It takes everything in you not to sniff at the air like a dog at the scent of his…really good soap. "You sure about that? Because I'm really good at playing hero."

“Just…give me a towel, please? And some clothes, if you have it.”

“Towel, yes. Downstairs, a door next to the guest bathroom. However, clothes? I’m afraid I can only interest you in things left from my previous rendezvouses.” 

You can’t help but scoff. “...you want me to wear clothes left behind by your hook-ups?” 

The muscles in his back flex, arms lifting over his head as he puts on a basic, black tee. 

He chuckles at your incredulity, the sound of fabric stretching as he pulls the shirt over his head, perfectly at ease. “Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he teases, turning to face you with a playful glint in his eye. “Some of them have pretty good taste. You might get lucky.”

You purse your lips, trying not to let his cockiness get under your skin. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

He shrugs nonchalantly, clearly unbothered by your rejection. “Your loss.” His gaze lingers on you for a moment, eyes flickering down to your foot before snapping back up. "Alright, alright. Don’t worry, I’ll hook you up with something more... appropriate."

He starts rummaging through the drawers of his dresser, pulling out a pair of dark sweatpants and a plain hoodie, and tossing them to you. “These should fit. No promises on style, but they’re clean. Unless, of course, you want to try the hook-up clothes after all,” he adds with a smirk, tossing the clothes onto the bed.

You hesitate for a moment. There’s something almost absurd about the whole situation. Here you are, stuck in a post-apocalyptic mess, and you’re being offered clothes from his past lovers. “Keep your exes’ clothes, I’ll take these,” you mutter, gripping them closer with a small huff, still trying to shake off the awkwardness.

Satoru grins and pats you on the shoulder. “Suit yourself. But hey, if you ever change your mind, just let me know. I’m a man of... many connections.”

You can feel your eye twitch at his insistent teasing, but you bite back your frustration. The last thing you need is to lose your temper again. You just want to shower, change, and get some rest, not get wrapped up in his ridiculous antics. Turning on your heel, you head out of the room, back downstairs toward the bathroom, muttering under your breath. “You’re impossible, you know that?” 

His laughter rings out behind you as you descend the steps, making your way into his guest bathroom and closing the door with a soft click. You exhale, finally feeling a sense of relief that you're alone, if only for a moment.

That night, dinner is nothing short of an awkward, silent meet-up between two strangers. You sit on the opposite end of the table, Satoru facing you from his end. He talks here and there, but he’s much more invested in chowing down the stir-fry. You’re grateful for that. And when you two do to sleep, you ignore his dramatic farewell about sleeping well and not letting the bedbugs bite. Barcading yourself in the guest bedroom, in fear of not just him probably coming in during the middle of the night because you still haven’t gaged if he’s a weirdo perv, or just…unlikeable. But also for the fact that there’s still chaos reaping the world just outside the confines of his home. 

You get hardly any sleep.

As soon as the sun is shining, you change out of the clothes he gave you and back into the ones from yesterday. Satoru wakes up about thirty minutes later, coming downstairs with a long-sleeve on, paired with dark wash jeans that if you look closely enough, hug his ass quite well. He’s wearing his thin-rimmed glasses once more, but this time with a simple black baseball cap, the symbol of the Yomiuri Giants taunting you. There’s a backpack slung over his shoulder as he grabs his keys.

 “What’s in there?” you ask him, ignoring the way the ‘G’ twists at your stomach.

"Essentials," he replies nonchalantly, adjusting the strap over his shoulder. "Food, first aid, a few weapons—y'know, the usual end-of-the-world starter pack."

You arch a brow. "Weapons?"

He smirks, tossing his keys in the air and catching them with an effortless flick of his wrist. "A knife and a gun. Nothing too crazy."

Your eyes widen. “You…have a gun? How do you even have a license? It’s strict as hell.”

Satoru laughs, clearly reveling in your disbelief. "Who said anything about a license?" He winks, tucking the keys into his pocket before slinging the backpack over both shoulders.

You stare at him, unimpressed. "Great. So not only are you annoying, but you're also illegally armed."

He sighs playfully, shaking his head as he heads toward the front door. "Relax, sweetheart. It's not like I’m running around committing crimes. Just a little... precaution. You never know when you'll need protection these days."

You cross your arms, not entirely convinced. "You do realize that if you get caught with that, it won’t just be the zombies we have to worry about, right?"

Satoru waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, please. The world's gone to hell. The last thing on the government's mind is some guy with an unregistered gun." He gives you a look, one that almost feels too knowing. "Besides, it's not my first time handling one."

Something about the casual way he says it makes you uneasy. Part of you wants to question why a health care worker has illegal possession of a firearm, but you have bigger fish to fry. "Right," you mumble, shifting your weight onto your good foot. "You ready to go, or do you need another five minutes to admire yourself in the mirror?"

Satoru tilts his head. “Oh, you’re implying I take too long to get ready? This,” he swipes his hand up and down his body vaguely. “Effortless.” 

You roll your eyes, already regretting asking. "Let’s just go."

He grins one last time and motions for you to follow him out the door. "After you, my dear reluctant partner-in-crime."

You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you step outside, squinting against the morning light. The world beyond the safety of his house is eerily quiet, too still. A constant reminder that whatever life used to be, it’s long gone now. Satoru locks up behind you. You follow him to the BMW parked out front, getting into the passenger’s side. Once he’s seated behind the wheel, he does a quick look around of the interior, then outside, before he’s reversing. One hand placed to your headrest, his left palm guiding the car back and to the left. “Where do you live?” 

You hesitate for a moment, debating whether or not you should even tell him. Does it really matter? Your apartment, your belongings—hell, even your bed—none of it means much in a world that’s already fallen apart. Still, old habits die hard, and there’s a part of you that clings to the remnants of what once was. You glance at him, noting the way his sharp profile remains focused on the road as he expertly maneuvers the car onto the empty streets. There’s something oddly reassuring about the way he drives, confident but not reckless. “The high-rise apartments in Shibuya,” you finally answer, shifting slightly in your seat. “Near the station.”

Satoru lets out a low whistle. “Damn, you really like to live dangerously, huh?”

You furrow your brows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Shibuya must’ve been hit hard, it’s a big metropolitan area, those places are always first to go. If you think we’re just gonna waltz in there and grab your stuff, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Your stomach sinks. You already knew it was bad—hell, you saw the state of things with your own eyes before finding temporary shelter—but hearing him say it out loud makes it feel more… final. “I have to at least try,” you say, voice quieter now. “There are things I need.”

Satoru hums in thought before making a sudden turn onto a different road. “Alright,” he says, as if he’s already made up his mind. “We’ll check it out. But the second things get dicey, we’re out. No hero shit.”

You roll your eyes but nod. “Fine.”

For a brief moment, neither of you speak, the low hum of the car’s engine filling the silence. Your eyes are glued on the window, watching the decimated pieces of what used to be normality wizz past the car. Buildings stand in eerie stillness, some with shattered windows, others marked with the dark streaks of smoke and fire. Cars sit abandoned on the road, doors left wide open as if their owners had fled in a hurry. The further you drive, the more the devastation sinks in—the world you knew is truly gone. You wonder how many people survived the night, how many people didn’t. 

Satoru drums his fingers on the steering wheel, gaze flickering between the road and the rearview mirror. His expression is unreadable, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tenses when he spots something in the distance.

“What is it?” you ask, already tensing up in your seat, looking back over your shoulder.

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead making a sharp right into a side street, one that looks a little less exposed. “Nothing,” he finally says, though you don’t believe him for a second. “Just being cautious.”

You press your lips into a thin line, but let it go. If something was truly wrong, he’d say it… right?

Minutes pass, stretching into what feels like hours as the car winds through the remnants of civilization. You glance at him again, watching as he adjusts his cap, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. He looks far too composed for someone driving through the apocalypse. “You’ve done this before,” you muse, turning back to the window. It’s not a question.

Satoru chuckles, the sound low and knowing. “What, drive?”

You shoot him a look. “You know what I mean.”

There’s a pause, long enough that you almost think he won’t answer. But then—

“I’ve been in bad situations before, of course.” His voice is lighter than it should be, as if he’s trying to downplay something much heavier. “This? It’s just another shitty day in a long list of shitty days.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist. You don’t push for more, but you file it away, another mystery to add to the growing list of questions surrounding him. The car slows as you near Shibuya, the once-bustling city now nothing more than a graveyard of collapsed buildings and burned-out cars. Your fingers tighten into your palm.

Satoru exhales sharply, shifting the car into park. “Alright,” he says, stretching an arm over the back of your seat as he turns to face you. “Tell me exactly what we’re looking for.”

You look over. “I just need some stuff. Change, some clothes, weapons, I guess. Whatever will help me.”

He nods, eyes flickering to the windshield. Your apartment building still stands tall amongst the chaos. He juts his chin in the direction of them. “This it?”

“Yep.” 

“What floor?”

“The highest one.”

“Damn,” he shakes his head, lifting his cap to push his hair back before setting it back down. 

“What?” you grunt. 

“You live on the top floor of one of the most expensive places to live. Impressive, what do you do?”

“Not up for discussion right now,” your fingers reach to open the door, but his hand on your other arm stops you. Slowly, you look back over at him and his features have settled into a serious expression. 

“Listen,” he leans closer. “Game plan: stay quiet and close, we move quick. Like I said, if things turn awry, we’re out. At least I am.”

Your brows furrow, eyes narrowing at his emphasis on the word ‘I’. “Not exactly reassuring.”

Satoru merely smirks, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m just being honest. No use making empty promises in a world like this.”

You study him for a moment, searching for any sign of deceit, but all you find is that same self-assured confidence that’s been there since you met him. He’s not lying—if things go south, he will leave. Whether or not he’ll leave you behind is another question entirely. With a slow exhale, you nod. “Fine. Got it.”

He releases your arm, and you step out of the car quietly, the weight of the city’s silence settling over you like a thick fog. The air is stagnant, carrying the faint scent of smoke and decay. Shibuya had always been loud, a place of endless movement and life, but now… now, it feels hollow, like the ghost of something that once thrived. Satoru joins you, shutting his door with a quiet click before adjusting the strap of his backpack. “Let’s move,” he murmurs, voice softer now, as if speaking too loudly might awaken something lurking in the ruins.

You weave through the wreckage together, careful to step over broken glass and twisted metal. The further you go, the more the damage becomes apparent—collapsed storefronts, overturned cars, belongings strewn across the pavement like remnants of a life abruptly abandoned. Some buildings are burned out husks, their insides blackened and exposed. Others remain eerily intact, but you know better than to assume they’re empty. Your apartment building looms ahead, standing tall amongst the destruction, its pristine facade marred only by a few shattered windows and scorch marks near the base. A miracle, considering the state of the rest of the city.

Satoru sighs lowly, tilting his head back to take it all in. “Damn. Guess even the apocalypse couldn’t knock this place down.”

You don’t respond, already stepping toward the entrance. The glass doors are cracked but still intact, and with a bit of force, you manage to push them open. Inside, the lobby is a mess—furniture overturned, decorative plants wilting, papers scattered across the marble floor. The scent of mildew lingers, mixed with something more acrid, something you don’t want to think too hard about.

Satoru steps in beside you, adjusting his glasses as he takes in the scene. “Cozy.”

You roll your eyes and make a beeline for the elevator, only to be met with an unlit panel and unresponsive buttons. Of course. Power’s out. “Stairs it is,” you mutter, turning toward the emergency exit.

Satoru groans dramatically behind you. “Top floor, huh? You couldn’t have lived on, like, the third floor? Maybe even the tenth? Something reasonable?”

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “Feel free to stay down here if you’d rather not make the trip.”

He gives you a shake his head as he follows you to the stairwell. “And leave you to get eaten by whatever’s lurking up there? What kind of man would that make me?”

You scoff, pushing the door open. “A smart one.”

The stairwell is dimly lit by the weak morning light filtering through a few narrow windows. The air is thick, stale, carrying a heaviness that sets your nerves on edge. You grip the railing tightly as you begin your ascent, ears straining for any sound beyond the echo of your own footsteps. Satoru trails behind, his presence an oddly steadying force despite his usual antics. He’s quiet now, focused, movements careful but purposeful. It’s a reminder that beneath all his smug remarks and easygoing attitude, there’s someone who knows how to survive. Floor after floor, the silence persists, save for the occasional distant creak of settling debris. Your legs burn by the time you reach the highest level, breath slightly uneven. Satoru, of course, doesn’t look winded in the slightest.

“Not bad,” he muses, peering down the empty hallway. “You kept up.”

If you could, you’d give him another death glare. Insetad, stepping past him out the door and down the familiar hall, toward your apartment door. It’s a sharp right and a few hundred feet away. The number staring back at you, familiar yet foreign—like something out of a past life. With a steadying breath, you reach for the doorknob—only to find it slightly ajar.

Your stomach drops.

Satoru notices immediately, his posture shifting, hand moving to the knife at his belt. His voice is lower now, serious. “That how you left it?”

You shake your head, pulse quickening.

Someone’s been here. Maybe still is.

And you have no idea what you’re about to walk into.

Satoru steadily positions himself in front of you, carefully opening your door and being the first to step inside. You follow, holding your breath like you’re waiting for someone to pop out—human or not. As you both slowly enter, you’re looking around. However much your dismay, things look exactly how you left them yesterday morning. That feels almost more alarming than finding your place askew. Satoru’s eyes dart around the room, scanning for any signs of movement or disturbance. His posture remains poised, like a predator stalking its prey. He’s already in full survival mode, but there’s an odd tension about him. The room is eerily quiet, and as your gaze sweeps over the familiar space, the silence grows louder.

You take a step forward, heart racing as you absorb every detail. Your apartment, for all its remnants of normalcy, feels strangely hollow now. The sunlight filtering through the blinds feels too bright, too exposed, and every creak of the floorboards beneath your feet sounds amplified. The once-comforting space is now just another shell of what it used to be.

Satoru motions for you to stay back as he moves deeper into the living room. His steps are slow, measured, and almost soundless despite the creaking wood beneath him. He pauses for a moment by the kitchen area, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the state of your belongings. Everything seems untouched—your furniture, your personal items—everything as it was, but the feeling in the air is different. "Nothing's been disturbed," Satoru mutters, his voice low and almost to himself. He turns to face you, the serious look in his eyes replaced with something unreadable. "You sure you didn’t leave the door like that?"

You shake your head quickly, a chill running down your spine. "I locked it when I left, I always do." The words feel flimsy, even to you. They don't sound like they carry much weight anymore.

His eyes flicker to the hallway, then to the bedroom door, which stands slightly ajar, though just enough to seem unnatural. His hand moves to the small gun at his side, fingers brushing the handle as he starts toward it with slow, deliberate steps. “Stay close, hurry and get your stuff.” he mutters.

With a quick nod, you make your way to your bedroom with him right behind you. A small look around and you deem it okay to breathe normally for a bit. “Don’t touch anything.” 

Satoru doesn’t say anything in response, but you can feel his eyes on you as you rummage through your closet. His presence is imposing, as if he's waiting for something to go wrong, and it only adds to the heaviness in the air. The subtle rustle of clothing is the only sound that fills the room as you work quickly, pulling down one of the black backpacks you use for hiking trips. It’s sturdy, and practical—just what you need right now. You swing the bag over your shoulder, quickly scanning your closet for what you need. A few changes of clothes, nothing too fancy—just some comfortable jeans, shirts, a few pairs of underwear and socks, and a spare jacket you can throw on if things get worse. You shove them into the backpack, careful to make sure you don’t take too much, just the essentials.

You urge him to turn around, changing out of the filthy clothes from yesterday and into a nice, clean set. A simple t-shirt, one you used regularly for the gym or practices, a thin, but offering enough jacket. Finally, your running shoes and comfortable yoga pants. If you’re truly in the apocalypse now, you’d be damned if you’re caught dead wearing something that doesn’t hug your ass right. You walk back into the main room and into the en-suite bathroom, rummaging around for products you know you’ll need. Feminine care products, a hair brush, a couple hair ties, some wet wipes, a new travel-sized toothbrush with paste, along with travel-sized shampoo and conditioner. You’ve never been more grateful to be an avid traveler than you are now.

“Hey,” he calls out, causing you to turn your head over your shoulder. His back is turned to you, but when he faces you, your eyes practically bulge out of your skull. “Is this yours?”

You quickly stomp over and snatch the pink vibrator out of his hand. “What did I say?! No snooping!” 

“What?” he shrugs nonchalantly, watching you hide your stash back into the not-so-secret drawer anymore. 

“I said to not touch anything, you pervert!” Your hand makes connection with his arm, giving it a good few whacks. 

Satoru raises an eyebrow, unfazed by your outburst, and shifts his weight back slightly, clearly amused. His expression is almost too casual, but there’s a glimmer of mischief behind those sharp eyes. “Hey, I didn’t know you were into toys.” His smirk deepens as he watches you practically shove everything back into the drawer with the kind of force that could make even the most nonchalant person flinch.

You glare at him, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and cross your arms tightly across your chest. “I told you not to touch anything. Is that really so hard to understand?” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but the irritation bubbling up in your chest refuses to be contained. It’s the last thing you want to deal with right now—Satoru playing the role of the curious, annoying asshole.

“Look, no need to get all defensive.” He raises his hands in mock surrender, the teasing smile never leaving his face. “I was just checking if you were fully prepared for the end of the world, that’s all.” His gaze flickers to the bathroom counter where you’ve left a few items, eyes darting over the travel-sized toiletries. He walks over, brushing past you with a little too much proximity for comfort. “You’ve got everything packed up, but don’t forget about the essentials.”

Your eyes narrow, watching as he picks up the small bottle of hand sanitizer you’d almost missed. His fingers are carelessly grazing over the edge of the bottle, clearly ignoring the growing discomfort in the air.

“Essentials?” you ask, crossing your arms even tighter. " If you’re implying I need to carry more weapons—"

"No," he cuts you off, his voice smooth and disarmingly calm. "I mean things like this." His hand flips the sanitizer bottle between his fingers, inspecting it before setting it into his pocket. "Hygiene is important, even if we’re fighting to survive." You blink, momentarily thrown off guard by his sudden seriousness. His eyes meet yours, no longer teasing, but steady. “You’ll need to keep your wits about you,” he says, “and hygiene matters. You’ll want to be able to think clearly. So don’t let anything slide.”

You don’t say anything at first. You’re not sure if it’s because of his bluntness or the strange sincerity in his voice, but for a split second, the world outside his apartment—the wreckage, the violence—feels distant. Almost like a dream. You don’t have much time to contemplate it, though, before Satoru turns to face you with that same playful glint in his eyes. “Alright, I think we’re all set then. But I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting you to have… this kind of ‘emergency kit’.” He gestures vaguely.

Your face burns again. “That’s none of your business and I won’t ever forget or forgive you for being a perverted snoop,” you snap. He’s already back to being a nuisance, and you can’t help but let out an exasperated sigh.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, tapping his finger against the counter. “So, what’s next? You wanna grab your weapons, or are we heading out with just your stylish gear?”

You roll your eyes. “I think I’ll keep the weapons to myself for now,” you mutter, feeling the weight of your bag on your shoulder and the growing tension of needing to leave. There’s no room to play around. No time to be embarrassed. “Let’s just get moving before things get any worse.”

“After you, princess,” Satoru teases, stepping aside and giving you space to pass.

Finding your way back into the kitchen, you grab the only weapon that could be found in your home, unlike others—a simple kitchen knife. You keep it’s guard on as you lodge it into the thigh pocket of your pants, where cellphones would usually go. 

“You know,” his annoying voice perks up again. You groan and are ready to hurdle a ‘shut the hell up’ at him when you realize what he’s staring at. A team picture of you and all the girls hung up on your wall near the TV. For a moment, you feel yourself stiffen, fingers clenching by your sides. The face of Yui and Sayo feels like a cold smack to the face. “I knew I recognized you from somewhere, explains how you can afford to live here.” He turns back to you, eyebrows raised. There’s a silence few seconds, like he’s waiting for you to speak or confirm everything.

You don’t.

And he sighs dramatically. “Right, you’re probably humble.” The sarcasm doesn’t stream past you. “I’ve heard a loooot about you, I guess yesterday I just didn’t really have the time to connect the dots. My junior, Ino, he’s—” he cuts himself off, blinking like he has a sudden epiphany. It confuses you, but you allow him to reign in on whatever the fuck is going through his mind right now. A shaky exhale leaves his lips, an attempt at what must be a chuckle, lifting his cap off his head and repeating the same antsy actions you’ve already picked up on. “Anywho, you’re…yeah. Seems fitting.”

Instantly, your lips downturn into a scowl, jaw clenching so hard you can hear your teeth creak. “He told me he wasn’t mar—”

“Not that,” he smoothly cuts you off, waving his hand and walking leisurely to the front door. 

You bite back the impulse to snap at him, fingers twitching towards the handle of your knife. He’s baiting you, prodding at your past, and you refuse to let him get any satisfaction. But the urge to respond is there, burning beneath the surface, tangled with the memory of friends' faces, the weight of the team, and everything you’ve lost so quickly. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, hanging between you both. You could ask him what he’s really getting at, could demand answers, but the room feels smaller with every passing second. You just want to get out of here. You just want to leave this place, put the past behind you for once.

Satoru notices your discomfort, his expression shifting just enough for you to see it. A flicker of understanding, or maybe just amusement, passes across his face. Then, he turns back toward the door, breaking the tension with the simple act of opening it. “Don’t worry,” he says, his voice softening just a little. “We’re wasting daylight. Got a lot to do, right?”

You don’t respond, but you’re aware of the tiny crack in his facade, the hint of something unspoken between you both. It’s not sympathy, it’s not pity—it’s something else. Something too complex to put into words. Instead, you focus on the door, taking a deep breath, pushing the overwhelming emotions aside. You can’t afford to be distracted now. Not by him. Not by your past. The world outside is still waiting, and you don’t have time for whatever games he’s playing. You don’t have time for anything except survival. With one final look back at your home, your solitude, you life, everything you hold close and dear to your heart, you follow him outside and back into the stillness of the hallway. 

Without a word, you two make your way back to the stairs. It feels slightly more awkward now, maybe even tense. You’re used to people recognizing your face and name, but now that  he has, you feel a sick, twisted bundle of emotions rise in your gut. And the all point back to the main eruptor: infuriation. He doesn’t look it, but he’s not doubt judging you in his head, they always do now. He’s probably regretting the fact that he saved you yesterday, because you’re probably the last person who deserves it. 

That fucking asshole.

You linger behind him, burning holes into the back of his head. You take another step. And another, then another, and another. You two are just about to make it back to the stairwell when—

“Y/N?”

a/n: jk, out today instead of Wednesday :p

(if i forgot to tag you, pls let me know) taglist: @sukuxna0 @heartsteelkaynconsumer @myahfig4 @kirachuyuu @sypnasis

@ducky1232 @oromanticism @2late4breakfast @beabamboo @dickktektive

@sleepyyammy @tbzzluvr @beabamboo @lovely-maryj @n1vi

@ojdubije @reixtsu @istha5 @ritsatoru @sadmonke

@zoeyflower @topmeyelena @sourairi @jlandersen01 @vamppirez

@ac27dj @aquariusscollection @itzkawaiix

[remodelproj]

Combination shower & tub space with tile wall panels replicating wood. Large window bringing in plenty of daylight

[k-hippie]

LET'S TALK ABOUT WALLS & THE K-FAKTORY : HUGE UPDATE :)

For our 500th post, we really had to make something special ... So here we go !

We just finished to post on our website both direct x11 update of our walls and the release of brand new walls :) for a total of 80 walls ... Proof we do not make overrides only :D

OH NO ! A BIT OF MATHS HERE ...

Before the direct x11 update, quality walls were calculated on a base of 1 tile ( 256px ) so we were used to create 3 sizes for each wall ( 768 - 1024 -1280 ) ...

I scratched a long time my head to search a good soluce to keep the best quality possible ... When you make a very maxis match wall, flat style and so on, you use the same sizes than maxis : 512px ( for 768/3 tiles ) - 512px ( for 1024/4 tiles ) - 1024px ( for 1280/5 tiles )

The problem when you make more realistic walls, ( and even more with bricks and minerals, stone, wood and so on ) is that all textures are stretched as hell : 512 -> 768 - 512 -> 1024 - 1024 -> 1280

We finally decided to make 1 no-destructive size of 1024px for all 3 sizes ... in order to be 100% compliant with direct x11 :)

We tested. It is not at all more heavy than our previous direct x9 walls :) and it stretches the tall wall size from only 0.25, which means a few pixels only, same than maxis, and for the short & medium size, the result is much more fine, far away from the maxis match stretch ;) Here some examples :

WALLS EVERYWHERE ...

Here are some new walls and new re-work texturing we made recently, meaning downloadable on our website but not yet released ... until now of course :)

Wood Cottage Botanika Walls set 1-2-3 : Those are 3 sets of low paneling wood walls with peaceful wallpapers. For your cosy cottage.

Wood Flower Walls set 1 : Full wood walls with spring/summer leaves painted upon. Those ones are truly beautiful. Perfect for summer. The orange one may even be good for Halloween. Try it is adopt it :D

Mosaic Pool Walls sets 1&2 : Those ones are on our website for a long time now. We updated the texture pixels to get a cleaner result, without destroying the vintage grain ;) the fish is not included ...

Paper Noise Fabric Walls set 1 : This one is a re-combined set of 2 older sets ... We took the best of both and made a new set. Cool.

Wood Breeze Walls set 1 : A Classic summer wood shutter style for your outside/inside walls ... Perfect for a patio. What else ?

Wood Classic-Panel Walls set 1 : A very classic style of panels which could be perfect for your own private library ... True wood, based upon true panels ... what are you waiting for ? :D

Wood Tri-Wood Walls set 1 : An easy full wood structure and a good style of panels for your shops. Contemporary without any too much touch. Soft and cosy indeed !

Wood Westside Walls set 1 : Another full wood style of panels. And when we say full wood, we really mean true wood. Quality of life and style guaranteed ;)

... And here are some of the ones we re-made during our updates :)

Do not forget to have a visit to the k-Faktory ! We have 70 different sorts of concrete, numerous bricks, many many mineral lime walls and some really cool metal walls too. You won't regret it :D And as always, quality is privileged over quantity ... true wood, true masonry, true stone ;)

Well, what more about the k-Faktory ?

A huge update of many things and stuff inside the sims4 k-faktory such as :

many new sets of walls ( yes! )

the Wicked Bookcase ( really )

some new furniture ( a few )

the Photonik Windows update

I invite you to get a cosy promenade along of our 14 pages of things and stuff, have a look and who knows ? You may find some packages which could interest your Sims ;) And we advice strongly to update the Photonik 44 windows in order to avoid glitches we found recently. We remade ALL the meshes, and some based on a new ea model ... gosh, it took a really hard working time for these ones ! ;)

Well, I have to stop now :D Lack of place for the pictures and too much talk for a single post :) Have a cool journey on tech-hippie websites, and more : have fun ! See you soon for the coming k-707 new batch of available expansions ( Strangerville, Chestnut Ridge, Komorebi ) :)

ALL the Downloads : here

...

[saphig-iawn]

Bondage in Brushstrokes

One of the things I can provide is what I call a narrative hypnosis session. Its a longer trance in which I weave a story in your ears that begins to feel very real.

My subject today wanted one such session and we settled on a wonderfully transformative idea: sealing her inside a painting.

After some gentle fractionation, lulling her up and down, she settled deeply on my lap ready for a little tale.

She's stood before a grand wooden door, the brass of the doorknob warm from the sun in her hand. She felt a knot of nervousness as she turned it, even though the letter I sent her said that she was to just come in with no need to knock.

A wide and bright hallway greeted her, natural light spilling in from every window. The floor was clean and polished white tiles with smaller black tiles nestling at the intersections. A curved staircase winded up and out of sight. The walls were clad in a vibrant dahlia scroll with painted wood panelling at the bottom.

"Come on through, my doll!" my voice calls from the beyond the kitchen at the end of the hallway.

Her shoes echo in the hall as she moves through, and a rustic well-loved kitchen greets her. The smell of fresh baked bread fills her nose, almost lifting her up as if it was a cartoon. There was a wonderful spread of cheeses, fruits, pastries, and meats on the island.

"We'll tuck into that later, my doll, come come." Her fingers snap away from the roll of salami she was about to snack on.

She rounded the door and found herself in a tall domed conservatory. Glass and white painted metal arced above her. It felt like an exhibit at a World's Fair at the turn of the century. Deep verdant plants lined one side, massive monstera leaves bathed in the sun.

I stood up from my stool, wearing green overalls already splashed with paint, a soft, loose blouse underneath it, with a green bandana keeping my dark auburn hair away from my face.

"We're going to have a lot of fun, my doll."

SNAP

Her eyes widened as she began to strip. Her hands worked at the buttons of her dress automatically. She wondered when I wove this spell into her, but before she could finish that thought her clothes were pooled at her feet.

"Good doll, now for the finishing touch, kneel-"

She was knelt. Like she always had been. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt a ribbon grace the back of her neck. Cool and smooth on her skin, she felt it be brought to the front and tied into a bow. I held her chin with my finger and thumb.

"Perfect. Now pose for me darling." She feels her head moved by my finger and thumb and she sees a green chaise lounge. She feels herself walk over to it and recline. The green velvet is smooth to the touch, no matter which way her skin moved over it.

I move to a table behind her, take a hardback book from it and put it in her hand.

"Flick through the pages, see which one feels right to land on. You'll be looking at it for a while" I giggled.

She pressed her thumb in the side of the book and let the pages rustle past. Just before halfway she stops and looks at the page and felt a touch confused. The page was filled with one sentence over and over and over.

"I'm a good doll"

Confused, she goes to say something but finds no words leave her lips. Her eyes widen once more and tried to turn and look at me but her head will not move.

"It always takes you by surprise, doesn't it? But you're a doll, being still is what you're made for."

A warmth blossomed in her chest as those words entered her mind, and she began to embrace the stillness I had woven into her from the first time we had a session.

"You see, my doll, I had everything painted already, I was just missing my subject..."

I trailed off as I began to paint, the sound of the bristles on canvas tickled the air as I began my work painting her feet.

She then began to feel strange. No- not strange... different. Like her feet were being compressed, wrapped in tight bandages.

She was unable to say a thing.

Then the feeling rose, her calves, then thighs, like they were being tightly wrapped and encased.

"You have such pretty legs my doll" I mused, bringing deep blue shadow onto the chaise lounge where her legs rested.

Now she began to feel strange. Like the chaise lounge was pulling her in, like it was being flattened out wrapped around her, the velvet caressing her skin.

But still the feeling rose, a tight encasement creeping up her still form.

She wondered if her eyes had been open too long because the text of the book was becoming so blurry, but then she realised that her eyes were fine. The book had changed. The words now nothing more than close approximations, scattered marks of paint across the page.

But even then, when her eyes drank the facsimiles in, she felt their meaning deep in her body.

I'm a good doll

Soon the feeling was up her arms, her hands seemingly part of the book she was holding. Soon her chest and shoulders became part of her surroundings.

Then she felt the bristles of my brush across her lips.

A single stroke sealed them shut.

She wanted to bite her lip, to moan, to tell me how good she was feeling, but those feelings melted away when I dabbed my brush on the canvas for the last time.

A wave pleasure washed over her from head to toe. Every part of her sang with pleasure her total bondage was complete.

"Now where do I put you..." I wondered aloud.

Like a soft jolt on a car ride while she was happily asleep, she felt a shift as I took her off my easel. Confusion rippled in her painted mind.

She oblivious to the fact that the chaise lounge was now empty.

That the book was gone.

That was she was now nothing but paint on my canvas, encased and sealed.

Everything clicked as she felt an impossible warmth on her cheek. It was like resting her face on a loved one in a cuddle. The warmth moved down her body, across her breasts, down her arms, over her sensitive areas, and down her legs.

She felt so good beneath my fingertip.

"Now... I could put you in the living room, let all the dolls enjoy you knowing you're bound in there. Or I could put you in the bedroom, deliciously restrained from joining in the fun. Or maybe the kitchen so you could watch the dolls go about their day in their cute maid dresses."

I brushed my finger over her sensitive area.

Her whole body pulsed with pleasure. Every part of her connected in her bondage; the perfect conductor for pleasure.

I continue caressing the canvas, knowing the pressure is building in her. That delicious ache growing with every passing second.

She needed to scream. She needed to buck and rut and bite and dig her nails in. But my brushstrokes kept her still, the pleasure building even more.

But the rubbing wasn't stopping, and the pressure kept building, and the climax was coming, and the rubbing wasn't stopping, and the pressure kept building, and the climax was coming, and the climax was coming, and the climax was coming, and the climax was coming!

Her mind flooded with pleasure as she climax. Her painted bondage holding her still as the pleasure stormed across her. There was no part of her that wasn't lost in pleasure.

Her bonds cradled her as the afterglow settled in, easing her muscles, soothing her body, slowing her breath.

"I think I'll put you in the bedroom."

[domesticandlovingmonsters]

Guard Captain Aram (M) x F!Reader (wip)

Because I feel bad with how long this is taking to come out, and I am currently stuck on how to proceed, I'm posting this as is.

I intend to complete it annd post it as a whole, but since I'm stuck, you got this. Consider this as a type of two-parter until I can work out how to write someone having a date and how conversations work. I swear I'm a good writer, guys!!! I know how sentences and dialogue works.

Words: 9.9k

Theme/Plot:  (Fantasy/Medieval)  You're a merchant, new to the city looking to start a business from the ground up. Having purchased a cheap, run-down building as your starting point, you work hard to make something of the little things you have. But after a string of robberies, you find yourself as the centre of the Guard Captain's attention.

The rain came down in pouring sheets. Deafening you inside your own dwelling as a year's worth of rain pummeled the tiled roof.

Thunder clapped overhead so close to the city roofs that the window panels shook in their frames.

It was a gloomy day. One that made the hours in the shop drag by at a snail's pace. Not a soul was out today. For good reason, or else they’d risk being washed away by the water flowing down the street drains. Thankfully, there was alot of old stock you needed to organize and catalog to keep you busy.

The storm was a blessing in disguise. Despite the chilly weather.

With the lack of customers to keep an eye on and take commissions for, it allowed you to tune up the shop within your actual work hours. And not drip over into the late afternoon like you dreaded.

And with the ample amount of downtime came the close inspection of how your little, ancient store held up in such a harsh rainstorm.

The last of your money had gone into buying this place. It was a cheap sale and the reasons for it were obvious. A small shop with a small dwelling connected to the back of it for residential purposes.

The paint on the front was peeling and much of the wooden beams needed some love and care. The windows had needed to be removed and replaced; they had been so grimey and cracked that it made the store look sickly from the outside. And dark and gloomy within.

Not to mention the rot within the wood in some places. Which had soaked up that lingering few coins you had after the sale. But it was better than leaving the place smelling like decaying wood and having openings for rats.

The roof seemed fine, the tiles were covered in moss and some were cracked, but you didn’t see any damage other than age.

It has been months since you bought it and this had been the first real change in sunny weather, so you were walking around the place constantly looking for leaks.

So far, nothing splashed against the wooden floor. Your little shack was holding up nicely under the rain, even if the walls groaned rather worryingly whenever the wind rushed through the city streets.

The shop was nothing spectacular, you knew that. But it was yours. And it was a much nicer place than the roadside stall you used to man while you traveled.

You glanced out the window as a flash of white light illuminated the dreary street outside. And winced at the image of you and your old horse and wagon in such weather.

Many times you had been caught out in storms like this. Losing stock to the water or your wagon’s wheels getting sucked into the muddy roads.

Looking back into your warm, dry shop; a new type of appreciation came to you with your decision to settle down. And you took a deep breath of dusty, humid air and smiled.

Your shop.

It still felt weird to say. But it was still just as exciting.

Over the thunder and tumbling rain, your shop-door’s bell chimed. Alerting you to two customers that all but barrelled into the dry space.

They were soaking. But smiled cheerfully as you greeted them. One had an umbrella that looked like the wind had torn it asunder and both their hoods were raised low over their faces. Leaving only their wide smiles for you to see.

“We are so sorry for dragging water in here.” One said, a woman. Rubbing her arms to retain some heat beneath the thick cloak. “But we’re in need of some alchemy ingredients, if you have any. You’re the closest store to ours and we’re low on some things to make cold remedies.”

The other customer, with the torn umbrella, looked around your small store with a grin. “You’ve really spruced this place up. It’s so much nicer here than what I last remember. The last owner did not care for this building at all.”

You smiled as their hoods were lowered. You recognized them as the potions store owners down the street. You spoke briefly once. They were nice people. But very busy. And their names eluded you, unfortunately.

“Welcome! And don’t worry about the water, it’s unavoidable at the moment. I think I tracked in half the realm’s mud this morning. Please, come in. What did you need exactly? I have a few stocks that might be what you need.”

The woman huffed with visible relief and hurried forward to your counter. Where you withdrew some small boxes of bottled ingredients and jars of various substances.

You didn’t sell anything but the basic materials. Your shop was more a general store than a particular theme. You still weren’t sure what you wanted to be in the city.

You’ve only ever known what you could carry. On the road, certain ingredients didn’t travel well. And jewelry or fine goods made you a target for bandits.

Here, within the safety of the city, you could be any type of trader you wanted. You just still weren’t sure what niche you wanted to be.

But your general goods were exactly what these two were looking for. And your eyes widened in surprise when they asked to buy your entire stock of your basic ingredients.

“I know it’ll put you out, but we’ll pay you an extra sum on top of the sale. Our next shipment of this isn’t for another week, and we have so many commissions coming in for cold remedies.” The man said. Already pulling out a large coin purse from his belt. “And you’ll be doing us a huge favor. If you need anything-”

“It’s a deal.” You said, waving away the man’s pleading stare. “We’ve got to look after each other after all. I was going to offer a discount since you’re buying such a large amount.”

The bell over your door chimed and you shifted behind your counter so you could see around the couple. A young woman shuffled into the store. Her eyes looked around the shelves with interest and a thin cloak was wrapped around her shoulders.

“I’ll be with you in a moment!” You called out to the woman. Seeming to startle her. But she smiled, it felt a little forced, and moved deeper into your store. Her eyes darted around and then back to you.

You were about to say something else when the potion’s woman handed you a sum of coins. “I insist. I know how frustrating it can be to be out of stock. Particularly ingredients like this. Please, take the extra sum. You’re doing us a huge favor with-”

The woman’s partner glanced over his shoulder as the woman at the back moved quickly towards the door. Her shoulders were hunched as she braced for the cold water to hit her as she opened the door.

“Hey! You, wait!” He shouted but the woman was already sprinting out the door. Almost slipping on the wet pavement outside. The potion’s man swore and handed his partner the purse. “That girl is the one who stole from us last week. Get the guards!”

Before you could react, the man was barreling out of your store and charging out into the rain. His partner seemed just as surprised as you but quickly pocketed the purse and looked at you.

“Do you have a way to summon the guards directly here?” You shook your head. Your heart was pounding in your chest. “I have one in my store. I’ll go call them. See if you can find out if that woman stole anything from you. I’ll be right back.”

The woman left her crate of goods behind as she hurried out of your shop. You were quick to follow, but went to where you last saw the woman browsing.

Your eyes flew from object to object. Taking note of any spots that seemed to have shifted or had missing stock.

Everything seemed fine. Until you noticed your small display of wands had been touched. These weren’t like the wands that witches and warlocks used. But temporary magical items that did various things depending on their make.

You had ordered these as a step into selling magical merchandise. To see how well they sold here. Kids adored the ones that created bubbles of light. And a few people purchased the design that acted as a quill that would write for you without you touching it.

You had recently restocked the display with other types. And there were two that were missing.

One was a water-make. Which either made water or removed it. Not enough to drain a lake or a pool, but a few buckets could be filled or emptied if needed.

And the second was a fire starter. Which spat sparks that would harmlessly bounce off of skin or clothes, but would light a small fire on even the most water-bogged logs or extinguish it.

You sighed. Already understanding why these particular items were stolen.

You’ve dealt with enough desperate people to know when it was necessity and not greed that pushed a person to steal.

You bit your lip. These wands weren’t expensive and were cheap stock to order.

Maybe if I’m quick I can stop the potions woman from calling the guards. You thought. But then you reminded yourself that the woman who stole from you, had also stolen from them. And over the first few months of owning and stocking this store, you’ve had more than your fair share of robberies and stolen items. If word got out that you let a person steal from you, this could spiral into something worse.

The best you could do for them was not press charges if the person is found.

You sighed again. Heavier than the last and moved through your store to get your cloak.

But on your way to the back, past a small lock-box display of jewelry, you noticed the glass lid had been pried open. The magical seal had been expertly dispelled and one of your silver rings, one that created a bubble of small protection, was missing.

You swore under your breath. Disappointment flooding through you.

Now you had to continue with the guards and hope they found the person.

That ring was an expensive item. The enchantment was a common one, but the ring amplified the bubble to be the size of a house. Something that was incredibly hard to do and would have taken alot of material to make such an enchantment safe and usable.

Hence why it was in a lock-box, under magical protection, and worth a decent sum of coins. Another one of your stretches into unknown territory with sales and items.

It was nothing so expensive that it would put a target on your store. But it was one of your pricier items, one that a customer had been eyeing off last time they passed through.

“They just had to steal that.” You grumbled. Slapping the lid back down on the lock-box. The seal buzzed as the box was closed again, letting you know the magic was once again activated. You gave it an experimental tug on the lid and when it didn’t open, without your key, you were happy enough to leave it.

You retrieved your cloak from the back of the shop and exited your store. Making sure the door was locked and hurried down the street to the potions store.

You were near drenched when you slipped into the two story building. But the moment your foot stepped over the threshold, you were flooded with warmth and your clothes tickled with magic that left you dry and comfortable.

You definitely needed that enchantment on your front door.

From behind the many shelves, the potions woman appeared, looking flustered as she hurried towards you. “The guards are on their way. Did that wretched thing take anything?”

“Some low magic wands and an enchanted ring.” You grimaced. “I don’t care for the wands, so much. But that ring is expensive. As long as I get that back, I’ll let it slide.”

The woman scoffed and gestured for you to follow her, leading you to the back of the store where a pot of tea and some small biscuits were waiting. “That woman stole two potions of healing and an iron-bark elixir from us. I know times are tough. And the potions were only small portions, not worth alot. But the iron-bark elixir is a very slow and ingredient heavy process. We can only make so many a month and they're in high demand with the guards and travelers. If she only stole the potions, we wouldn’t have pushed so hard to find her. But the elixir alone can fix us up for an entire month.”

Your eyes widened. “Those elixirs are that expensive?”

“Ours are, yes.” The woman said, a little proudly, as she poured you a cup of tea. “Ours doesn’t just give you thick skin and more strength, we’ve perfected a way that the aftereffect of the elixir doesn’t put you in a bed for a day. It’ll affect you for a few hours at best after you use the elixir but unlike our competitors iron-bark, you can get up and get ready for the day after a good night’s sleep.”

You whistled in appreciation for such craftsmanship. “That’s incredible. I can understand why she would try to take it then. Sell it off for some quick coin.”

The woman nodded. Sipping her tea after putting some honey in it and stirring. “I grew up very poor. I used to steal bread and clothes to get by. But stealing potions like ours? You put yourself at such risk for it. Even your ring! The wands can be overlooked. But something like that is just…silly.”

You stirred some honey into your own cup and allowed the conversation to fall away as you sipped. Thankfully, the potions man appeared in the doorway. Looking winded and red faced. “I couldn’t find her. The damn woman gave me the slip.”

“Better you don’t approach her, love.” The woman said, with a soft smile. “Let the guards deal with her. They’re on their way.”

The man nodded. Taking a deep breath that his body obviously needed. He looked at you and offered a smile. “I’m sorry I couldn’t catch her. Did she steal anything?”

You explained the stolen stock and the man tsked. Muttering about the lack of respect for shopkeepers; “Especially one such as yourself. You’re just starting out! I recall my first few years as a storekeeper, my Gods, the ledger was never full enough. And every piece of missing stock was precious.”

You nodded, chuckling along with the man as he shook his head. “Well, at least our sale will help me out until I can get a replacement or the ring is found. I’ll bring the stock over once we’ve spoken with the guards. I didn’t think to bring it over just now.”

The two waved you off. Saying they trust you enough to not skip their deal because of a distraction like this.

The three of you chatted idly while you waited for the guards to arrive.

And when they did, you immediately recognized three amongst them.

One was a tall elf woman by the name of Yesrie. Dark hair with sharp eyes but a warm smile.

The second was a human man named Smith. You never got his first name because everyone called him by his second. He had been in his first year in the Guard when you arrived; eager to help and prove himself, he had taken your reports on missing items like a personal attack. And hunted them down like he was the one who owned them.

Then the third, the Guard Captain’s right hand, Briar. A green lizardman built like a stone barn. They were a stoic type of individual. Had a sharp tongue when it came to humbling their guards but professional when it came to their work.

They all greeted you a little more warmly than they did with the pair beside you.

Your first few months here allowed you to become quite friendly with the Guard. Not by any intent of your own, but your new store in town got more attention than you bargained for. And not in a good way. Stolen merchandise meant the Guard got involved. And it happened so often within a few weeks that the Guard Captain had stepped in.

And with that sort of attention watching your store, the thieves dissipated quickly.

“(Y/N), why am I not surprised your shop was involved?” Briar asked, crossing their arms over their armor plated chest. Their iron gauntlets clinked against the metal. “I had hoped that the call meant a different store.”

You shrugged, sighing dramatically. “It wouldn’t be a Thursday without something of mine going missing.”

Smith and Yesrie laughed. Briar’s reptilian face rarely showed much emotion other than a hard stare. But you glimpsed their scaly lips twitch in amusement.

“Indeed. You know the drill, then. What happened? Every little detail, as you know, helps us out.”

You explained the events that transpired within your store. Explaining why the potion-store owners were involved, which gave them a chance to explain how they recognized the person who stole from you.

Briar nodded along, taking in everything you said. Yesrie commented they were the guard that took the potion store’s report and that this thief was targeting many stores in the district, not just a few.

Smith was writing down notes in a small notebook that was the size of his palm. Asking the usual questions like the woman’s hair color or description. Which you had to let the potion shop owners answer, because you didn’t really take notice of the woman.

Then when you got to the descriptions of the stolen items, Briar’s tail twitched in irritation. Nothing directed at you, you found out. “Well, that complicates things. Stolen magical items of significant power require a formal report issued by the owner. Meaning, (y/n), you’re gonna have to go to the Guard House and fill one out.”

You groaned in annoyance. You had to fill out a report once before. It took forever. And you really didn’t feel like going across the district to the Guard House in this weather.

But if you want that ring back, or at least be compensated for its loss, you’ll need to go.

“I’m guessing I’ll need the paperwork I received for purchasing the item to sell?” You asked and Briar nodded.

“Proof of purchase or the license which came with the item. Anything that has the item’s description and magic detailed alongside your ownership. And it’s something you need to do at the House, too. We can’t issue you one, since you need a scribe to sign off on it and witness you filling it out.”

“All that for a magical item?” The potions woman scoffed. “Damn, I’m happy we never got into that side of the business.”

You wish you could agree with her. But you were definitely going to make an adjustment to your stock and protection so you didn’t have to go through this again.

“Alright. Thank you for your time. Sorry you had to march through this weather for my store again.” You said. And Yesrie shrugged, glancing out the window as another flash of lightning lit up the dim street outside.

“The weather makes you appreciate the sunny days more. We’ll see you at the House, (y/n).” Yesrie replied. And the guards took their leave.

You soon followed suit. Promising the potion owners you would bring their merchandise around soon. But they waved you off. Telling you to deal with the reports and the guards first before worrying about them.

You were beginning to really appreciate them. And made sure to lower the price on anything the two needed in any later deals.

Back inside your shop you made quick work of finding the needed documents that involved any transaction or information of the ring.

Which you then wrapped up in a leather satchel that was worn and aged from many years on the road. An old trusty item you’ve carried with you everywhere before placing it in the drawer of your new work desk.

It would protect the documents from the rain and keep them nice and flat while you trekked the stormy streets.

You wrapped yourself up in as much water-proof clothing as you could. Your cloak was your best chance at keeping yourself dry but watching the sky still bucket down torrents of water, you doubted you’d stay warm for long.

As long as the documents were safe, you could endure the rain.

And walking through the streets was just about as miserable as you expected. You stuck to any type of cover you could as you walked. Storefront canopies or trees that were planted along the paths. The thunder felt like it was roaring directly in your ear as you braced against the chilling wind.

You wrapped your cloak tightly around you and pulled your hood down so low over your face you could only see the pavement in front of you.

Every glance up at where you were going was a risk of cold water trickling down your neck and into your warm clothes.

You zigged and zagged through the district until you came upon the large stone steps of the Guard House. The House itself was huge! Meant to house many of the district's officers and their cadets. This one also doubled as a school for fresh-faced persons looking to become a guard.

As you climbed the steps to the door, you could hear someone yelling at said cadets beyond the stone wall that secluded the training yards from the streets.

You grimaced at the thought of training in such weather.

As you stepped through the doors, the same magic from the potion shop passed over your clothes. However, this enchantment felt like it was spluttering. Parts of you were left dry while other sections were left merely damp.

You were warmer than before you stepped inside but your fingers still felt icy as you approached the receptionist at the desk.

You greeted them warmly and explained what you needed to fill out. And the receptionist motioned for you to walk down a hallway and then turn right, which would lead you to the scribes that would help you out.

You thanked her and headed in your pointed direction.

The House was bustling with activity. You passed many guards through the halls, swathed in armor and weapons. A few scribes hurried by and you even made room for a woman with a mean looking hound to pass you in the hall.

She thanked you as she kept the beast on a short leash. The hound didn’t pay you any mind so you knew it was more for your sense of space than the dog’s.

But you found the scribe room easily enough and the man behind the desk went through the process of the report.

It was a long document too. With a handful of pages that you needed to fill out and agree too. The scribe looked equally annoyed with the prospect, apparently he needed to go over it and sign off as you went. It would take time out of both of your afternoon’s. But he took you to the side to a desk so you could sit comfortably and fill it out.

Excusing himself and asking you to call him over when you got to a particular section before moving on through the document.

You hoped the scribe didn’t think your agitation was directed at him as you sighed and sat down. But you got to work, reading over the lengthy questions and paragraphs with a quill in your hand.

A few minutes later, Briar entered the room and went to the scribe desk, speaking softly. When the scribe nodded and disappeared through a door, their eyes passed over you once before snapping back as they spotted you. They came over to greet you. Their tail dripped a little with rainwater. “Ah, it’s good to see someone with initiative. You got here quickly.” Briar said, leaning against another desk to your left.

“Better to get it out of the way now than later.” You shrugged. “You wouldn’t have happened to stumble across my thief with my ring by chance? So I don’t have to do this?” You asked, hopefully. But Briar shook their head.

That twitch pulled at their scaly lips again as a hissing chuckle whistled through their sharp teeth.

“If only we were that lucky. I have to do my own paperwork about it, as well. I envy you. I’d rather do your documents than my own.” Like the scribe was summoned, he appeared and placed a thick folder of paper on the front desk. Briar thanked him gruffly and went over to scoop it up. Grumbling as he showed you the thickness of the folder. “See. No complaining from you about lengthy reports. I will probably beat you on every account.”

You laughed and nodded. “I do feel a little better about my report now. Thanks.”

“Here to help. Enjoy.” Briar said with a curt nod before leaving the room.

You refocused your attention on the documents in front of you. Calling over the scribe when he didn’t look too busy once you got up to the section he requested.

And while he looked over what you wrote and ensured everything was in order, you let your gaze wander. The scribe hall looked like a bustling library. Desks and chairs were scattered about the room. And behind the front desk were many, many towering shelves of books and scrolls.

Scribes appeared and disappeared behind each corridor of paper. Some carried in armfuls of paper or were discussing something with a guard.

It was all very busy here. But the chatter was rather quiet. You wondered if there was some sort of magic that kept the sound of the hustle and bustle at a low range.

“Scribe Harry, I was told that- Oh, (y/n), what are you doing here?” Your attention snapped to the door of the hall as your name was voiced.

Guard Captain Aram strolled over to where you were sitting. Making your heart skip a beat when he leaned over the back of your chair to inspect the report.

Aram was an orc with a heavy green complexion that contrasted the pale patches of skin on his body caused by vitiligo. His blonde hair was tied back in uniform to the neat standards of the Guard.

His tusks curved out from his lower lip, decorated by silver caps on the blunt tips. His thick arms were wrapped in thick leather that slid under a heavy metal chest piece with the Guard’s symbol carved into the steel. The patches on his shoulders displayed his rank, if the better armor and air of authority didn’t already display it.

“I was robbed again.” You sighed. Pushing down the sudden rush of nervousness as you turned your attention to the captain. “A magical item this time. Briar came and sorted it out and told me to come here.”

Aram’s brows knitted together and you could have sworn you saw a spark of amusement light in those beautiful emerald eyes. Before the stoic expression of a guard captain fell back into place. “Ah, yes, the grand paperwork involved with magic. I thought you said you wanted to keep simple stock for a time.”

You nodded. Having to pause your answer to thank the scribe as he pushed the report back to you to continue writing. “Yes. But a friend of mine had some stock they couldn’t move in the settlement nearby. So, I took it off their hands.”

“And then someone decided to take it from yours.” Aram said. He glanced over at the scribe as he moved some dropped off paperwork into the shelves behind him. “Hmm, this will go quicker if I take over for the scribes. The poor bastards have had their hands full recently.” Then Aram called out to the scribe nearby, Harry, who looked relieved when Aram explained he’d be taking over witnessing you finish the report.

“Do you mind if we do this in my office? The magic in here makes my ears ache.” Aram asked. And when you nodded, Aram escorted you through the building to his office. Which you had been in once before when Aram had taken over the investigation of why your store was being targeted so frequently.

He closed the door behind you and you took the offered seat in front of his desk. Which he then slid your seat closer to the desk and made space on the surface for you to start the next section of the report.

He moved your chair so effortlessly with you in it that it made your stomach flip a little giddily. But you hid your smile as you busied yourself with reading over the next section.

“I was recently thinking about you. And, uh, the reports you had to make on your store.” Aram said rather quickly, fiddling with some papers on his desk. “It’s been a while since your last break in. I thought my trick did the job, to be honest.”

“For a while it did.” You agreed. Pausing to write down the description of the ring. “The extra patrols you had around the place seemed to scare them off. And gave me enough time to better the security of my shop. I still spot Smith on occasion in the area. But he always seems busy. I hope you’re not working him too hard.”

Aram chuckled. Picking up a quill of his own and scribbling over some papers on his desk. “The boy is fine. He’s eager for the work. But, uh…” You tore your eyes off the paperwork long enough to see why Aram didn’t finish his sentence.

His eyes were narrowed and his lips were pursed in a poor attempt at looking angry, looking over your head to the windows behind you.

You turned your head. And you caught a glimpse of something quickly darting out of view of the office. The room was enclosed but anyone in the hallways had a clear view of you sitting at Aram’s desk. The Guard Captain grumbled and stood, clearing his throat as he flicked a small switch and curtains fell down over the windows leading to the corridor outside.

“Nosy bastards.” You heard Aram mutter. But you pretended not to hear him as he returned to his seat and continued working on whatever was in front of him. “I was going to say he wanted to be set in that district. Apparently, his aunt lives around there.”

“Aww, that’s sweet of him. I’ll be sure to annoy him any chance I get when I see him.” You said, refocusing on the paper in front of you. You reached the next spot the scribe had told you to call for him and offered the papers to Aram.

Who went over the report swiftly and then handed it back to you after he signed off on the part he needed too.

“A ring of protection, huh? That didn’t move at your friend's establishment?” Aram asked, surprised. And you shook your head, writing as you responded.

“Their town was going through a drought. Which is probably being washed downriver right now with this rain. But no one had the money to purchase a ring like that. I offered to buy it off them and then give them a percentage if I manage to sell it. We used to travel together before they bought their store. They helped me get my place. Since I had no idea how to purchase property.”

Aram made a thoughtful noise, watching you as you worked. “Why didn’t you buy a place outside the city? Probably would have been cheaper. And also get you a better place than that splinter shack.”

“Hey, that’s my splinter shack you’re insulting.” You playfully snapped. Which made the Guard Captain laugh. “But I wanted to try the city. I’ve never stayed in one for long. And I thought a change of lifestyle would be refreshing.”

“And is it refreshing?” Aram asked.

You paused to look up at him, smiling. “Well, the people are much more interesting.” You let the sentence hang in the air for a touch longer before continuing. “And there’s always something happening here. And the food! Oh my Lords, I’ve never had such a wide variety of food always available. Every morning I get a fresh coffee with a freshly baked bun. A much better change than living off of dried meats and stale bread with cheese.”

Aram grinned at that. His eyes seemed to sparkle in the candlelight. “So, you think you’ll stay here for good then. This string of robberies hasn’t scared you off?”

You scoffed lightly and shook your head. “I’ve fought off armed bandits and kobolds from my goods before. A few hooded figures isn’t going to scare me off. I’ve gotten too comfortable sleeping in an actual bed now to give it up.”

Your words seemed to widen Aram’s smile. “Well, good to hear. The city always needs more good people like you in it. It would be a shame to see you go.”

Something in the way Aram spoke made your pulse quicken. Or maybe how his fingers brushed over your hand as you handed him the documents again for him to look over.

Either way, you were suddenly very aware of how little room there was between the two of you. Even if the desk was large enough to sit such a big man behind it, it felt like Aram was close enough to touch.

And as you took back the paperwork, you thought it was silly of you to think that he was putting his hand directly so that your fingers brushed over his.

It didn’t stop you from feeling how warm his hand was. Nor notice how much larger his hand was compared to yours.

You felt your cheeks flush with heat and you tried very hard to concentrate on the papers in front of you.

It still took an hour to go over everything, but you managed to finish the documents required. Aram took it upon himself to file it away as soon as possible. And asked you a few more questions about the robbery before opening the door of his office for you.

“I’ll be in touch in a few days.” Aram said, leaning against the doorframe. “If we find anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Thank you for your time, Captain Aram.” You said and then added jokingly. “And I’ll be sure to let you know if something else goes missing from my store.”

Aram laughed. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.” Then he glanced to one of the nearby windows as a crash of thunder sounded overhead “Have you got a way of getting back to your store? It’s still pouring outside.”

You grimaced and a shiver ran over you at the thought of the walk back. It was later in the afternoon now. The sun wouldn’t be set yet, but with the dark clouds overhead and closing to sunset, it was already pretty dark outside.

“No. It’s not that far of a walk, though. I’ll be fine.” You lied. And knew Aram would know this was your attempt at being polite and not complaining.

Aram’s warm smile dimmed and he shook his head. “I’m not having you walk home in this. I’ll get someone to drive you back.”

Your eyes widened and you tried to make an excuse that would justify not needing a driver. But Aram caught sight of Smith walking past and called him over.

“Yes, Captain?” Smith said as he approached. Looking between you and Aram worriedly.

“Get a carriage and drive (y/n) back to her store. And no side stops on your way back, got it.” Aram said, his voice harsh with authority as Smith’s confusion turned into something close to amused glee. He nodded and then looked at you.

“Your chariot is this way, ma’am.” He said with a little more bravado than needed. And you looked at Aram with a joking glare.

“You’re really going to subject me to this?” You asked. And Aram’s stern facade broke with a smile.

“I’d rather not hear that you got washed away by a river on your way home. Get her home safe, Smith.” Aram said before closing the door and leaving you to a beaming Smith as you followed him through the House.

“So, what did you and the Captain talk about in there?” Smith asked. Wiggling his shoulders in a teasing manner as he led you out into an enclosed barn connected to the Guard House. Where a carriage was currently being connected to two brown horses.

“He was overseeing the report I needed to fill out about the ring.” You explained. Ignoring the tiny flush of embarrassment that crawled up your neck. “The scribes were busy and he had time.”

Smith blew a harsh breath out of his lips. “Puh-lease, the Captain never has time.” And then so quietly you almost missed it. “But that seems to change for you.”

You chose to ignore him and wait by the House doors while Smith spoke with the person hooking the animals up. He then waved you over and opened the carriage door for you.

“My Lady.” He bowed his head and you tsked playfully at him.

“Stop that. It’s embarrassing enough as it is. Being escorted back home by a guard.” You mumbled as you climbed inside. Which got you a laugh from Smith.

“Come on, enjoy it! How many times have you been safely escorted home like the rich folk? Beat on the roof if you need me to stop for anything, alright?”

Smith closed the door once you were comfortably seated and you heard him clamber onto the front of the carriage.

The carriage itself wasn’t anything extravagant. The seats were plush enough to stop you from sitting on hard wood and there was enough space to fit four people.

It still felt a bit excessive for only you to be in here. But at least you weren’t going to be walking in the rain.

Your body lurched a little as Smith urged the horses into moving. And soon enough the carriage was filled with the deafening roar of rain pelting the roof above you.

You felt bad for Smith sitting up front. You had glimpsed a small canopy over the driver's seat. But that would be very little protection against the storm as it whipped around him outside.

You sighed. Relaxing against the seat as you glanced through the fogged window to the passing streets.

They were mostly empty. Apart from a few store fronts preparing to close for the afternoon. And some carriages that trotted past.

You haven’t gotten to experience a carriage ride in the city yet. You’ve been so busy with the store that any luxuries you usually would have gotten with your money were forgotten. Or spent on the store itself.

It was kind of peaceful watching the city pass you by.

You would definitely be sending another bakery basket to Aram for this. He had enjoyed the first one you sent after he helped keep your store safe last time.

I’m not having you walk home in this.

His words bounced around in your head like an endless echo. And you found yourself smiling.

And the way he had put his hand in the path of yours? It made your heart skip just thinking about it.

You shook your head. Trying to scatter the thoughts that were attempting to wriggle into your mind.

“Oh, stop it.” You sighed to yourself. “He’s just making sure you’re safe. That’s his job after all.”

You knew you wanted it to be a lie the moment you said it.

But you refused to think of any other reason that Aram would be doing this. You didn’t need something like that in your life just yet. You were busy as it was.

But…A small voice whispered. You definitely need something like him. Even only for a night or two.

Your cheeks burned as the thoughts spiraled and you shook your head again. Refusing to let those thoughts get any more traction than they already have.

It…has been a long time. But you were a business woman now. You had more important things at this moment than scratching that itch. Once the store was a little more organized and things calmed down, then maybe, maybe, you’d think about it.

You sat in your hurricane of a mind as Smith drove through your district and finally came to a stop just outside your store.

You went to open the door but Smith was already there. Drenched from head to toe but all smiles, bowing his head dramatically.

“My Lady! A pleasant ride, I hope.”

“Oh my Gods, you poor thing. Get back as quickly as you can before you catch a cold.” You gasped as you slipped out of the carriage. Hurrying to the safety of your store front.

“I’m fine. Get inside! I’ll let the Captain know you’re safely at your castle.” Smith called over the rain. And you didn’t even bother retorting, merely stuck out your tongue at him as you waved him off.

You heard him laugh and watched through your store windows as the carriage pulled away and disappeared into the heavy sheets of rain.

~*~

A few days later, the bell over your door chimed as someone entered. You called out to the customer that you’d be with them shortly and finished what you were doing in the back before greeting them behind your counter.

“Aram!” You beamed as the Guard Captain approached you. “What a surprise! Good news? Or bad news?”

Aram made a face like he was deciding, jokingly clicking his tongue as he leaned his arms on your counter. Crossing them over each other and coming down to your eye height.

“Which do you want first?” He asked.

You pursed your lips, hopelessly ignoring how Aram’s gaze flicked to your mouth before returning to your eyes as you said, “Good news first.”

“We found the woman who stole your items. Your ring is being processed and looked over to ensure it hasn’t been tampered with. It’ll take a few days to get back to you.”

You sighed with relief. “That’s good. But…the bad news?”

Aram’s grin made his eyes crinkle adorably as he shuffled his weight on his feet. He cleared his throat and it felt like he was forcing his gaze to stay on you. “The bad news is that I lost a bet involving the case. And you unfortunately will be put on the spot as I ask you out to dinner.” He cleared his throat again and stood at attention in front of you. Your heart pounded in your chest as he swallowed hard and said. “Would you like to go out to dinner with me?”

It was almost adorable at how worried Aram looked as you stared up at him. And it was even more so when relief washed over his expression as you nodded.

Before you realized you were even replying, you had said yes. You laughed sheepishly, shaking your head. “You lost a bet and you were forced to ask me out to dinner?”

“I wouldn’t say forced. That makes it sound like I didn't want to.” Aram replied. Scratching the back of his neck, under the thick braid of blonde hair. “I want to take you to dinner. I have for a bit now. I just…things got in the way and I wasn’t sure if you would be interested in me and…I’m sorry. I’m rambling.” He cleared his throat again. “This is me asking you to dinner, sincerely.”

“What would have happened if you didn’t?” You asked.

“Probably be called a coward by my men.” Aram replied. “Or someone would have done it for me, I’m sure. Or somehow talked you into asking me out. I don’t know. They’re very nosy. Very much like a bunch of highschoolers.”

“But they gave you an opening to ask me out to dinner. So, I would forgive them.” You said with a chuckle. And Aram visibly relaxed with the sound. “When would you like to set this dinner? I’m free most afternoons. I’m sure it’s your schedule we have to work around.” You said teasingly. And Aram nodded.

“I’ll free up my night next Friday, if that’s ok with you? I know it’s a while away but this week is choked up with work already.” When you nodded, Aram’s smile broadened and your body became heated under his sparkling gaze. You both discussed a place to eat, but since you rarely went out other than cafes and small take-away establishments, Aram promised he’d surprise you with a brilliant place to dine. “I’ll pick you up around seven? If the rain hasn’t stopped by then, I’ll bring a carriage around for us to use.”

You sarcastically rolled your eyes, “Please do not make Smith drive us. That was torture last time.”

Aram laughed but shook his head. “No, no. I won’t be letting those vultures anywhere near our dinner. I promise.”

Once you confirmed again the time and date, Aram excused himself, having to continue his patrol around the district. And the moment he left, your heart soared with excitement at the thought of dinner with Aram.

~*~

Friday couldn’t come any quicker.

The rest of the week fell into a snail like pace, dragging day and night until the morning of your dinner date with Aram.

The rain didn’t subside. Most of the city was now flooded or close to it.

You had braced your store for the worst. Purchasing new tables with waterproofing and protective surfaces, so if the water started to rise and your store was flooded, at least some of your merchandise would be saved.

Coincidentally, as you were unloading the transport carriage that had said furniture, three city guards came over to help unload them.

You didn’t know any of them, but you thought it was sweet that some passing guards saw you and the transport man struggling to move a table, and decided to help.

But that seemed to become a pattern over the course of the week leading to Friday.

You saw more guards than usual in the district and some greeted you as if you knew them. Smith came over to you whenever you were out. Conversing until he needed to leave for his patrol and you needed to return to the shop.

Briar dropped by and returned the ring to you. They was a lot more friendly than the prior meetings you had with them. They actually cracked a few jokes with you.

You finally caved when Yesrie just happened to be in the area on Friday morning. Popping by with a coffee for you. “Are all of you around here because I’m going out with Aram?” You asked. And Yesrie was terrible at feigning ignorance, even if she was joking the entire time she replied.

“You’re going out with my captain? That’s amazing! I didn’t know at all.”

You rolled your eyes and shooed her out of your store. Thanking her for the coffee and company before you needed to get to work.

But finally, the time came to close the store and begin getting ready for your date.

You chose something simple to wear but something to also make you look downright gorgeous. Being in the city had its perks and the ample amount of shops around allowed you to browse and pick something amazing for yourself.

You had half the thought it could be a touch overdressed, but you weren’t sure where Aram was taking you. And you did look good in it! So you wrestled down the nerves and waited for Aram to arrive.

You kept your hands busy with small things in your shop before a heavy knock sounded on your front door.

You quickly opened the door for Aram and he stepped inside wrapped in a thick cloak and hood sprinkled by the rain.

“Damn, look at you, (y/n).” Aram beamed. His eyes didn’t seem to know where to look. They definitely lingered along your chest and hips, but respectfully flicked up to hold your gaze very quickly when he caught himself staring. “I feel a little underdressed now.”

You glimpsed his attire beneath the cloak. Dark dress pants with a deep brown shirt that hugged his large frame snugly. He had decorative leather bracers along his wrists and his hair was neatly bundled up in a collection of braids. Each had small trinkets adorning the strands.

“Nonsense,” You said a little breathlessly. Have you ever seen this man out of uniform? “You look very dashing.”

Your words made his smile crinkle his eyes and he opened his cloak up to you. Nodding to the carriage waiting outside. “I forgot to bring you an umbrella.”

“Ah, yes. I also don’t own one.” You said, hoping the way you moved up beside him didn’t seem too eager.

And you absolutely had an umbrella. But you were not going to miss an opportunity to snugly press yourself against Aram.

Once you were standing against his side, Aram lowered his arm enough that the cloak surrounded you almost entirely. A sweet scent wafted off of him to you and you shivered as your arm brushed against his side.

He was so warm!

Together you exited the store, halting long enough to lock the front and then quickly dash to the carriage. Where a driver was waiting in the rain to open the door for the two of you.

You felt utterly terrible for the man. But as you clambered into the carriage, you caught a glimpse of your driver.

An automaton. A being made of metal and mechanical parts bowed their head as you greeted them. Their clothes were drenched but they didn’t seem to mind as Aram joined you in the carriage, taking the seat next to you, and the automaton closed the door behind him.

“Did you hire a driver for tonight?” You asked. Baffled by the beautiful interior of the carriage. It was much fancier than the one Smith drove you in. And the rain didn’t thunder the roof in this one. You could barely hear it as Aram responded.

“No. This is my carriage. Anthony out there works for me.” Aram said this as if it was a normal occurrence for someone to have an automaton driver. Or their own fancy carriage.

You tried not to balk at his words. Instead made room for him to remove the damp cloak and fold it on the seat across from the both of you.

“I didn’t know being a Guard Captain paid so well.” You teased. Watching Aram as he adjusted his shirt and ensured his bracers were still correctly placed on his wrists. There was a slight scruff along his cheeks and he had replaced the silver caps on his tusks with gold ones.

Damn, he dressed up nice.

Aram smiled and your heart shuddered when he winked at you. “It also pays to have been a successful adventurer beforehand.”

Your eyes widened and Aram laughed as you said, “Wait, you haven’t been a stuck up captain all your life?” Though your words were sarcastic, you couldn’t help but be impressed. “To be honest, I wouldn’t have guessed that was your past. Maybe a soldier of some kind? But not an adventurer.”

“You’d be amazed at how many guards of mine are retired adventurers or travelers looking to settle down. I knew the old captain before he retired. It sped up my promotions, I’ll admit, but I proved myself just like everyone else.” Aram admitted. Relaxing against the plush back seat of the carriage. “Chasing down burglars and walking the streets at night is a much better alternative to dungeon crawling.”

You hummed in agreement. “I do not miss the cold nights or falling asleep hungry. But there was definitely a charm to traveling that the city doesn’t have.”

It was Aram’s turn to agree with a grunt. “I do occasionally miss having the time and freedom to do whatever I want. But I wouldn’t give up my position for anything. Least of all, leave my Guards behind just to go treasure hunting.”

You caught a light twinkling in Aram’s eyes as he spoke. And his smile curled warmly at the corners. It was no secret that Aram was as loyal as any to the Guard, but there was definitely a type of kinship between them all as well.

“That does remind me,” You said, tilting your head teasingly at Aram. “Did you order more guards to patrol my district? I keep tripping over them everytime I leave the shop.”

Aram didn’t look surprised, but he didn’t look pleased about what you said either. “Ah, I was wondering why some of them took longer to return after their patrols.” You waited for Aram to say something else. And when he didn’t, you set a pointed stare on him, urging him to continue whatever thought was bouncing around in his head. Aram chuckled with a half roll of his eyes. “Alright, alright. This is a little embarrassing, but I believe they’re keeping an eye on you for me. On their own accord. I haven’t ordered anymore than the usual patrols in your district. But since…well, they’re a loyal lot and they want to make sure you’re safe.”

You laughed. It made sense why you saw Smith and Yesrie more than anyone else on your streets. “All because you asked me out to dinner?”

“Well…not just because of dinner. But that’s a conversation for later.” Aram said sheepishly. And he expertly changed the subject to your store and how it was faring in the weather. You let the conversation be swept into other topics, but you definitely would hold onto that little kernel of a question for later.

The ride through the city took a little longer than you expected. But soon, the streets outside transformed into a string of establishments on the docks. And the carriage was taken through a route that ran along the rough, crashing oceanside.

The beach looked absolutely ruined from the harsh tides. And the dark gloomy horizon was nothing more than a black screen of storm clouds.

Despite the rain, the street itself was bustling with activity. Lights illuminated the roads brilliantly in warm orange. And all along the sidewalk were canopies and large overhanging roofs to give shelter to the patrons that walked by.

Your carriage was taken to a restaurant that had a grand glass ceiling and a large balcony with many tables seated beneath it. Your table was directly next to the balcony edge, where a shield of magic protected you and Aram from the torrent of rain slashing down from above.

And you found yourself pleasantly warm as Aram pushed in your chair as you took your seat. The business must have heating enchantments placed around to keep their patrons comfortable.

“This place is lovely.” You said as your waiter passed you both a menu. Excusing themselves to give you time to look over their drink choice.

“It’s one of my favorite spots in the city. The ocean view usually is better, but I can at least trust the food will be good.” Aram explained, glancing over the railing to the harsh waves and dark waters. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all.” You quickly reassured him. “I’m just happy to have an excuse to go out. I’ve been putting off going out for dinner for a while. I don’t know alot of people here yet. I wouldn’t know where to start.``

“Well, I hope my choice becomes one of your favorites.” Aram smiled.

The conversation fell into a simple one of work. Aram asked more questions about your store while you prodded about his life in the Guard.

“Things have gotten better over the past few months.” Aram admitted, drawing idle circles on the condensation of his cup of mead. “But I’m sure…activities will pick up closer to the holiday season. I dread to think about that time of year. But it is at least never lacking on slow days.”

“I used to avoid cities during their festival seasons. As backwards as that is for a traveling merchant.” You said in return. “It always caused me more grief than coins. But I guess it’s unavoidable now that I have a permanent spot here.”

                ~~~~To Be Continued Because my brain is stuck~~~~~~

As always, feedback or suggestions are welcome!! 

[gerlionrise]

Hit Her HardER PART 2

Pairing: Masked Officer x Guard011/Kang Noeul What happened after the fight? You all asked for part 2. Here we go. Part 1 is here.

She woke to sunlight.

Not harsh, not blinding—just a steady warmth slipping through gauzy curtains, dusting over the room like it belonged there. The bed beneath her was too soft, the blanket too clean. Her eyes fluttered open, slowly adjusting to the gold and white around her.

A ceiling she didn’t recognize. No sterile walls, no surveillance monitors. No hum of electricity.

Kang Noeul sat up too fast.

Pain lanced through her skull—sharp, splitting. She gasped, one hand reaching instinctively toward the side of her head. Her fingers found gauze.

And then she remembered. The fight. The bottle. The way he looked at her right before everything went black.

She staggered out of bed.

The room was simple, rustic. Wood panels. White curtains that moved gently with the wind. Outside the window, there were trees. Not the bleak metal skeletons of the island—but trees. Green and full. Alive.

She stood up on her feet, each step dragging with the weight of her still-healing body. Down the narrow hallway. Through an open doorway.

The kitchen was warm with morning light.

And he was there.

Standing barefoot on tiled floors, shirt sleeves rolled, a glass of something dark in his hand. No mask. Just the face she’d learned too well—cut with silence, bruised at the lip, always a little too calm.

He didn’t turn.

“Not exactly your style,” she muttered.

His voice was mild, like it always was when he was trying not to say something worse. “You’re awake.”

She crossed the threshold, slowly. Her legs hated her for it. Her balance tilted—but she caught herself on the edge of the counter. He didn’t move to help her.

“You hit me with a bottle.”

“You weren’t going to stop.”

“I was winning.”

He glanced at her then. One raised brow. “Were you?”

That did it. She lunged, or tried to—but her legs crumpled and the room spun sideways.

He caught her before she could hit the floor. Again.

She found herself pressed against his chest, her cheek brushing the collar of his shirt. His arm tightened just slightly around her waist.

“You’re a disaster,” he said, voice like gravel and dry smoke. “You never know when to stop.”

“If I will stop trying to kill you, it means I’m dead.”

He didn’t respond. Just held her a second longer than necessary. Then he set her down in one of the chairs by the kitchen table, poured water into a glass, and placed it in front of her.

The air between them buzzed.

She watched him as he leaned back against the counter, sipping from the same glass he'd been nursing when she walked in. Something amber. Expensive.

“What is this place?”

“My house.”

“You have a house.”

“I have several. This is the one no one knows about.”

She glanced toward the window again. The countryside rolled out in endless green. A pond shimmered in the distance. “You kidnapped me to the countryside.”

“You were unconscious.”

“That’s one word for it.”

She drank the water. He watched her throat move.

Her voice cut the air next. “What happened to the island?”

“It’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Destroyed.”

Her fingers tightened around the glass. “What happened to the last player? It was 456, right?”

Silence.

“And the child?”

He stared at her like he was deciding how much of the truth to give. Then, finally:

“They were evacuated. He handled it before the facility was blown.”

She exhaled. Just once. “Why did you take me?”

“You don’t need an answer.”

She stared. “You’re still playing control, even here.”

“I’m not playing anything.”

She watched him for a moment—calculating, suspicious, defiant.

Of course she didn’t trust him. She shouldn’t. But she was here, in his house, in a chair he pulled out, drinking water he gave her. Breathing because he let her.

She kept staring, as if trying to decide whether he was the enemy today. He didn’t help her decide.

He stepped to the drawer and pulled out gauze, antiseptic, a pair of medical scissors. Set them down on the table with the kind of precision most would mistake for indifference.

“We should change your the bandage,” he said.

She leaned back in the chair. “Don’t bother. I’m not your patient.”

“No,” he said coolly.

She scoffed. “Then leave it.”

“Sit straight, or I’ll knock you out again. It will be easier for me this way.”

Her silence was the only agreement he needed.

He moved behind her. Slowly. Not because he was gentle. Because he didn’t trust himself.

Fingers slipped into her hair, parting it to get to the gauze. She didn’t flinch, but he could feel it in her posture—the way her spine tightened like a coiled spring.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“No.”

He pressed harder.

She hissed. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“To remind you not to take it for granted. If I want to, you’d be dead in a second.”

She didn’t answer. She knew he was right. She also knew he never would.

He cleaned the wound with quiet, calculated movements. Steady hands. Sharp restraint.

“There,” he said under his breath. “I’m not patching you up next time.”

She didn’t say anything. Her breath caught for half a second—enough.

He leaned back, but not far. His gaze never left her back.

“You think I enjoy cleaning up after you?” he asked, voice like glass. “Because I don’t. I fucking hate it.”

A beat of silence.

“Why do it then?” she said finally.

He didn’t reply. He stepped away, returning to the counter. The whiskey glass was still there, a halo of amber light in the morning sun. He took a sip without looking at her.

She stood, and the distance between them crackled.

“What about Player 246?” she asked.

The words dropped like poison into water. Tainting everything.

He didn’t answer.

She took a step forward. “Is he alive?”

He didn’t move.

“Did you leave him to die on that island?”

Still, nothing.

“Or did your dogs shoot him on the boat? Wasn't enough for you, huh? You had to kill him too?”

That snapped something.

He turned fast—faster than he meant to. The whiskey glass slammed down, hard. Not shattered, but close.

“You really want to know about 246?” he said, voice low and controlled only by muscle memory. “Is that what you care about right now?”

She blinked. “I asked a question.”

And that was it.

He closed the distance between them in two strides, hand latching onto her wrist before she could step back. She tried to twist out of it, but she was still weak and he didn’t care. Not in that moment.

“You’re hurting me.”

Good, he thought. But he didn’t say it.

Instead, he dragged her down the hall, ignoring every insult she spat at him. Her fists pounded his shoulder. He didn’t feel them.

The door to the bedroom slammed open. He shoved her in—not hard enough to injure, just enough to remind her who brought her here. Who still held all the power.

She stumbled back against the bed, caught herself, panting.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” she shouted.

He didn’t answer.

Just stood in the doorway, a silhouette made of tension and breath.

“Stay here,” he said.

“You don’t get to order me—”

“Stay.”

She stared at him, shaking. Not from fear. From fury.

Then he turned and shut the door behind him, the final click loud in the silence she left behind.

He stayed on the other side for a long time, listening to nothing. Or maybe to everything.

Hours later it was late. The countryside house had grown quiet, the wind still, the woods silent. The officer stood outside her door, a tray of food in one hand, the other clenched tight by his side.

He didn’t knock.

He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of a bedside lamp. Empty.

Then—

A flash of movement.

Something hard slammed into the side of his head. Not enough to break skin, not enough to floor him—but enough to stagger him a step.

The tray crashed. Food scattered across the floor. The lamp clattered from her grip.

She stood beside the door, panting, eyes wild, off-balance.

He turned slowly.

His face twisted into something dark.

“I should’ve killed you,” he growled.

She didn’t flinch. Her body trembled, but not from fear—her body was still too weak to hold its defiance steady.

He crossed the room in two strides. His hand gripped her collar, slammed her back into the wall.

“You think I won’t?” he snarled. “You think I won’t fucking end this right now?”

He was angry. Really angry.

His voice suddenly came like a knife.

“I let that bastard 246 go.”

The words hung in the air.

“Do you fucking hear me now? I transferred him money. Enough to disappear. Because you told me his kid was sick.”

Her lips parted. Shock flickered behind her eyes.

His jaw twitched. “You said it once. I remembered. I acted.”

His grip on her tightened.

“I was breaking protocols all the time. I was lying. I covered your tracks. I made the others believe you wasn’t the reason behind it all.”

Silence pressed in.

“I have done all of this for you.”

Her defiance faltered.

“I should’ve let the island eat him alive,” he spat. “But I didn’t. Because you said one thing. One damn thing.”

Her lips were dry. Her throat clenched.

He shoved her back again—harder this time. Not enough to break anything. Just enough to make her feel it.

“You want to know why?” he hissed. “Because you fucking drive me mad.”

Each word hit like a blow.

“Every time you break a rule. Every time you look me in the eye and dare me to stop you. Every time you walk into chaos like it doesn’t matter if you make it out.”

His free hand slammed the wall on the other side of her head. He caged her in.

“And I cover for you. I lie for you. I bleed for you. And you keep testing how far I’ll go—how many lines I’ll cross before I finally snap and do what I should’ve done from the start.”

His voice cracked at the edges.

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were locked on his, something unreadable rising behind them. 

He was still saying words, but she couldn’t listen anymore. She didn’t have to. 

She reached up. Fisted his collar.

And dragged him down.

Then she kissed him.

Hard. Fast. Fierce.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t respond.

At first.

His body went still, muscles locked in something between shock and refusal. Her mouth pressed harder—rougher—like she was trying to force the moment not to collapse. Like she didn’t know if she’d survive the silence that would follow if he didn’t kiss her back.

She bit his lip—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to break through the numbness.

And that’s when he snapped.

His hands shot to her waist, gripping her like he was anchoring himself to something dangerous. He yanked her forward, crushing her body against his, and slammed her into the wall so hard the air knocked out of her lungs.

Then he kissed her back.

Harder.

Brutal.

There was no hesitation. No breath. No forgiveness.

He kissed her like he wanted to rip her open just to see what made her burn.

Teeth. Pressure. Bruised lips and breathless tension.

His hands splayed over her hips, dragging her up just enough that her toes barely touched the ground. His body pinned her, chest to chest, thighs to thighs, unforgiving. Dominant.

He didn’t know if it was hatred or obsession or something darker crawling up from the part of him he always locked away—but he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t pull back.

Her hands tangled in his hair now, yanking. Her nails scraped at the back of his neck. He slammed his hand against the wall again beside her head, needing something to hit before he lost what was left of himself.

His body only knew her mouth. The way it opened under his. The way she met every savage press with another. How she tasted like blood and breath and rebellion.

He kissed her like he was punishing her.

And she kissed him like she dared him to go further.

He broke the kiss.

Breath ragged. Heart a snarl of fury and something far worse.

His hands still gripped her, hard. His chest heaved against hers, and when he pulled back just enough to look at her face—her lips swollen, cheeks flushed, hair in chaos from where his fingers had dragged through it—he didn’t feel guilt.

He felt something much darker.

Addiction.

His gaze traced her mouth like he might crush her again just to see if she’d kiss him harder.

She was still breathing like she’d just survived a war.

His war.

And he liked that.

Liked her like this—wrecked. By him. Because of him.

He swallowed something bitter and let out a breath through his teeth.

“Can’t kill me physically so you chose this?” he muttered, voice like gravel and fire.

She didn’t answer.

The silence between them said it all.

He stepped back, suddenly cold. That awful restraint locking back into place like chains.

His hand left her waist last.

She stayed where she was—back against the wall, still catching her breath. Watching him. Daring him.

Hhe walked to the door. Opened it. Stared into the hallway for a beat like he might throw himself into the night just to get away from whatever she’d just done to him.

Then he turned the lock from the outside.

The bolt clicked.

She didn’t flinch.

He paused.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there—still, coiled, furious—and then said, without looking back:

“Sleep. Or don’t. Either way, the door stays shut tonight.”

Still not a single word from her.

“Pray to God I won’t just kill you after this.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving her alone in the dark, lips burning, heart pounding, skin still buzzing with the taste of him.

Locked in.

Again.

But this time—for very different reasons. 

Because he wasn’t sure how far he would’ve let himself go. And how far she would let him go.

[piss-pumpkin]

☕️ Unfortunately for us, ☕️

Dipper pines x reader, Douce amere chapter 17, ~6.1k words (sorry guys) Masterlist prev

When Dipper looked at you, he saw Bill. In everything: every minute movement, every word you spoke, every breath you breathed was a reminder that he was there too. Avoidance. If not seeing you meant not seeing him, he could live with that. Maybe.

He wasn’t sure where you slept on the first night, because it wasn’t with him. That was new. He guessed you were on the couch in Soos’ break room, but he didn’t want to check. 

It was no surprise that he couldn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling, dead tired but unable to close his eyes. Nightmares weren’t new, nor unfamiliar, but they usually only affected him when he was asleep. Now they seemed to perforate even blinks. The ceiling was old wood, a few panels with stains, and the faded finish were enough to tell him just how aged it was. The rafters were clean though, somebody must have dusted it before the summer so they’d sleep better. The walls too, all clean. Mabel’s side less so, now that he noticed. Across the room he saw the faint sparkle of glitter along the walls by the moonlight. 

He studied the room with dry eyes, blinking in moderation to avoid the dark. Or better, whenever he had to, he dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets so the swirling colours blocked out anything his mind conjured up. Usually you were there to help with that. 

His heart ached, and a few points on his arms from where you attacked him. Where Bill attacked him, he clarified to himself. But the line was blurry. This bed was entirely too big without you there. That was almost absurd enough to make him laugh, considering it was just barely larger than a twin.

 At least you both survived. Dipper groaned, half hoping to wake up Mabel so she’d come talk to him. But she was dead tired too, and Dipper had to do this alone. Unless you were awake. 

He shook his head without realizing, his body answering that question for him; no, he can’t go see you. That might kill him faster than sleep deprivation. But you were probably up too. He knew well enough  you might be tossing and turning just below him. It was going to be a long night. 

                                        …

Dipper trudged down the stairs, far too early in the morning for his usual liking, eyes to the steps to keep from tripping. But his legs were made of lead, or some heavy metal; they were completely weighing him down. Every step was a fight with gravity to stay on his feet. The good side of no sleep was his lack of brain power. He was running in survival instincts. His eyes looked down to stop from falling, his hands slid on the rail for the same, his body moved to find some sort of sustenance, and all without a single thought. Shutting those out seemed to be the best. 

Coffee. That was a good goal. Short term, easily archivable, and its accomplishment would help him greatly; it was perfect. 

He wiped his eyes as he stumbled almost blindly to the kitchen. The shack was quiet, the rest surely not awake yet. The more Dipper looked around, he realized it was still dark out. Or more like dim. A bit of dull moonlight was still shining through the windows.

The lights were on in a few rooms. Probably Mabel. Forgetful Mabel. Dipper flicked off the lights in the living room and the hall as he got closer. The kitchen light was on too. 

Dipper got to the doorframe, and froze, breath hitching in his chest. And it looked like you did the same. 

On the floor, against the cupboards, was you, sat in pyjamas, cradling a pot of coffee like it was your baby with a half full mug on the tile beside you. Your phone, noticeably on the lowest brightness, was almost slipping out of your loose grip. And Dipper wanted to look away, because it was clear you’d been crying, you wore all the telltale signs. Swollen eyelids, a little puffy, a little red. He hated noticing it. A pit formed in his stomach without a moments warning. Of course you had the same idea as him. Why not? Why the fuck not. Same brain. 

He took shaky breaths on even shakier legs. Your pupils looked normal. But knowing that meant he was looking at your wide and tired eyes as you looked up at him. It was a double edged sword. He gripped the door frame for balance. With his bad hand. He winced as his palm flew into the wood, straining the wrist that you…Bill- stepped on.

You flinched as he did. Like you could feel it from across the room. And you stared down into the coffee pot because maybe you both felt that looking at each other was painful. But Dipper didn’t have the self preservation instincts to follow your lead. It was all he could do to stay breathing. It was when you spoke that Dipper was knocked out of his head. 

“Do you..” you started, voice rough, shaky, dead tired. Probably from crying, if he had to guess. You looked up at him again, “do you want some?” You offered. An olive branch maybe. 

Yeah. That’s why I’m here. Dipper tensed, looking you over again, and turned away, half the tiredness evaporated from his body. He was almost in the shape to run. As fast as he could’ve he raced and hobbled back through the shack, back up the stairs, back into the dark room where his sister still slept. Back away. Back away. He didn’t get to see your reaction. As it should be. 

He carefully shut the door behind him, and stared at it for a few moments. You weren’t on the other side. You weren’t on the other side. Bill wasn’t on the other side. He rested his head against the door, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. You and weren’t on the other side of that door. You were downstairs, probably drinking coffee straight out of the pot, maybe crying. And he was doing nothing about that. Mabel’s soft snores grounded him to reality, at least. He could never be certain if you were on the other side of that door, or if you were Bill, but he knew Mabel was behind him. Asleep in her bed. 

He couldn’t stay here. 

He eyed Mabel, pursed his lips, and grabbed his backpack. What did he have? Laptop, a couple snacks, his journal was on the bedside table. He carefully slipped it in, zipped it up, pocketed a pen, and slung it over his shoulder. He didn’t bother getting dressed in more than his crumpled pyjamas before he left.

Down the stairs again, steadier this time. Through the hall again, more certain this time. He once looked back through the dark living room, at the light leaking out from the kitchen, and listened for the soft noises of mugs being set down, coffee swirling, phone tapping, even. He looked, listened, and turned away, straight for the door, opened and closed slowly and quietly. So nobody wouldn’t notice. 

The shack was Bill proof, meaning while you- the both of you, were inside, Bill was locked up. So it was the outside now, that was safe. Dipper started blindly to the woods without a plan, thought or trail. At least day was getting closer. The sky was lightening. Maybe there was some interesting and distracting creature that only came out at dawn that he could investigate, since he’s never up at this time. Maybe there was something new to discover out there. 

He nearly tripped on the way in. It seemed he forgot to tie his shoe. Sighing he tied it, and then started deeper into the forest. Deeper, deeper, yet deeper. A left turn, a right, a path followed, a trail created through the brush. Avoiding any clearing that resembled the one from yesterday. He didn’t know the way there, and he intended to keep it that way. 

Dipper ended up in the fantasy part of the woods, where fae folk met in tree stumps, and crystals grew and shimmered around the forest floor. But that was too obvious. To explored. The sun peaking over the horizon now, breaking through the trees. How long had he been gone? Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

He walked. And walked. And trudged and stepped and nearly tripped and did trip and stumbled and even ran at times, all away from the shack until the sun was high overhead and the afternoon was rolling along. 

But then he came to a part of the forest he’d not yet seen before. Not quite a clearing, more of a grove. The trees thinned, but the canopy let in only spots of light shine through. He couldn’t see it, but he heard a stream, maybe a river, trickling somewhere beside him. Best of all though, the grove was edged by a cliff face, with moss running down the side and a few vines. And Dipper lit up when he saw the cave. 

On the side of the cliff, was a hole. And it looked deep. And as Dipper stopped to study it from a distance, he heard little scampers and drips coming from inside, and he knew he was a goner. He pulled out his journal, pen, clicked it a few times, and started inside. 

The walls were stone, and seemed black by the dim light. Somewhere further in, Dipper barely made out the shimmer of light reflected on water, and his curiosity only burned brighter thinking about what the source could be so deep in the mountain.  The floor was rough at the entrance, but quickly smoothed the deeper he ventured in, and small streams were all leading down.

The drips and water only got louder the further he ventured in, and the light disappeared behind him. Working on instinct he slowed down, pulled out a flashlight, and cautiously continued. He wasn’t sure how this was less scary than the shack right now. But it was. This was mystery, this was nature. This was a hunt for something. Whatever that was. Dipper wasn’t sure. Either way, this was an animal urge, to find out and explore, something he didn’t need think about. A motion and routine he’d grown quite used to. This cave could have been a war zone for him when he was younger, more frightened, but today? A haven. 

The cave narrowed into one tunnel, which seemed built for him. It was… person sized, a little taller than his height. And the floor was smooth enough he needed to hold the walls to keep from slipping down the water he was forced to trudge through. It all led to the small pool. Dipper heart felt electric as he realized that’s where this culminated. He clicked the pen with whichever hand wasn’t on the smooth walls. 

The shimmer of the water drew him in, like blue moonlight shined at him. The flashlight wasn’t needed here. The tunnel widened into a… chamber, of sorts. Like a room. Maybe a temple. It seemed like one. The running water flowed all down the walls from some mysterious source far above him, but failed to flood through. 

Rabidly, he started to write. All those details. The shine, the falls, the cave itself, and he drew. Even if this wasn't magical, which seemed out of the question all things considered, it would be nice to document. Maybe he could take you here, you’d probably find it pretty. Nope. He shook his head. Nope. Don’t go there. A few lines of his drawing were shaky. 

Then something drew his attention. In the pool, more like a puddle, which marked the centre of the blue and glowy cave chamber, he saw something. More specifically, him. He saw himself, and suddenly the journal lowering to his side.

Seeing yourself in the reflection of water wasn’t abnormal, and completely divorced from paranormal. What made it odd, though, was the angle. Dippers first thought was of math. By where he was standing, the pool should not reflect him the way it did: he saw himself closer to it, as if he was knelt beside it looking in. Or… the other him was looking out. 

And this was a siren song to him. He did as he was told. He knelt beside the puddle, knees splashing in the stream, viciously scribbling notes into his journal that when he could barely read if he tried. 

The reflection smiled, and turned around, and Dipper did the same. There was nothing. Just the cave. And he could squint to see the light of the outside behind him. Nothing. He looked back, and his eyes grew wide.

The electric curiosity in his heart dissipated in a single breath. Behind the other him, was Mabel and you. You both came up behind him with lightning speed, landing and steadying yourself on his shoulders, shaking him a little. Oh god. Dippers face fell further as he watched, paralyzed. You both seemed excited, and he looked like he was laughing along with whatever idiot game you two wanted to play. Like usual. Like normal. 

He sunk further into the cave floor, his whole legs into the shallow stream. Carefully, he closed his journal on his lap, and watched. 

Stan and Ford made an appearance too. Ford came up beside Mabel and started excitedly explaining something to her, surely. He knew that face on him, that was what Ford looked like when he was proud, maybe had a brilliant idea, or maybe a stupid one. The kind of idea Mabel would love. And Stan spoke to you, like he was telling you a joke, or maybe you did something to make him proud, too. In his annoying Grunkle way, he ruffled your hair. 

What was this? The pool seemed to entrance him, and he had the good sense to notice. He jerked his head away and stared at the wall for a moment before anyone else could make an appearance. What is this place? He, slower this time, made note in his journal. This was weird. A mystery. Isn’t that what he came for? To solve some problem, investigate something crazy? 

He looked back. The scene was nearly the same. Just… his family. He ignored he pit growing in his stomach for the second time that day. He swallowed, and something tasted like burning. Maybe it was his heart in his throat. They all looked very happy. 

With curious and careless hand, he reached out, and touched the water. The touch felt electric. Static. He pulled his hand away with apprehension. 

The touch was short, barely broke the surface, but the ripples washed the image away completely, and he was alone again. And the drips and running water felt so much louder, even if his heart pounded in his ears. What just happened? 

He blinked. Maybe this wasn’t a mystery he wanted to solve today, actually. If nothing else, it reminded him; maybe he should be somewhere else, right now. 

He stood, suddenly remembering his legs were drenched, and cringed. There were things in that reflection that were impossible. He thought again of you, and shook his head more violently this time. But there are places he should be. People he could talk to. Sighing, he left the cave. 

                                        …

The sun was actually low, maybe a few hours from setting when he got back. There were horrors in that shack. He stood outside a moment. He could avoid the horrors. He could. If he was lucky. 

When he stepped up to the door, he didn’t get the chance to open it. Before he could react, it sprang open and out jumped Mabel, straight into a tackling hug. The wind was halfway knocked out of him, but he smiled. Maybe even laughed through wheezing as she practically squeezed the life out of him.

”Broooooo,” she said. Not a coherent thought, but maybe they had twin telepathy, because he understood it perfectly.

“I knowwww,” he groaned, wrapping his arms around her. He didn’t realize his knees were starting to give in until she adjusted to hold his weight better. 

Once again, more melancholic this time, “Bro,” she said. 

“Yeah,” he moped. Yeah. This did suck. And he didn’t know how it happened, or why, or how, and he bailed on them today. But he had to do that. “Right?” He laughed. Mabel would understand.

She groaned, slightly too loudly into his ear, and he winced. “Come on, they’re by the exhibits with Grunkle Stan,” she said, slowly letting go of him so he could regain his balance. “And tonight’s a scary movie marathon of only crappy sequels.”

Dipper thought a moment, mostly about nothing, and then nodded, following behind her. He shut the door as he passed though. Bills in this house. He shook his head. Nope. Don’t go there. 

The shack was a comfortable quiet. The dull hum of electronics offered a warm buzz to keep silence at bay. And the closer they drew to the living room, the more the sound of the tv covered even that. And when he sat on the couch, he could imagine things were normal, even though he hadn’t bothered to change into dry clothes. Like the reflection. 

He and Mabel talked a little. About regular things, mostly. And he was tired enough for the nightmares to barely touch him before he fell asleep. 

                                        …

Bill Cipher. Dipper pines. His sister, friends, you, weirdmageddon. Hands around his neck. Your hands, this time. Not Bills. Flashes of unfortunate images blended with even worse memories played on repeat and burnt themselves into his brain.

Dipper shot up with a gasp, hands flying to his throat as he inspected it frantically. He could feel his pulse hammering just from a touch on his neck, and he couldn’t tell if the sweat was on his hands, or just his whole body. A single wipe of his brow revealed it was the latter. Holy shit. On instinct, his shaky hand patted the bed beside him. It was empty. Shit. He fought the instinctual thought that you might be dead.

He shuddered, curling his legs up close to him. Even if it was empty, he couldn’t tear his hand away from your spot on the mattress. Fuckkkkk. Breathing. Breathing. Deep breaths. Shaky breaths he tried to steady. Mabel was still asleep across the room, lightly snoring. He didn’t need to wake her. But it didn’t stop him from glancing over, which quickly devolved into staring. Her breathing seemed a lot easier than his. 

How much more of this did he have to survive? 

That morning he found you in the kitchen again. The same as yesterday, alone on the floor with your coffee, cup, and puffy eyes that looked up at him widely.  At least this time he was desensitized. Instead of flinching and buckling in terror, he simply turned and walked away before… either of you could speak.

God, of course you were there. You really did have the same brain. Same as yesterday. No coffee for Dipper, because he was headed as far away from the kitchen as possible, stumbling through the living room with blurry vision, flushed face, shit he was totally crying. Or… almost crying, at least. He sniffled, blinding himself even further by eyes the ceiling to stop tears from falling. Because fuck that. 

He hit the wall with his shoulder on the way upstairs to his room.

”Bro,” Mabel said as he stepped in. She was sitting up in her bed, eyes bagged and tired. “Dipper.”

“Oh sorry,” he murmured, wandering back to his own mattress. “Did I wake you?” 

As he sat down, he heard her sniffle, and whipped his head around to see her sleepily trudging over to him, one of her stuffed animals hanging in her arms. She practically fell into the bed beside him as she sat down, and wiped her face on the sleeve of her nightgown, “Dip, are you alright?” She asked, voice tired and rough. “I didn’t get to ask you yesterday.”

She did?  Well, kind of. They talked last night. Maybe no about… that. But close enough. Dipper pursed his lips. Guess checking in wasn’t a terrible idea. “I’m whatever,” he sighed, wrapping an arm around her. He sighed again staring at her bed. All her stuffed animals and plushes were near the headboard, rather them spread down the side with a few at the foot. All bunched up near where her head and arms would be. Guess she needed all the support she could get. “Hey, Mabel,” he started, turning back to her. “Awkward sibling hug?”

She nodded, “yes please.”

Dipper blinked, and realized he was barely crying now. He won, the tears didn’t fall. He turned, and wrapped his sister in his arms as she did the same, neither letting go for a good minute. Her hair tickled his face a little, and somehow that got a half smile out of him. 

“Dip, do you think we’re gonna have to like-“ she paused, presumably to think. “-go through all that again?”

He was glad his head was still resting on her shoulder, because she couldn’t see the way his face fell. “I don’t know,” he admitted honestly. “I think… we have things under control for now, though.”

Her arms never loosened around him, and he could feel her chin move with her words, “Yeah.” She snorted a laugh, and Dipper smiled just slightly hearing it. “That unicorn hair just keeps coming in handy, huh?”

Dipper smiled, and moved his head to try and escape her hair, “yeah, you did good with that one.”

Mabel nodded, and held on a little longer, and then her arms slackened. “Pat, pat,” she said softly, patting his back before he let go. Dipper smiled, doing the same to her. Mabel Mabel Mabel. At least she was alright. She kicked her feet off the side of the bed idly, “Hey, you guys have another thing in common now, I guess,” she said.

“Pfft,” Dipper couldn’t help but scoff. She was right. And he hadn’t thought of that. “Yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Are you gonna talk to them?”

”No,” he said. 

Mabel nodded silently, and Dipper couldn’t read her face. “Are you gonna talk to Grunkle Ford?”

He hummed. That, he wasn’t sure. He probably should. Ford might have a plan, or know what to do. “Maybe,” he muttered, nodding along to himself. “Maybe later.” He wasn’t sure whether he wanted later to be the next minute, or never. 

                                       …

Another day. Another nightmare. Another early morning, maybe night, actually, where with hushed feet he made his way downstairs trying not to wake anyone. This time for real, this time maybe he could do it. Get the coffee. The more he imagined it the more it seemed like nectar of the gods, maybe the one thing that could cure him.

He managed just slightly more sleep though, small victories. It was basically sunrise when he made his journey downstairs this time. There was just enough light spilling in from the windows that he didn’t notice the light from under the kitchen door. 

You startled him less the third time. Instead of a flinch and a jump, or an instinct reaction to flee, he decided to think. It was you and your coffee pot again, but you were laying with your back on the tile, staring at the ceiling before he walked in. Normal pupils. Blotchy face and puffy eyes. Just like yesterday. He winced as he saw. Don’t go there. 

You were a coffee hog. And you were looking up at him, like a deer in headlights. Like he’d caught you. 

He could survive. He could survive this, and survive that look. He eyed the coffee pot resting on your chest to get away from your terrified stare. It was looking like he’d fail his mission again. 

“Do you… want some?” You asked, with all the same living tenderness and ragged sadness as last time. And Dipper had to steel himself, leaning against the doorframe with his forearm this time to avoid hurting the bruise on his wrist. 

His eyes darted around as he looked at anything but you. Your stained coffee mug was on the ground beside you, still. A few cupboards were ajar, the rows of cups peeking out at him. The sugar was left out, as with a cooking pot. God, you were everywhere. There wasn’t a place he could look in this kitchen where he wouldn’t see you.

So he met your eyes. “Y/n,” he started, surprising himself with the steadiness of his voice. “Can I have the kitchen tomorrow?”

The question was almost funny. Like you two were divorced parents and he was fighting for custody of the room. You both seemed to love it, and it couldn’t be shared. The concept could’ve been funny if it didn’t make his heart burn and leave a bitter taste in his mouth. 

You nodded, looking at the white tile floors instead of at him. 

Okay. He sighed, nodding to you before leaving. Okay. Coffee tomorrow. After all this time. He walked aimlessly outside, sitting on the porch, and resting his head in his hands. God, were the two of you just stuck? He needed that coffee more than you, he really did. You should be fine without. 

Dipper rubbed his temples. Don’t go there. But really though, what right did you have to be in such bad shape? Why were you still so shaken up. Shouldn’t that be reserved for the rest of them? Who actually lived the apocalypse? Ugh stop. He shook his head. He knew better than most being possessed wasn’t fun. You could have the coffee today, that was fine. Tomorrow was his day. He might die without it. 

                                          …

His thoughts seemed to ring true. He would die without it. That night, after avoiding people, doing a little seething, he had some of the worst nightmares yet. They all ended with his whole arms black and blue instead of just the wrist. And with several other people looking the same. Except you. Never you. You weren’t on the receiving end of anything like that. Your most striking feature was Bills manic smile, that you wore far too well, and that was practically burned into his brain. His subconscious seemed to love the image. And instead of reaching for your spot on the bed he just got up and left, brow furrowed. Coffee. 

Oh god. His face fell into a scowl when he saw the light shine under the kitchen door. Not again. 

Dipper sighed, hand clutching the doorframe. Same as always. Every fucking morning. He asked, but here you still were, same as always. Dipper never imagined he’d get used to the look of you crying, but it was getting far too familiar, and he was getting far too desensitized.  “Y/n,” he said lowly, blinking long and slow. He took a deep breath before he spoke. He loved you. He loved you, he thought. Just to remind himself. “Y/n, do you really have nowhere better to be,” he said, gesturing at your spot on the floor. Every single time, right there. Sulking. He could feel his voice raising, almost against his will, “-Then right here, every morning.” 

Like there was no escaping you. First in his dreams, and now this. His hand was shaking. Legs too, oh boy! He gripped the door frame harder, to steady his hands and his balance. He loved you. And he wasn’t looking at Bill. “I asked you yesterday,” he said glaring at the floor. 

As much as he tried to avoid seeing you, perceiving  you, he couldn’t help when you spoke. Eyes to the tiles. Eyes to the floor. You sniffed, voice shaky and soft, maybe even raw. Unlike how Dipper had ever heard you before all this. But it was a voice he was getting used to, “What?” you asked. 

He clenched his fist, digging his nails into his palm until he broke the skin. Oh, fuck you. No. He could not do this. You only needed one word, one was all it took, and it felt like a stab wound. Or so he assumed, he’d never been stabbed. And he couldn’t resist a bit of torture, so he looked up at you, and that was a twist of the knife. He clenched his jaw. This is so stupid. “Can you just-” he shook his head, trying not to glare at you. “Can you just give me the kitchen?”

You sat there a moment, barely reacting, reminding him slightly of a wet kitten. “I-“ you started, staring up at him, then looking down at your coffee pot. Shakily, you stood up, and placed it on the counter behind you. “Okay,” you practically whispered. 

You stood awkwardly a few feet in front of him, and he realized he should probably step aside. You didn’t meet his eyes when he did, and he was half glad. He might die if he saw them up closer, more detailed. They might seem sadder. “Y/n,” he sighed. “Can you… not be in here, tomorrow morning?” He asked, “please?”

You nodded, and left behind him, and the kitchen was empty. Your cup still say on the ground where it was beside you. The coffee pit was still half empty. Dipper sighed, completely alone. At least he had coffee. It didn’t taste as good as he’d hoped. Nothing like nectar if the gods.

What did you have to cry about? He shook his head. Don’t go there. No but really, though? You got yourself into this. You were the one who brought Bill here. It’s not like you’d ever met him before, it’s not like you had any… experiences… the way he did. Or any of the others, really. Did you even know what was at stake? You never lived the apocalypse. You didn’t have to survive that. So why were you so fucked up about this? Shouldn’t it be him crying on the floor, if anyone? 

But no, here he was having to drink the coffee you brewed, keeping his shit together, mostly, while you were… that. Why did you have to bring him into this god damned Shack? He stared bitterly into his cup, and swirled the coffee around. It was lukewarm at best. 

If only, what? If only he was with you when you found him? If only he noticed sooner? If only you had the common fucking sense to say something? Bill could’ve tricked you. But you could’ve said something. If only you didn’t find him. If only you did anything different. If only you weren’t in the woods that day? If only you were anywhere else. Like if you never came to Gravity Falls.

His gaze softened. Even in his head he was going too far. Was he? Is the world gonna end because you were at the wrong place at the wrong time? Or because he didn’t tell you enough? You should have had the common sense to tell somebody about a statue in the woods. You weren’t an idiot. Or so he thought. And suddenly he was right back to glaring at his mug. And yours, which he didn’t bother to pick up from the floor.

He knew better, maybe. He knew Bill tricked people, and he knew you weren’t stupid. And he knew you probably felt… some pretty strong emotions, right now. But what the fuck did you have to cry so hard about? 

Don’t go there. Just don’t. At least he had the kitchen to himself for a while.

                                              … 

Again. Again, again again. He asked, again. And you didn’t listen. Again. On the floor of the kitchen, just like yesterday, just like the day before. Felt like fucking forever. Like you and him were stuck in that god damn kitchen, trapped by his early morning want for coffee and your inability to sulk anywhere else, with your half empty pot of coffee, and similarly stained mug. Every god damned time. How many days had it been? It all seemed to blend together. But the moral was: who in gods name were you still a wreck like this?

“Y/n,” Dipper started, running his hand through his greasy hair, catching on the tangles from days without brushing it. And he thought briefly about how on a normal day you might run your fingers through it, or at the very least spray him in the face with dry shampoo to tease him. And the more he thought of that the angrier he got. He took a breath. Breathe. “Y/n,” he said, hands shaking. “Come on.”

You looked up at him, face blotchy from tears, presumably. With a ragged and throaty voice, “What?” you asked. And he was forgetting you could sound any other way. 

What do you mean, what? Get out. Of the stupid fucking kitchen. He deserved that. He deserved to go get coffee. “Why,” he said, taking a breath. Breathe, breathe, breathe. “-Why are you here?” He was talking with his hands now, gesturing wildly at you with each word, however shaky he might be. 

“I-“ you started, hand halfway reaching out, then retracting to the safety of the handle of the coffee pot. You had a wide eyes, sad eyes, tired eyes, wild eyes, and Dipper winced as he saw the little red veins around your pupils. Your throat still scratched with each syllable, “I wanted coffee.”

Oh fuck off. He was shaking his head now, and his hands were still because they were balled into fists at his sides. “Y/n, fuck off,” he said, voice getting louder. And suddenly it was all rushing to the surface, and his body was moving on its own. He stepped forward pointing at you, and you reacted like it was a spell, shrinking into the floor and the cupboards. “You fucking brought Bill back,” he started, stepping again. “And you didn’t tell me anything until it was too late. Then you did this,” he yelled, joking up the fading yellowish and purple bruise on his wrist. Even after days of fading it still looked sickly. 

It’s not that he didn’t notice your face falling, as you clutched the pot like a lifeline, it’s that he wasn’t done. “And for some fucking reason, after all that,” he spat. “You’re incapable of doing the one thing I ask, the one thing.” 

You stuttered, speech choppy, “What… did you,” you cleared your throat, “ask?”

What did he ask? Dippers face scrunched as his hands fell. “Yesterday,” he said simply and lowly. “And the day before, I think.”

You blinked, looking once at the floor before back at him, still and silent as a statue. 

“I asked you to stay out of the kitchen,” Dipper snarked, standing over you. But his anger was dissipating and his confusion growing. Did you really not remember? That was worrying. Was Bill still in your head? No that was impossible in the shack. Memory loss of some kind? That seemed most likely. Trauma induced? Mental or physical? Either from when he hit you in the head, or it was mental state induced. Were you that dramatic? Don’t be mean. 

“You-“ your feet were retracting as you curling further into yourself. “You didn’t ask me anything yesterday,” you mumbled, staring into your coffee pot. 

You quickly tensed, eyes darting back to him, “-that I remember,” you added quickly. “I-I know I was… out, yesterday.”

What? What was your angle? That’s… “What?” 

You pursed your lips, and swallowed, eyes falling back to the floor. “Well, I was…” you trailed off, thumbing the coffee pot. “I wasn’t me.”

”That was like, days ago,” he spat. And then paused. And paused. And then looked. At you, at the coffee pot, and the mug beside you. Okay. At first, there was no thought, just an empty brain staring at a cup. Alright… 

You said something, but Dippers brain was starting to move again, and it seemed to tune you out. Why didn’t you remember, and why did you never learn? And why did you think… that was yesterday. Okay. Alright. 

Without another word, he turned around and left, headed upstairs, and shook Mabel awake. She was tired, dazed, and confused, but she answered his question: what was yesterday. 

Well shit. Her too. And Dipper came to the conclusion that he might be the weird one, and he might be in a timeloop.

Next

Guys I’m sorry. This is a two parter too that’s the worst part. These two chapters almost killed me. So god Damn long and a fuckimg doozy 😭

I got to like 4K words and realized I hadn’t covered half the stuff I wanted to.

Also I got real sad again around the time I wrote this, can you tell 💀

Taglist: @dead-esque @cipheress-to-k-pop

[cityof2morrow]

CDK: Company Expo Set (Mesh + Recolor Pack)

Published: 9-14-2024 | Updated: N/A SUMMARY Cubic Dynamics by John B. Cube and Marcel Dusims forged the future with furnishings that were minimalist in design and maximalist in erudite pretension. Generations later, the company continues to produce edge-of-cutting-edge designs. Use the Cubic Dynamics Kitbash (Simmons, 2023-2024) collection to set up corporate, exposition, and office environments. Envisioned as an add-on to the Cubic Dynamics set (EA/Maxis, archived at GOS), it features minimalist and retro-futuristic objects. Find more CC on this site under the #co2cdkseries tag. Read the Backstory and ‘Dev Notes’ HERE. The COMPANY EXPOSITION SET includes 20+ items to create a conference/event space for your businesses and corporations. This set doubles as the main MESH PACK for all items in the CDK series.

DETAILS All EPs/SPs. §See Catalog for Pricing | See Buy/Build Mode All files with “MESH” in their name REQUIRED for textures/models to display correctly in-game. Recolors are linked to the Booth Partition (vertical woods, metal), Booth Table (horizontal woods, colors), Booth Wall in marble (256x256 Mm marble), Floor Sign 1 (256x512 vertical images), Painting 001 (256x512 images), Painting 004 (1024x512 images), Pinboard (256x512 pinfabric), Pinboard Poster (512x512 horizontal images), Planter 001 (256x512 paneling/pouf). Objects in Sims 2 are limited to two recolorable parts, so not all items are recolorable in the same way. Several objects in this series are oversized/offset. You may need to shift an object upwards once to level it, and you may need “move objects” and “grid on/off” cheats to place them to your liking. When placing partitions/floating shelves and tables/desks/counters on the same tile, place the partition/shelves first. I recommend using this set with Object Freedom 1.02 (Fway, 2023), which includes Numenor’s fix for OFB shelves (2006), for easier use overall. ITEMS Banner Signs (Regular/Table) (380 poly) Booth Partition (405 poly) Booth Sign Small/Large (124-128 poly) Booth Table (572 poly) Booth Wall (44 poly) Down Low Exhibition Table (116 poly) Floor Signs 001-005 (364-794 poly) Expo Leather Gallery Chair (1079 poly) Pinboard (112 poly) Pinboard Poster (12 poly) Planters 001-002 (178 poly) Stall Small/Large (429-434 poly) Wall Sign  (92 poly) DOWNLOAD (choose one) MESH PACK from SFS | from MEGA RECOLOR PACK from SFS | from MEGA COLLECTION FILE from SFS | from MEGA *collection file last updated: 9-30-2024

COMPATIBILITY AVOID DUPLICATES: The #co2cdkseries includes edited versions – replacements - for items in the following CC sets: 4ESF (office 3, other 1/artroom, other 2/build), All4Sims/MaleorderBride (miskatonic library, office, postmodern office), CycloneSue (never ending/privacy windows), derMarcel (inx office), Katy76/PC-Sims (bank/cash point, court/law school sets, sim cola machine), Marilu (immobilien office), Murano (ador office), Olemantinker, Reflex Sims (giacondo office), Retail Sims/HChangeri (simEx, sps store), Simgedoehns/Tolli (focus kitchen, loft office, modus office), ShinySims (modern windows), SH (reverie office, step boxes/shelving), Spaik (sintesi study), Stylist Sims (offices 1,2, & 3, Toronto set), Tiggy027 (wall window frames 1-10), Wall Sims (holly architecture, Ibiza). *The goal is to link the objects to the recolors/new functions in the #co2cdkseries without re-inventing the wheel! Credit to the original creators.

CREDITS Thanks: ChocolateCitySim, HugeLunatic, Klaartje, Ocelotekatl, Whoward69, LoganSimmingWolf, Gayars, Ch4rmsing, Ranabluu, Gummilutt, Crisps&Kerosene, LordCrumps, PineappleForest. Sources: Any Color You Like (CuriousB, 2010), Beyno (Korn via BBFonts), EA/Maxis, Offuturistic Infographic (Freepik), FlatIcon, Dreamstime, Starline via Free Vector, Cube3d. SEE CREDITS (ALT)

[aylacavebear]

2/1 With A Twist Pt. 1

It was bad enough being on the run—worse when you didn’t even know what you were running from. Shadows moved wrong around you. Eyes lingered too long. You’d always been different, but never understood how or why. The only thing that made sense was the way your blood could help people. Heal them. Quietly slipping into hospitals, leaving behind recovering patients and no trace of yourself—that had become routine. You didn’t know it was also how they were finding you. And now, your life was about to change in ways you couldn’t begin to understand

Pairing: Eventually Dean x You/Reader

Word Count: 7361

Warning: Show level violence, Season 2 episode 1 rewrite, Past trauma, Soulmates, Mention of Angels, Bastet, Chuck, John being John, Angst, Tension, Mentions of Demons, Mentions of Death.

A/N: I honestly don't know if this will be more than three parts. No matter how much I try to "wrap it up," it just keeps flowing out of me. I also am not sure exactly where this one is headed.

----------------------------------------- You’d been driving for a week—no real destination, just away. Running on caffeine, gas station food, and whatever was loud enough to keep your eyes open. Classic rock trickled through the speakers, but you weren’t listening. Your mind hummed with fatigue, vision fraying at the edges. 

I need to stop.

You knew better than to push yourself like this. But ever since the thing with the black eyes—since it had slammed you into a wall without laying a hand on you, whispered about your blood like it was gold—you hadn’t felt safe. You were still trying to piece together how you’d escaped that one.

The last sign you remembered said “Welcome to Missouri.” After that, everything blurred until the empty stress of some no-name town rose out of the early morning haze. The glowing Vacancy sign outside a squat little motel felt like salvation.

Check-in was blessedly uneventful. The man behind the counter barely looked up. You paid in cash, took the key, and disappeared behind the door of Room 6. You didn’t bother unpacking. Just locked the door, dropped your bag, and collapsed onto the bed.

—---------------

You woke to sunlight cutting through faded blinds. Your body ached from the drive—shoulders tight, back stiff.  The streets outside buzzed with activity as you took in the room. Typical low-class motel, you thought to yourself, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed.

The motel room looked like it hadn’t changed since the seventies. Faux-wood paneling lined the walls, chipped and faded in places where time had peeled back the varnish. A dull floral-print carpet, worn thin by countless boots and suitcases, muffled every step with the faint scent of stale cigarette smoke and motel-grade disinfectant.

One bed, full-sized, topped with a faded breadspread that looked like it had seen better decades. The nightstand between the bed and wall held a cracked plastic lamp with a yellowing shade and a crusted-over ashtray that hadn’t been emptied since the Clinton administration. A Gideon Bible, missing half its cover, lay half-tucked in the drawer.

Near the window, an old box TV sat on a laminate dresser, the kind with push-button knobs and rabbit-ear antennas wrapped in aluminum foil. A lone wooden chair rested in the corner under a framed print of a duck-filled marsh—generic, impersonal, and hung slightly crooked.

The bathroom was tiny, tiled in avocado green with a rusty shower rod and thin white towels that felt more like sandpaper. The sink had a slow drip, and the mirror over it was cracked in the top corner, warping reflections just enough to be unsettling.

It was cheap, anonymous, and quiet. A perfect place to lay low from whatever had been chasing you relentlessly.

Your stomach growled, loud enough to echo off the walls. You hadn’t eaten anything that wasn’t packaged or preserved in days. Across the street, a diner sign flickered in the almost afternoon sun, and the scent of frying bacon, coffee, and something sweet—pie maybe—floated in through the cracks.

You didn’t bother changing. Just threw your hair up in a messy ponytail, grabbed your keys, and stepped out into the almost afternoon. 

The town was a little larger than it had looked last night. A few shops, a hardware store, one of those gas stations with half the sign burned out. You kept your head down, instincts sharp, senses on edge despite the normality of it all. Licking your lips, you made a beeline for breakfast and the only beverage that could pull the nails from your temples.

Inside the diner, it was warm. The kind of place that hadn’t changed its menu in twenty years. You slid into a booth and ordered the first thing on the list with the largest amount of food—something called a Big Breakfast.

As you enjoyed the warmth of eggs, hashbrowns, bacon, and sausage, you perused the newspaper you’d picked up on your way inside. The comics and horoscopes always helped take your mind off the reality that was now your life. 

The food and black coffee had helped, but it didn’t ground you—not really. You still felt like you were drifting, untethered in a world that kept twisting just out of reach. After breakfast, you crossed back to the motel, pushing the door open with your shoulder and tossing your keys onto the nightstand.

The room was stuffy, despite the weak hum of the AC unit. You peeled off your clothes as you walked toward the bathroom, kicking your boots into a corner. The shower tiles were the same sickly avocado green as the rest of the bathroom—faded, cracked in a few places. One tile was missing completely, a jagged rectangle of concrete peeking through.

You turned the knob and waited as the pipes groaned to life, spitting brown for a moment before the water cleared. It never got hot—just lukewarm, enough to be tolerable. You scrubbed fast, avoiding the edges of the curtain, which clung to your skin like cold, wet plastic. The mirror fogged quickly, but you didn’t linger.

Ten minutes later, you stepped out, towleing your hair and pulling on a clean pair of jeans and a fitted tank top. You hesitated at the door, then grabbed your flannel from the duffel bag. Hospitals were always cold, and you’d rather not stand out more than necessary. Phone, wallet, keycard, car keys—check. You locked the motel door behind you, hoping this town wouldn’t give you a reason to run again.

—-----------------

St. Mary’s Hospital was tucked between a row of brick buildings that looked like they belonged to a different decade. The automatic doors hissed as you stepped inside, greeted by the sterile chill of recycled air and the faint scent of antiseptic. Nurses moved like clockwork behind the counter, their voices low, clipped, efficient.

You kept your head down, slipping past without drawing attention. You didn’t always know how your ability worked—there was no ritual or magic word—but you could feel when someone needed you. Like gravity pulling at something inside you. A hum beneath your skin.

The pull led you to the ICU.

Second floor. Room 237.

You didn’t know how you knew. You just did.

You moved like a shadow, hugging the walls as you navigated the hallways. When you reached the door, your fingers hovered over the handle, hesitating. The only sound on the other side was the steady cadence of machines—keeping someone alive.

Inside, the man lay pale and unmoving, a tangle of wires and tubing trailing from him to machines on either side of his bed. The monitors beeped in time with a heart that was struggling to hold on. He looked younger than you expected. Strong jaw, scruffy chin, faint bruising across his cheekbone. Even unconscious, his brow was furrowed like he was mid-argument.

You stepped closer, the tug in your chest deepening into something near magnetic. Not words. Not thoughts. Just need.

The room felt colder now, enough that the hair on your arms stood on end.

You sat on the edge of the bed, brushing your fingers over his wrist. His skin was cool under your touch.

“I don’t know who you are,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath, “but you’re not supposed to die.” Normally, you’d find a wound—drip your blood into it, let it do its job. But with him, that wasn’t an option. 

You moved to the door, quietly closing it, then searched through the drawers and cabinets until you found what you needed. A syringe. 

You drew the blood from your own arm, halfway filling the barrel before returning to his side. You found the IV line and injected it directly, your hands steady despite the weight of what you were doing.

Your blood would work slowly—mending what was fractured, coaxing life back into places it had started to slip from. Just as you withdrew the syringe, the overhead lights in the room flickered. The air went frigid. You held your breath.

Something felt it.

Quickly, you discarded the syringe into the waste bin and slipped out of his room before the flicker became more than coincidence. You couldn’t risk being caught, asking questions you had no way of answering.

—----------------- Dean’s POV…

The room flickers—once, then again, the overhead lights humming like they’re caught in a tug-of-war between this world and something just outside it.

Dean watches from the corner, weightless and invisible, tethered to his own damn body like a ghost.

He doesn’t feel pain. Doesn’t feel much of anything except that low, vibrating tension—like adrenaline with nowhere to go.

Then she walks in.

Not a nurse. Not a doctor.

Just a woman. Slipping through the door like she doesn’t belong there.

He watcher move—quiet, cautious, too damn smooth.

Hunter instincts flare. 

She closes the door, searches the room, finding a syringe like she knows exactly what she’s doing. His stomach twists, even though his body doesn’t react.

Then she jabs herself. Draws her own blood. 

What the hell?

Dean tries to shout, standing right behind her. She can’t hear him, no matter how loud he gets. He’s stuck, watching helplessly as she injects her blood straight into his IV line.

Poison? Spell? Trying to turn me into a monster? What the hell is she doing?

The lights surge again, brighter, harsher with his anger.

She freezes like she feels it—feels him.

Their eyes don’t meet. But she glances toward his body, toward him, like something brushed across her skin.

And then she’s slipping out of his room.

Dean stares at the door long after it clicks shut, mind racing.

Later that night…

Dean leans against the wall of his room, replaying every second of what happened earlier. The flickering lights. The syringe. Her face.

The door opens, and Sam walks in—carrying something tucked under his arm.

Dean trails him as Sam sits on the floor, just past the foot of the bed. He pulls out a wooden Ouija board.

Dean smirks. Smart, Sam. Then, he drops to the other side of the board as Sam rests his fingers over the planchette.

“Come on, man. Just… give me something.”

The lights don’t flicker this time, but the planchette jerks.

“Holy—okay. Okay. Dean?”

The planchet slides across the board

YES

“Thank God. Okay. Okay. Are you in pain?”

NO

“Are you scared?”

A pause.

NO

Then, a beat later:

GIRL

Sam’s brow furrows as he keeps track of the letters the planchette moves over. “Girl. What girl?”

CAME TONIGHT BLOOD IV

His brow furrowed further, and if this wasn’t so serious, Dean probably would have laughed at how hard Sam was thinking. Sam glanced over at Dean’s body, then back at the board. “You saw someone come in? Who was she?”

DO NOT KNOW MONSTER MAYBE

“You’re not sure?”

HUNTER SENSES SAID NOT SUPPOSED TO DIE

“Dean…” Sam leans in. “Are you saying she helped you?”

YEAH CHECK ME

“What do you mean, check—?”

VITALS TESTS

Sam grabs the board and stashes it fast before moving to Dean’s side. He hits the call button, jaw tight, eyes flicking to the monitors.

Dean watches him, the answers still echoing between them like static.

The nurse arrives within seconds, clipboard in hand and smile already fading as she glances at the monitors.

“Uh… his heart rate just stabilized,” she murmurs, eyes narrowing. “Blood pressure’s improved too. That doesn’t make sense—” Sam stepped outside the room, leaning against the doorframe, watching every move she made.

“Is that good?” he asked, aiming for normal—just a concerned brother, not one taking medical advice from his comatose sibling via Ouija board.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she adjusts one of the IVs and presses the call button again. “I need a doctor in here,” she says quickly. “Now.”

Dean stands near the monitors, arms crossed, invisible and irritated. “Hey, doc, welcome to the Twilight Zone,” he mutters, watching as more staff stream into the room.

A young resident rushes in first, followed by a silver-haired attending who gives off “I’m in charge” vibes and barks orders like she’s in the ER.

They crowd around Dean’s body. Blood is drawn. His chart reviewed. Flashlights in the eyes, tapping reflexes, scanning vitals.

The murmurs start.

“The bruising around his ribs—it’s fading.”

“His heart rate is steady.” “So’s his blood pressure and oxygen.”

Sam stands off to the side, arms folded, jaw tight.

Dean watches him, pride flickering even now. Kid’s holding it together. Barely.

“Could this be a charting error?” one nurse asks.

“No,” the attending doctor snaps. “I did those scans myself last night.” “Is it a reaction to the medication?”

“He’s barely been on anything—just fluids and monitoring. We were watching the head trauma, worried about the early signs of cerebral edema.”

Another doctor leans in, staring at the chart like it might change if she just looks hard enough. “He shouldn’t be improving like this.” “Then maybe you missed something,” Sam cuts in, tone calm but sharp. “Maybe you’re not looking in the right place.” They all glance at him—briefly. No one answers.

Finally, the attending doctor sighs. “We’ll run everything again. Full panel. Imaging. I want to see every inch of him inside and out.” She turns, already speaking into her recorder as she walks out. The others follow, leaving one nurse behind to monitor the machines.

Sam exhales, but doesn’t move, knowing he had to be the one to tell their father. Dean moves to stand right in front of him, willing himself to be seen, knowing he won’t be. “You’re doing good, Sammy.”

Sam runs a hand through his hair before pushing off the wall. Their father’s room was only a few doors down the hall. Bruises, cuts, a broken arm—but John would make a full recovery.

The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the wall-mounted light. John lies back in the bed, arm in a sling, bandages peeking from beneath his gown. He looks like hell—just awake enough to be dangerous.

Sam steps in, shoulders tense, expression unreadable.

John glances up. “How’s your brother?” Sam stares at him a second too long before answering. “Better.” John sits up straighter. “What do you mean?” “I mean the doctors don’t know what’s going on,” Sam says, stepping closer, voice sharpening. “His vitals stabilized. Oxygen’s good. Blood pressure’s normal. Bruising is fading.” John’s brow furrows slightly, but no real reaction.

Sam lets out a short breath. “They were watching him for cerebral edema. Remember? Head trauma? That doesn’t just… reverse.” John stays quiet, eyes on the blanket.

“And you’re just sitting here like that’s normal,” Sam snaps.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, you didn’t say anything. That’s the problem.” Sam paces to the foot of the bed, jaw clenched. “You didn’t even ask how. You just accept it. Like you knew it would happen.” Dean’s spirit stands near the far wall, arms folded. Watching. The tension between them tightens the air. He knows where this is headed.

Sam looks up at John again, eyes narrowing. “Dean said something. Back when we were using the board.” John frowns. “What?” “He said… someone came into his room. A woman. Put something in his IV. Blood, he thought.” That gets a twitch from John’s face—but it’s too fast, too faint. Gone in a second.

“You know something,” Sam accuses, stepping closer. “You know something. Don’t you?” “I don’t know anything, Sam,” and for once, John wasn’t lying about that.

“Bullshit,” Sam fires back. “Dean could’ve died, and you’re just sitting here like we’re not standing in the middle of something bigger again. Maybe she did something to him. Maybe it wasn’t healing—maybe it was a curse or possession or—” “Enough.” John’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “He’s alive.” “And that’s all that matters to you?” Sam says, voice rising. “What if there’s a price? What if whatever she did comes back?”

Dean moves forward instinctively, wanting to yell, to shut them up. The tension burns in his chest. They’re wasting time, tearing into each other when all he wants is answers and peace.

“You’re not even curious, are you?” Sam growls. “Just another day. Another hunt. Another secret. God forbid you ever tell us anything.” “I didn’t make a deal, Sam.” Sam freezes. “What?” John holds his ground. “Whatever you think—I didn’t make a deal. I don’t know what healed Dean.” Dean stares, jaw clenched. His fists curl uselessly.

Silence. Thick. Ugly.

Then—CRASH.

The glass of water on John’s tray table flies off and shatters on the linoleum floor. Both men jump.

Sam whirls to the spot. His eyes flicker to the still-air, the tray, the empty space.

John’s voice is quiet. “What the hell was that?” Sam’s pulse spikes. “Dean.” “What?” Sam doesn’t elaborate. He just walks over to the small cabinet, grabs a towel, crouches to pick up the glass shards. His hands shake slightly. “He’s… he’s been trying to communicate. It’s not the first time.” John just stares.

Dean’s spirit stands beside the broken glass, jaw locked tight, voice low and sharp—heard only by no one. “Stop fighting. Please.” Sam tosses the towel on the counter, then looks back at his father.

“I don’t know what she did to him,” he says, “but I’m gonna find out. And if there’s any fallout from it, it won’t be on Dean.” He walks out before John can answer.

John looked down at the broken glass, then out into the hall. His jaw clenched—guilt pressing deep behind the stoicism, but never surfacing. He’d seen her. The girl Sam mentioned. His hunter instincts had flared the second she had appeared in the hall, too sudden, too quiet. He hadn’t realized she’d come from Dean’s room. But he’d seen her—and that was enough.

In the corner, Dean’s spirit lingered, eyes fixed on his father, tension vibrating through him like a struck chord. “What the hell do you know?” he muttered to himself. 

—-------------------------

The walls seem to breathe in this part of the hospital—quiet, sterile, and humming with faint energy. You move like a shadow, tucked into your flannel, slipping through the halls unnoticed. You’ve always been good at that. It’s part instinct, part necessity. No one can see what you do. Not really.

You’d barely stepped out of the man’s room—the one that wasn’t supposed to die—before the pull started again. Low and insistent in your chest, like a thread tugging at your ribcage.

Room 208.

You waited until the nurse disappeared down the hall, clipboard in hand. Then you moved. Quiet. Measured.

The man in the bed was in his eighties, lungs giving out, skin papery and gray. The pain is all but visible on him, clinging like a fog.

You close the door. Draw the curtains.

It takes a moment to find the right vein.

You’ve done this enough times to be quick, careful. Your blood—only a small vial, enough to tip the balance—flows silently through the syringe and into his IV line. You clean up just as fast, no evidence left behind.

By the time you pull the curtain back, he’s breathing easier. Still pale. Still dying. But now there’s time.

You slip out before the monitors catch up.

Room 214 is next. A young woman. Too young. Post-op, in critical condition. Her chart says she’s not expected to last the night.

You wait until her family leaves. Two minutes. That’s all you need.

Same process. Precision. One vial. Mixed into her IV.

You whisper a quiet apology, you know she’ll never hear. You hate using your blood like this—it takes more than you like to admit. But the alternative is worse.

When you leave, no one sees you.

But something is watching.

That familiar cold creeps along your spine—the hairs on your body standing on end, then the shiver.

You never knew what that feeling came from, but it always creeped you out. Like the weight of invisible eyes just watching you. It wasn’t the same feeling that you got from the things chasing you. But you felt it in every hospital, near every person you helped. You pulled your flannel tighter around yourself and kept walking.

—----------

The cafeteria hummed with voices, chairs scraping linoleum, machines whirring behind the counter. You kept your head down and stayed near the far wall, away from the foot traffic. The soup before you is lukewarm, but it’s something. After everything you’ve given today, you needed something.

You lifted the spoon halfway to your mouth when you thought about him—the first one you helped. You never felt them after they woke up, the people you healed, but you often thought of how their lives were after that. The time you’d given them.

Just as a smile found your lips at the thought, the cafeteria doors swung open. 

You barely glance up—but recognize him. The tall one. The man who lingered outside the room of the one you’d saved first. You’d had to wait, time your steps carefully, slip past when he wasn’t looking.

He headed for the coffee, not even glancing your way. His mind was clearly elsewhere, but you didn’t bother speculating where.

He poured two cups, then turned.

Your eyes dropped quickly, pretending to study the soup like it was fascinating.

He doesn’t recognize you. Not yet.

But he’s seen you before. Briefly. Just outside radiology. A flash of red flannel. A scent he couldn’t quite place. A gut feeling.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. A warning. You needed to leave. Your instincts were never wrong, and these meant danger. The man walked past you, out the doors.

You let out a slow breath, letting your body relax, just a little. 

—----------------------

The light above Dean’s bed buzzed faintly—too soft to bother him, but enough to remind him he was still in a hospital. He blinked against the pale ceiling, shifting slightly. Ache radiated in a dull echo through his ribs, but it was nothing compared to before.

His dad sat in the corner, one arm in a cast and sling, the other resting in his lap, looking like he hadn’t slept. Which, knowing him, was probably true.

Dean’s voice was a rasp. “You look worse than me.” John gave a faint snort. “Not a chance.” The door opened, and Sam stepped in, two paper cups in hand. His gaze flicked to Dean and froze. “You’re awake.” Dean offered a weak smirk. “What gave it away? My sparkling personality?”

Sam was already moving toward the bed, relief plain on his face. “You weren’t supposed to be awake yet.” “Yeah, well… guess I’m a dam overachiever.” The doctor entered behind Sam, middle-aged and tired-looking, his coat wrinkled, eyes sharp behind thin frames. He gave a quick nod to both men before turning his attention to Dean. “You’re healing faster than expected,” he said, flipping through the chart. “Ruptured spleen’s sealed, fractured ribs are knitting. The internal damage is… mostly gone.” “Mostly?” John’s voice cut in, low and edged.

The doctor didn’t flinch. “There’s residual inflammation, but nothing life-threatening. He still needs rest. The body needs time to adjust, even if the trauma’s been—” he paused, choosing his words because not even he knew what the hell had changed, “—healed.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t sound convinced.” “I’ve worked trauma for fifteen years. I’ve never seen healing like this. Not without… intervention.” He looked at the chart one last time, then nodded once and left without another word.

Silence settled for a beat too long.

Dean shifted against the pillows. “So. We’re all just gonna ignore the obvious?” John’s jaw ticked. Sam leaned forward. “You remember something?” “I remember her.” Dean’s voice was sure. “The woman—or monster. She was standing over me… warm hands, soft voice. Like she knew exactly what to do.”

Sam straightened. “What did she look like?”

Dean closed his eyes for a second, calling it back. “Dark hair. Flannel pulled over a shirt. Eyes like… like she saw right through me. Not scared. Just calm. Like she’d done this before.”

Sam’s expression changed. “Wait—flannel?” He turned toward John. “I saw her. Near radiology. And again just now, in the cafeteria—same woman. She was just… sitting there like she was trying to blend in.” John sat forward, his mind already working out some sort of plan on how to deal with her. “I saw her in the hall before Dean’s monitors went off. Must’ve been right after.” For a beat, none of them spoke—each caught in his own thoughts. Then John was moving, out of his seat and toward the door.

“Dad,” Dean barked, and the man paused, hand on the handle. “She saved my life. Whatever she is… she’s not evil.” John’s jaw tightened, expression unreadable. “Maybe. But I’ve got questions for her.” Then he was gone.

“Fuck,” Dean growled under his breath. This was nothing new—John didn’t keep them in the loop about whatever his plans were. Sam sighed, caught between wanting to follow his father and stay there with his brother. 

“Sam,” Dean met his brother’s gaze, pleading silently. “Don’t let him hurt her.”

The line—the one between human and monsters—used to be simple. Monsters were evil. They killed monsters. Whatever she was, she wasn’t human. But she hadn’t hurt anyone. She’d healed Dean, and now that line that had always been easy, was gone.

Sam took off out of Dean’s room, following where he knew his father had gone— back to the cafeteria. The last place she’d been seen. 

Dean slumped back, into the pillows, unable to follow. He closed his eyes, the memory of her sitting on his bed replayed in his mind. Her eyes. Her voice. The way she was so calm. Like she cared, even though he was some stranger.

“Please don’t let my dad hurt her,” he whispered, opening his eyes as his gaze lifted to the ceiling, but he was looking beyond it. He wasn’t sure who he was asking. He just hoped someone—anyone—would hear him and answer this one prayer.

—----------------------

You stood, setting your empty bowl on the tray with a soft clink. The soup had helped, but only just. Your limbs still ached, that deep kind of weariness that always followed after giving too much. Too many people today. Too much blood.

You adjusted the sleeves of your flannel, pulling it tighter across your body. I need sleep. With that thought, you turned toward the exit. 

You were three steps from the door when it opened in front of you.

John stepped through like he’d been yanked forward on instinct, and the moment his eyes landed on you, he stopped cold. The shape of your face. The color of your eyes. That same calm stare Dean had described.

It was you.

Recognition hit him like a hammer, and without hesitation, his hand shot out, catching you by the arm.

Your body tensed. Breath caught. You knew the look—militant. Decisive. Dangerous. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up again, instincts warning of impending threat. You didn’t fight, but you did take a subtle step back, testing his grip. Firm. Controlled. Not cruel, but far from gentle.

“You’re her,” he said, voice low and certain. “Don’t run.” “I wasn’t going to,” you answered quietly, eyes meeting his. Not defiant. Just honest. “But if I did, you wouldn’t catch me.” His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing slightly. You didn’t look like much—average build, calm demeanor, not even armed. But that only made you more dangerous. More unknown. Dean’s life had been hanging by a thread, and now it wasn’t. And here you were, standing in front of him like some ghost made real.

“I’ve got questions,” he said, leaning in just enough for you to feel the weight of his intent.

You tilted your head slightly, catlike. You’d made sure no one had seen you. Before you could say anything, footsteps pounded in the hallway.

Sam rounded the corner and skidded to a stop a few feet away, eyes locking on the scene. The tension between you, John, and the air itself stretched taut like a wire ready to snap.

“Dad,” Sam warned, moving closer. “This isn’t the place.” John didn’t look at him. “She’s not running,” he said, still focused on you. “She knows something. Maybe she is something.” “I don’t doubt that,” Sam replied carefully as he scanned the cafeteria. Heads were already turning. Conversations were quieting. “But unless you want a bunch of security guards asking questions or people filming this, we need to take it somewhere else.” You finally turned your gaze toward Sam, studying his face. Recognition stirred. You’d seen him. Near the ICU, maybe. But you still didn’t know who he was. Who either of them were.

John hesitated, grip unrelenting.

“Let’s take her to Dean’s room,” Sam said quickly, cutting the tension. “We only know about her because of him.” John clenched his jaw, his mind ticking through options. He would’ve preferred an empty hallway. A storage room. Somewhere he could demand answers without interference. But too many eyes were on you now. Too many witnesses.

“Fine,” he growled, dragging you forward to keep pace just ahead of him.

You didn’t resist—not even against the bruising grip that might’ve left marks on someone else. But you weren’t someone else. And you didn’t want to hurt them. Not yet. Not unless you had to.

So you bided your time.

You cycled through everyone you’d helped, matching faces to memory, looking for the missing piece. Still, nothing fit—until you passed the ICU wing and saw room 237.

Something clicked.

The taller one—you’d slipped past him. Just for a moment. Just long enough. But the man in the bed… Had the unconscious man somehow seen me?

The hospital door swung open hard, rattling on its hinges as John pushed you through with a hand still wrapped tight around your arm. The light inside was muted, casting long shadows across the room’s sterile walls. You barely had time to register the shape in the bed before it hit you.

There he was. 

Dean. You’d learned that earlier.

His body was still bandaged in places, a little bruised, but his breathing was steady, and only one monitor was now attached to him. His eyes were open. Sharp. Searching.

And locked on you the instant you stepped inside.

The grip on your arm loosened, gone as everything else blurred at the edges.

Dean didn’t just see you—he felt you. A magnetic tug in his chest, like some invisible threat that had been waiting to go taut. Like gravity itself had been off until this moment, and now you were the thing holding him to the ground.

Your breath caught. That pull—you remembered it. The same pull that had drawn you to the hospital. The reason you’d slipped past nurses, past security. The reason you’d thought he was the one you were meant to save.

Maybe he was.

But something shifted behind your ribs, a soft echo of knowing.

No. It wasn’t him.

You didn’t understand why, not fully. But some part of you—instinctual, bone-deep—realized the truth you weren’t ready to say aloud.

He was never going to die.

It was the man who dragged you in here that mattered.

Dean’s lips parted like he meant to speak, but no sound came out. Just that stare. That pull. He didn’t even know your name. Didn’t know your story. But his soul recognized you. Like you were tied to something ancient. Fated.

And for a moment, the air was thick with it—like the whole world had narrowed to this room and the silent electricity between you.

Then John cut through it like a blade.

“Start talking,” he snapped, voice gruff, grounding, already moving to stand between you and the bed.

You blinked, the moment fractured, scattered into the corners.

Sam slipped in behind him, shutting the door with a quiet click, his presence more cautious, more watchful.

John stood like a soldier, feet planted, the kind of man who never wasted a movement unless he meant it. His eyes raked over you again—measuring, calculating.

“What are you?” he asked, voice low, deadly calm.

Not who. What.

He didn’t believe in accidents or coincidences. He believed in monsters, curses, fate. You didn’t know that yet, not fully. But you could feel the suspicion rolling off him like a heat wave. He was already fitting you into the puzzle—already imagining worst-case scenarios.

You stayed quiet, unable to tell him what you didn’t know. It wasn’t like you’d been born with some sort of handbook that explained the things you could do, how you were different.

Dean stirred behind him. “Dad—”

John didn’t look back. “She’s not just some girl. She’s something, Dean.” “I didn’t say she wasn’t,” Dean rasped, his eyes never leaving you.

But that edge was missing. No fear. No mistrust. Just curiosity… and something else, something he refused to consider.

John’s eyes never left you, but the flicker of something passed through them—something barely-there and buried deep. His son was alive. That should’ve been impossible. He’d been considering going dark for just that. Doing something unforgivable so his son could live. Something permanent. Daming.

But Dean was alive, healing at this very moment due to what you’d done. And even if John didn’t trust you, didn’t like this—you were a variable he couldn’t afford to ignore.

Sam stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“No,” John snapped, but still hadn’t moved. “I don’t give a damn about her name. I want the truth,” he growled, every word laced with threat. “All of it.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because what were you supposed to say? That your blood does things it shouldn’t? That it can pull people back from the brink, like some kind of twisted miracle? That you’d been running from things with black eyes and impossible strength—things that burned when they touched you, screamed like they were dying when your blood hit them? You didn’t even know what they were. You just knew they wanted you dead. Or captured. Or worse.

“I’m waiting,” John barked, snapping you back.

You flinched, jaw tight.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, voice low. “I don’t know what I am.” “That’s not good enough,” he growled.

“Dad,” Dean warned, pushing himself a little higher on the bed, wincing but not stopping. “Back off.” John didn’t look away. “She walks into a secure hospital, injects her blood into you, and you start healing faster than should be possible. And now she’s saying she doesn’t know how?”

“I didn’t lie,” you snapped, your voice cracking before you steadied it. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want it. I just—feel it. Something pulls me to people. And when I get there, someone’s always dying or really sick.”

Silence.

You swallowed hard, pulse thudding behind your ribs. You could still feel the echoes of it—Dean’s soul calling out to you. It was different than the pull of people. But he wasn’t the one. You knew that now. The pull had been real, but it was only to bring you here. To the room. To the moment. To John.

Your stomach twisted.

It was never about saving Dean. It was about saving his father.

John stared at you like he was trying to burn the truth out of your skull.

Sam took a step forward. “You said people are dying—what do you mean? You get a feeling and then just… show up?” You nodded, but that was only part of it all. God, there was so much more than just that. “I try to ignore it, but it gets louder. Like a pressure in my chest. Like something’s breaking apart inside me if I don’t go.” “And your blood?” Sam asked, softer now. “You said you heal people?” “I didn’t say I did,” you replied. “It just… happens. A cut heals. Someone coded once, and I didn’t think—I just bit my lip and pressed it to their mouth, and the monitor beeped again after a few seconds. The nurses thought it was adrenaline. I ran before they could ask questions. My blood heals. Not me.” Dean let out a low whistle. “Well, damn.” Sam, always the researcher, always needed the why, looked like he was already writing theories in his head. “Are there others like you?” You shook your head. “I don’t know. I haven’t met anyone. Only… things chasing me.” “What kind of things?” John demanded, his voice low but sharp.

Your breath hitched. “Black eyes. Not human. They can do things—make people freeze, make them bleed without touching them. They hate me, I think.”

“Demons,” Sam muttered, brows furrowing. “That sounds like demons.” John’s head snapped to him. “Don’t start, Sam.” “Why? Because I know what I’m talking about? She’s describing a possession, Dad!”

“You don’t know anything,” John fired back.

“Neither do you!” Sam shot back, eyes flashing. “But you’re already treating her like she’s the threat, not the victim!” “Because she’s not a victim,” John growled. “She’s the reason Dean is alive. That doesn’t come without consequences.” “I didn’t ask for this,” you said, quieter this time. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just… I go where I’m needed. And try to get away before it all goes to hell.” Dean rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard. “Okay, enough. Both of you—just shut up for a second.” Neither John nor Sam spoke, but the tension hummed like a live wire between them.

Dean looked at you again, something unreadable in his eyes. “You saved my life. That counts for something.” John’s jaw ticked. “I didn’t say it didn’t.” “But you’re acting like it,” Dean bit back. “She’s not the enemy.” “Not yet,” John muttered.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Not yet.

Because even now, you didn’t know how this all ended. You didn’t know what you were. You didn’t know what you were capable of.

The room dropped into silence—not tension, not dread. A silence, capital-S, like the kind that comes before lightning splits the sky. One heartbeat passed. Then another.

Then—

“Damn it,” someone muttered behind you.

The voice didn’t belong. It wasn’t John, Dean, or Sam. It wasn’t the hospital. It wasn’t anything you’d heard before.

You spun on instinct, stepping back until your shoulder brushed John’s arm. He tensed beside you, but you couldn’t tear your eyes from the man who hadn’t been there a second ago.

He stood near the far corner of the room, fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose like he had a migraine. Messy brown hair. Scruffy beard. Flannel shirt half-buttoned over a faded tee and jeans that had seen better years. He looked like he belonged in a used bookstore, not standing in a hospital room with fury flickering beneath his human disguise.

The Winchesters could only stare, until his eyes landed on Dean. “You were supposed to be mourning, not bonding,” he sneered before glaring at John. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

But there was nothing human in his eyes.

He didn’t introduce himself, not to you, not to them. Chuck let his hand drop, exhaling sharply. “You were supposed to go to Topeka. Not this no-name town in Missouri. That hospital had a drunk driver and a kid with a tumor—not Winchesters.” His eyes locked on yours, suddenly cold, suddenly ancient. “You’re screwing everything up.” You blinked. “Who the hell are you?” “Oh, right. You wouldn’t know.” He gestured vaguely, mock-introducing himself. “Hi. God. Capital G. Author of… well, everything. Call me Chuck. And you, my dear, are a problem.” Your mouth went dry. First demons were what had been chasing you, and now this was supposed to be God? “What?”

“I gave you free will,” Chuck went on, pacing now. “I left some ambiguity, sure. A little mystery, a little magic. But this? This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were never meant to cross paths with them.”

He jabbed a finger toward the Winchesters.

“They’ve already had their arcs. More to come. I wrapped things up with a bow. Neat-ish. You? You were supposed to go quietly, anonymously, fade into myth. Not… this.” He snapped his fingers in frustration, but nothing happened—just a faint crackle in the air.

John had his gun out before anyone could blink.

“Put that away,” Chuck sighed, annoyed. “Bullets won’t help when you’re standing in the middle of a rewrite.”

He turned back to you, eyes narrowing. “So here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re going to go away. Quietly. Painfully, maybe. But gone. So I can fix this and the story can go back to what it was supposed to be.” He raised his hand.

Your body moved on its own—heart slamming, lungs locking, a scream pressing against your throat. You didn’t know why, but every cell screamed danger.

Chuck’s fingers curled, ready to snap.

And then—

A gust of wind. A shimmer of light. The smell of sun-warmed fur and frankincense.

She appeared like moonlight through smoke—silent and regal and terrifying. And you could breathe again, coughing to get air back where it’d been stolen from, bones no longer hurting.

The woman who stepped between you and Chuck wore midnight and gold. Her skin shimmered bronze, her eyes slitted like a feline’s, ancient and unreadable. Her hair was long, black as obsidian, spilling over bare shoulders and down a gown that moved like liquid shadow. Bangles coiled up both arms like serpents, and each step she took echoed like temple bells.

Chuck’s hand froze mid-air.

“Bastet,” he said, voice dripping with annoyance. “Seriously?”

She tilted her head slowly, eyes locking on his raised fingers.

“I don’t smite your angels,” she said, voice smooth and rich with ancient power. “You do not touch Touched.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “Especially not mine.” “She’s a glitch,” Chuck said, gesturing at you. “A ripple. This story has nothing to do with her.” Bastet smiled—and it was not a kind smile. “Perhaps that’s because you don’t want it to. I thought you gave them free will?” she mused, riling him on purpose.

Chuck’s eyes flickered, something older rising behind them. “She wasn’t supposed to meet them. This was never part of the design.” Bastet stepped closer, and you could feel her power like velvet smoke wrapping around your shoulders. Protective. Possessive. Dangerous in the way only something immortal could be.

“You made the world,” she said. “And left it. I made mine, and stayed.”

Chuck’s expression tightened.

Bastet hummed, relishing in making this God squirm. “Souls are drawn to each other. You aren’t the only keeper of them,” she mused smugly, like she had him right where she wanted him, but she wasn’t done. “Just because your angels don’t have souls doesn’t mean Touched don’t.”

Chuck’s jaw clenched. She was giving away far more than he ever wanted the Winchesters to know about, and now, he couldn’t even get rid of you without starting a war he wasn’t prepared to fight, not yet. “If you touch her,” Bastet continued, now barely a breath away from him, “or them… I will answer in kind. And unlike you, I do not erase. I hunt.” For a second, the universe seemed to hold its breath.

Then Chuck stepped back, slowly lowering his hand. “Fine,” he said, and it sounded more like not yet. “But don’t come crying to me when it falls apart.” With a blink, he was gone.

The tension broke like a snapped chord.

Bastet exhaled quietly, the room warming in her presence. She turned to you now, and something in you… recognized her. Not by memory, but by instinct. Like a sound your blood had always heard in the dark.

“You aren’t alone anymore,” she said gently. “John will warm up to you. I can’t guide you, but I will be watching. Bobby Singer has a book. It has the answers you seek.”

And then she was gone too, leaving the four of you staring blankly and attempting to figure out what exactly had happened. The scent of frankincense lingered, and the light seemed to bend around the space where she’d stood only a moment ago.

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