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uniquexusposts · 1 month ago

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The one-off | Carlos Sainz Jr. x reader (1)

Summary: She’s not from the world of F1, she’s a sunshine-soft emergency medical specialist used to cracked ribs and bloody football pitches. But when a one-time case calls her into the paddock, she ends up face-to-face with the man she once loved and left behind. Carlos drives for Williams now. She’s just here to fix a shoulder. It’s clinical. Temporary. Professional. So why does it feel like everything unfinished between them is waiting just under the surface?

The paddock buzzes with nerves and noise, full of sleek bodies and sharper egos. It’s like walking into the belly of a machine that’s forgotten how to breathe.

Y/n steps out of the taxi, the sun pressing down hard on her shoulders, and adjusts the strap of her med bag. She smiles politely at the security guard who stood next to the gate, a smile that’s met with confusion. She scanned her pass and walked through. Her bright energy doesn’t quite match the paddock’s stiff professionalism. She doesn’t mind.

She’s used to being the odd one out.

Her badge reads: Dr. Y/N Y/L/N – Emergency Medical Specialist Temporary Access – Williams Racing

Field hockey, football, high-contact chaos; that’s her usual beat. Fast-paced games, cracked ribs, adrenaline surges, bloodied faces. She thrives in the mess. Her reputation has grown not because she’s loud, but because she’s always calm when everyone else panics. Kind to the athletes. Brutal with the rehab.

F1 wasn’t supposed to be on the list. It never has been.

But a call came three days ago.

"It’s urgent. One-time case. Discretion preferred. The driver requested someone with your record."

She didn’t ask which driver.

But now she knows.

She read the file that morning and felt the breath catch in her chest, even if her face never changed.

Carlos Sainz. She hadn’t heard that name out loud in almost two years.

The Williams motorhome is sleek and sterile, like someone tried to design a hotel lobby for robots. She’s led through a glass corridor by a young staffer who speaks fast and avoids eye contact.

"You’ll have the physio suite for the hour," he says, flustered. "Carlos will be in shortly. Let me know if you need... uh... water, towels, whatever."

"Thanks, I’m all good," Y/n says brightly, flashing him a warm smile.

He blinks like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that. She gets that reaction a lot. People expect someone harder. Sharper. Someone who barks orders.

They don’t expect her, sunshine voice, soft features, heart-shaped face. They don’t expect the shift that happens the second she starts working.

She enters the room, alone now, and exhales quietly. Clean table. Blank walls. Only a small Williams logo on the cabinet. She sets up fast, gloves, oils, pressure tools, ice packs, all lined up in practiced rhythm. Her fingers move automatically, but her thoughts are slower.

Carlos.

She hasn’t seen him since Madrid, some rooftop birthday, some too-warm July night where his laugh carried over the crowd like it still belonged to her.

She left before he saw her.

She had meant to forget him.

The door clicks open behind her, soft and deliberate.

She doesn’t turn.

She doesn’t have to.

"Didn’t expect you," Carlos says quietly, his voice lower than she remembers but just as steady.

Y/n adjusts the table height like it’s the most important thing in the world. "Didn’t expect you to be at Williams."

"I needed a change."

She nods once. "So did I."

Finally, she turns. And there he is, leaning against the door like he owns the oxygen in the room. Polo shirt hugging his frame, jaw sharper, hair longer than she remembers. There’s a new tiredness in his face, hidden behind his usual calm.

He blinks once when he sees her properly. "You look-"

"Don’t." She cuts him off, gentle but firm. "Shirt off. Lie face down."

A flash of amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Still bossy."

"Still injured."

He obeys without protest, pulling his shirt over his head and settling on the table with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times.

But not with her. Not like this.

"Why you?" he asks, voice muffled by the cushion under his cheek.

Y/n pulls on her gloves. "I’m called in for emergencies. Fast recovery. High pressure. You know. All the things you attract."

"You usually do football."

"And field hockey. And dislocated shoulders at 3am in random cities." She starts pressing gently along the edge of his spine. "This is a one-time thing."

A beat. Then: "Is it?"

She doesn’t answer.

Instead, her hands shift , from soft to surgical, mapping his shoulder like she’s reading a story in the tension. She finds the problem immediately: strain, deep in the rotator cuff, masked by compensation along the upper trap and back.

"You’ve been protecting this too long," she says gently. "Probably since your last crash."

Carlos hums. "Didn’t want to sit out."

"You’ll sit out if this tears."

"You always talked like that," he mutters, half amused. "Soft voice, scary hands."

Y/N smiles faintly. "You used to like that."

Silence.

She applies deeper pressure, focused and precise. Her energy softens between movements but tightens on contact, he flinches once when she hits a knot, but he doesn’t make a sound.

"You’re quiet," she says, half-teasing.

"Trying not to curse," he mutters into the table.

"That’s new."

Carlos huffs a breath of laughter, low and rough. It almost makes her lose rhythm.

"You always remembered how to hurt me."

Her hands pause.

Only for a second.

He says nothing.

She finishes the session in silence, professional to the end. When she steps back and peels off the gloves, her whole body feels like it’s buzzing, not from the work, but from everything unsaid.

Carlos sits up slowly, bare chest rising with each breath. He moves carefully, not because of the pain, but like he’s searching for words he doesn’t want to waste.

"You’re still the best," he says finally.

"And you’re still reckless," she replies, reaching for the ice pack.

Their fingers brush for a second.

He looks at her, really looks at her, like maybe he’s searching for the version of her that once stayed up all night on balconies and laughed at his terrible Spanish pick-up lines.

But Y/n only smiles, kind and tired and distant.

"Apply this tonight. Stretch tomorrow. Don’t be a hero."

Carlos stands slowly, polo draped over one arm. "I didn’t ask for you, by the way."

"I didn’t come for you."

Another silence.

But it feels different now. Not heavy, just unfinished.

At the door, he turns. "You ever think about Madrid?"

She tilts her head. "Only when I need a reason to say no."

He winces. Laughs once, under his breath. "Still sunshine with a bite."

And then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him, and Y/n finally lets her shoulders drop.

She sits on the edge of the table, ice pack pressed to her own wrist where she’d overworked it from the pressure, and stares at the empty wall.

It was supposed to be clinical. Quick. Efficient.

But it wasn’t.

Not with him.

Not with Carlos.

And the worst part?

It didn’t feel over.

Part 2

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria @maryvibess @ironmaiden1313 @sltwins @heart-trees @npcmia @llando4norris

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naebaetwsog · 4 months ago

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「・RIIZE as your boyfriend°×

genre.Fluff

warning.Ot7(ig that’s a warning??)

pairing.Bf!Rii7e x fem!reader

note.If I say that I was crying writing this, and I was also crying while choosing the cover photo, I really miss our 03liners. Anyways, this is my fist riize fic, reminder that you can request other groups too!!

Shotaro

Your #1 fan, personal hype man, and ultimate softie. You are his literal baby—no exceptions. He spoils you endlessly, never showing up empty-handed on dates, always surprising you with little gifts. If you’re apart, he demands FaceTime calls at night, whining, “I can’t sleep without your presence…” Your personal space? Doesn’t exist. His clothes are now yours, and he loves seeing you in them. Dancing everywhere, even in the grocery store? Mandatory. You don’t know how? He doesn’t care—he’s twirling you around anyway. He showers you with compliments 24/7, making sure you never forget how much he loves you.

Eunseok

Cool and composed? Only with others. With you, he’s a total softie. But make no mistake—he’s crazy overprotective. If someone so much as glances at you the wrong way, he’s already cursing their ancestors. He spoils you without hesitation; you don’t even need to ask—just look at something, and it’s yours. You are not safe from his dad jokes, though. You could be in the middle of cuddling, and he’ll drop the corniest joke, leaving you groaning while he laughs at his own humor. He loves making you mad just because he thinks you’re adorable when you pout.

Sungchan

Simp? Understatement. You say sit, he sits. You say jump, he jumps. Honestly, he’s barking for you. Just thinking about you puts him in heart-eyes mode. Everyone knows how much he loves you—he makes sure of it. Someone stares at you for too long? He’s ready to throw hands. His personal space? Doesn’t exist when it comes to you. He even holds your hand when you go to the bathroom “What if you get kidnapped?!”. One week into the relationship, he’s already talking about marriage. But don’t be fooled—he will tease you, especially about your height, and be the most annoying boyfriend ever in the best way possible.

Wonbin

Mysterious? Only to strangers. With you? He’s a full-on clingy baby. If he’s not glued to you in some way, he’s simply not functioning. He spoils you to no end, handing you his credit card before you even ask. His clothes are automatically yours, and your mood? His mood. If you’re upset, he feels it. He’s confident, but still gets jealous—even though he’s literally one of the most handsome men alive. He tries to play it cool, but the moment someone gets a little too friendly, he’s suddenly extra affectionate, pulling you closer and reminding everyone that you’re his.

Seunghan

Simp Pt. 3. He’s obsessed with you in the most wholesome way. Personal space? What’s that? You’re never alone—if you turn around, he’s right there. Matching outfits every day, not negotiable. He only has eyes for you; no one else even exists in his world. He expresses his love in a million small ways, from adjusting your scarf in the cold to remembering your favorite snacks. If you’re feeling down, he drops everything to comfort you, whispering how much he loves you and will always be by your side.

Sohee

He tries to act all cool and manly, but let’s be real—he’s a total softie when it comes to you. He’s not big on physical affection, but he needs some part of him touching you at all times—whether it’s a pinky linked with yours or his foot brushing against yours under the table. Instead of physical touch, he expresses love through acts of service and words of affirmation. Good morning and good night texts are a daily routine. He surprises even himself by being the first one to say, “I love you.”

Anton

The biggest simp of them all. His brain is permanently on “reader brainrot” mode. If he’s not thinking about you, he’s making memes about you. You have so many inside jokes that one look from him can make you both burst out laughing. He always gives you his oversized hoodies because you look ridiculously tiny in them, and he lives for it. Spoils you way too much, especially if you’re into collecting cute things (“One more Sunny Angel won’t hurt…”). The way he adores you is unreal—he just wants to make you the happiest person alive.

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tarisilmarwen · 9 months ago

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Whumptober 2024 - "Restless"

(Lil' bit of Ezra whump for the girlies. And, well, anyone who likes to see him suffering and then getting soft comfort.

Set sometime late Season One-ish, after "Idiot's Array".

Prompts used were:

No.8 Sleep Deprivation: Isolation Chamber/Forced To Stay Awake/"Leave the lights on."

No.30 Recovery: Hospital Bed/Holding Back Tears.)

---

Ezra tried to stretch out his limbs again. They were cramping from the angle, and the restraints were beginning to dig in uncomfortably.

He had been left alone in here for hours, strapped to an interrogation table that, instead of laying backwards like normal, was tilted forwards at an almost fifteen degree angle. It pushed Ezra's balance off kilter just enough that he constantly felt like was about to slip, his boots squeaking on the little foot platform as he tried to get better traction. Ezra was fairly certain that without the ankle, wrist, and chest bands holding him to the metal slab, that he would simply fall off the table flat onto his face.

...Which wouldn't exactly be unwelcome right about now.

His eyes had since grown used to the dark, but there wasn't really anything else to look at in the circular chamber, his prison since he'd been brought to this place, wherever it was. The Inquisitor had knocked Ezra out when he'd captured him, and the Stormtroopers had kept him blindfolded on the way in, so he honestly had no idea where he was.

He shivered.

He hoped Kanan and the others could find him.

Then again...

Doubts crept through his stomach, a cold, uneasy curl.

Would Kanan even want him back, after he'd been so easily cornered and caught off guard?

It had seemed so pitifully easy for the Inquisitor to disarm him, sending his new lightsaber clattering away out of reach. He should have known the mission was a trap, should have been on guard, should have paid more attention, but he was just so eager to prove himself, that whole embarrassing mess with Calrissian had done a serious number on his confidence.

He definitely wasn't feeling too confident or sure of himself now.

His misery was steadily giving way to an overall sense of weariness, though. His eyes blinked and drooped; in spite of his uncomfortable position he was tired, and sleep was beckoning him just on the edges of his hearing, fluttering behind his head.

The Force suddenly flared with a cold warning spike; Ezra prickled alert and craned his head towards the door.

Along with the bristling Dark Side presence that was approaching, Ezra could hear the faint sound of footsteps, coming closer.

There was a buzz and a snap and the room abruptly lit up, harsh white light blaring out of panels ringing the floor.

"Ngh!" Ezra flinched and squinted in the sudden brightness, his eyes adjusting slowly, painfully.

The footsteps stopped outside the room as he was still blinking, a loud mechanical hiss! sounding as the door swished open.

"Enjoying your accommodations?"

Ezra breathed carefully and flicked his eyes up, glaring, trying not to show any fear.

The Pau'an Inquisitor smirked, flashing his pointed yellow teeth.

"I must say, I thought you would have known better than to infiltrate an Imperial forward operating base all alone, no matter what intelligence they purported to have," he mused, stepping into the chamber, hands folded behind him. "Though that does beg the question..."

He stalked closer, coming to a stop a few feet away from Ezra. Ezra had to lean his head back and press it against the surface of the metal table in order to maintain eye contact, hackles raising defensively.

The Inquisitor bent in, looming from his great height. The yellow Sith eyes glowed, reflecting the light.

"Where is your master, boy?" he asked chillingly. "And the rest of your intrepid crew?"

"Where do you think?" Ezra scoffed. "They're back on the ship."

"Ah..." the Inquisitor said, beginning to circle him. "And where exactly is the Ghost right now?" he pressed.

"I don't know," Ezra answered automatically.

The Pau'an tutted. "Come now, you can give a better answer than that," he chided.

Ezra's eyes tracked the Inquisitor as he slipped out of sight to Ezra's left. "Yeah? Too bad. Because that's the only answer you're getting," he snipped.

He felt the Inquisitor at his back, the footsteps sounding behind him, and his heart ticked nervously.

"It would be far more preferable if you could give me something more," came the man's voice, floating lazily, cordial with a threatening edge. "Not to mention... less painful for you."

Ezra shook his head. "I won't talk."

"I don't need you to." The Inquisitor emerged from around the other side of the chair, flashing back into Ezra's field of vision like a swift shadow. A haughty disdain was in his face, and he was pulled to his full, intimidating height. "Your secrets are all ripe for the taking," he threatened.

Ezra snorted. "Good luck," he said, immediately clocking that the Pau'an intended to read his mind. "Kanan says my passive shields are 'frustratingly impenetrable'," he quoted, emphasizing with little gestures from his fingers.

The Inquisitor chuckled. "We'll see," he said.

He raised his hand, extending it palm out towards Ezra's forehead.

Ezra braced, feeling an immediate sense of painful pressure, heavy and oppressive and so, so cold. It pushed down on him, feeling like a weight digging into his head.

He grit his teeth and pushed back, fighting against the sensation.

The Inquisitor frowned in displeasure. Brows narrowing, he stepped closer, his fingers curling a few degrees tighter.

The pressure intensified with a vengeance and Ezra strained, physically pushing himself back against the table for something solid to ground him. Grunts of effort escaped him, and he struggled to hold onto the Force, keep the Inquisitor at bay. There was a sound like low rumbling in his ears; his eyes squeezed closed tightly, grimacing as the mind probe tested his shields.

The pain was so intense now it was almost blinding. Cold claws were squeezing the front of his head, scraping against his skull. The force was crushing; he was briefly, irrationally afraid that the bone would cave in.

He held his ground several more horrible seconds, struggling, face twisting.

The pressure vanished as the the Inquisitor gave up and lowered his hand.

Ezra felt all the weight immediately come off him and gasped, eyes flying open. As he heaved for breath, the Inquisitor stood there looking unamused, lip curling.

"You are unusually stubborn for someone with so little proper training," he admitted, spitting the words out. "But no matter," he dismissed. "You will break eventually, like all Jedi do. Your shields will weaken and your secrets, however carefully guarded, will be mine."

The Inquisitor angled his body and head towards the door as a Stormtrooper trotted in.

"Sir!" the trooper called, and whispered in the man's ear as soon as he was close enough.

The Inquisitor bent slightly to listen, then nodded.

"Unfortunately it seems I have other matters to attend to," he said, straightening back up. The trooper moved back out towards the door and the Inquisitor stepped closer to the interrogation table. "But don't worry." He reached around behind the slab to take something off the back. "We'll continue this conversation later."

He drew back. Ezra squirmed in place when he realized the thing now in the Inquisitor's hands was a metal shock collar.

"Keep that thing off me!" he yelled, eyes fearful, pulling against his wrist cuffs.

"Hush now, boy," the Inquisitor said, unlatching the collar and fitting the ends very carefully around Ezra's trembling neck. "Too much noise and movement—or too little—" he emphasized cruelly, "—will set the collar off."

The man latched it in place and tightened it slightly, making Ezra give a tiny little panicked choke. The collar was thick, heavy, Ezra could feel the metal edges scraping his skin, but it wasn't tight enough to restrict his air.

Small mercies.

Sharp-nailed gray fingers grabbed his chin harshly. Ezra flinched, grunted, glared into the Inquisitor's sneering face.

The yellow-red eyes were eerie as they stared him down. "We'll see how cooperative you are when you're exhausted, thirsty, and starving," he said. "I imagine your shields won't be so 'frustratingly impenetrable', then," he mocked.

With a swift pivot on his heel he released Ezra, folding his arms behind himself once more as he left the room.

"Keep the lights on," he instructed the troopers just outside. "And tilt the table a couple more degrees forward."

Dread and panic shot through Ezra's stomach as someone pressed a control from outside the room, making the hinges of the table whir as they leaned him even further over. His feet slipped, lost grip, the chest band pressed harshly into him as he scrambled to regain footing on the little shelf. Ezra was now forced to stay up on his toes in order to keep from slipping down in the restraints and hurting his wrists and ribs. The awkward position strained his calf muscles, and he couldn't keep his back and head up.

He gulped with trepidation as the door was closed behind the Inquisitor, straining on shaking legs to keep upright.

***

The hours dragged on. A long, interminable stretch of constant discomfort and pain, shifting in place again and again to try to relieve it.

When his legs gave out he hung forward in the restraints; when that became too much to bear he pushed himself back up and the cycle started all over again. He was certain his wrists and ribs were bruised from pressing against the sharp edges of the restraints and his neck had a constant crick from trying to hold his head up.

He wasn't so preoccupied with the myriad hurts of the stress position to give no thought to his wider concerns, though. The back of his mind was already worrying about how much longer he could endure.

Hunger wasn't an issue, Ezra had gone without food loads of times before, it still wasn't exactly a pleasant problem but it was one he could deal with. Thirst? He wasn't really worried about that, though he could start to feel a bit of a dry tickle in his throat as the hours passed.

No, it was the lack of sleep that was getting to him the most. He'd already been up most of the night when he'd struck out to do the mission, and he hadn't exactly gotten any rest since, aside from his brief concussion at capture, if that even counted. His brain was starting to crowd with fuzzes, and he could feel his limbs getting sore from more than just physical strain. The effort of staying upright was wearing him down.

He slumped forward for a moment, and tried to ignore the cuffs scraping his wrists, letting his head hang.

The brief relief that brought was almost heavenly. Ezra blinked towards the floor, unable to shield his eyes from the glare of the lights. The relaxation of his muscles sent a soothing feeling up his body, seeping into his head.

His eyelids fluttered. His thoughts... fragmented. His breathing began to slow, getting deeper and quieter. He closed his eyes and tried to meld into the feeling.

He was almost starting to drift—

CRZZT!

A painful shock crackled through the collar; Ezra's heart rattled, blind heat stabbing through his chest. All his muscles seized up and cramped as he was zapped back awake and fully aware, gasping.

The shock released him, lingering in needle twinges and pinpricks in his nerves. Ezra hung there, heaving, feeling his muscles slowly unlock.

Kriff... he thought, blinking furiously.

After several long moments the shock wore off. Ezra spent another minute or two trying to stay upright, before giving up again.

He didn't close his eyes this time, just stared towards the floor thinking. The floor lights were at just the right angle and brightness to illuminate the whole room, bathing him in clinical white. His neck ached from hanging but he didn't want to move, not just yet, just let him be still a little while longer. His front ached, the bruises throbbing, but he could deal with it for just a little bit more.

His eyelids started to droop...

The collar shocked him again, making him jerk back, banging his head. Ezra hissed sharply as the electricity reverberated painfully through his body before letting him go.

He held back a whine of exhaustion and frustration. His ears rang with the injustice and unfairness of it. His fists clenched, jaw gripping, but there was nothing he could do to escape this. He would just have to keep holding on.

He wondered if he even could.

Ezra lingered in his slumped position for as long as he could, as long as he dared, before inhaling slowly and bracing.

His toes found the shelf and pushed up, lifting his front off the chest bar, and the cycle began again.

***

A hefty push with the Force sent the two guards at the door hurtling away, cracking against the opposite wall with a loud shudder and bang.

Kanan lowered his hand, breathing heavily. Blasterfire from further in the corridor echoed back to him. Stirring, he turned and found the button to open the door.

Harsh white light, brighter than the corridor, stung his eyes for a second. But then Kanan saw what—and who—he'd been looking for.

Ezra was hanging limp off an interrogation table tilted forward. His head had raised up and he was blinking blearily towards him.

"Kanan...?"

Kanan's mouth parted, corners twitching up in relief as he exhaled heavily. "Hey kiddo," he called. Worry wretched at his heart still, at his padawan's sorry condition. Lightsaber in hand, Kanan quickly made it across the room to the boy. "You ready to get out of this?" he asked.

Ezra looked exhausted, barely keeping his eyes open, but gave a half-hysterical relieved laugh. "Force yes," he said.

Kanan smiled and quickly set about getting his padawan loose. A quick couple of swipes with the saber cut most of the restraints.

Ezra collapsed forward, crumbling almost immediately into Kanan's arms as the man caught him.

"I can walk," Ezra insisted, wobbling unsteadily a few moments as he got his feet back under him. "It just might take a minute." He tilted in place, dizzy. "Don't wanna slow you down," he mumbled.

"It's okay," Kanan told him softly. He held onto Ezra, supporting hands bracing him. "Sabine and Zeb are busy cleaning out our escape route. You'll be home soon."

Ezra's voice hitched, throat visibly tightening as he looked up, with red, shimmering eyes.

"I'm sorry," the boy whispered. "I know I shouldn't have gone off by myself, it just... it seemed easy and I thought I could do it and be back by morning—"

"Don't worry about it," Kanan cut him off, guiding him with a little push towards the door. "Let's get out first. C'mon."

"Wait wait—" Ezra protested, batting once at Kanan's hands before reaching up. "Shock collar," he explained, fingers fumbling at the back, looking for the release.

Kanan found it quicker, depressing the latch to let it fall away and clatter on the floor. Angry heat seared behind his eyes as he saw the electrical burns on Ezra's skin.

The Inquisitor was just lucky he wasn't here right now.

***

Kanan led his padawan out of the prison, out into the hallway and down the escape route, running carefully but quickly, keeping at least one hand on his arm or shoulder or holding him up at all times. Ezra looked dead on his feet as he stumbled after Kanan, unsteady, visibly tired.

Within moments, they gained the ramp of the Ghost, running up into the cargo bay as Zeb and Sabine laid cover fire behind them.

Ezra doubled over panting as soon as the ramp latched in place. Zeb holstered his bo-rifle and came over.

"You look like poodoo, kid," he grunted in concern, helping him straighten back up.

Ezra was still trying to catch his breath. "So tired," he complained. "Bastard wouldn't let me sleep," he muttered.

Sabine joined the circle of people trying to keep him upright. "We've already got an IV stand set up next to your bunk, Kanan," she told him.

Kanan nodded as he slipped his arm under Ezra's armpit and extracted him from the circle. "Thanks." To Ezra, he said, "Let's get you in bed, kid."

Ezra mumbled something in response, but Kanan didn't catch it.

Hera met them at the top of the ladder, hands fisted on her hips, expression furious and scolding. Kanan stopped her as she opened her mouth, holding up a palm and shaking his head.

Biting her lip as she beheld their youngest Spectre, Hera held back her lecture. For now.

Kanan brought him swiftly into his room, letting him slide down into the bed. Ezra struggled to sit up, making it briefly difficult for Kanan to get the IV in him.

"Hold still, Ezra. You're dehydrated. You need fluids." Kanan took a seat as he pushed the boy's sleeve up, frowning at the bruises left behind by the wrist cuffs.

Ezra's eyes were watery and his next inhale was shaky.

"I'm sorry," he said again, voice trembling. "I'm sorry, I should have—" His breath hitched on a sob. "I just wanted—"

His heart pinching, Kanan glanced towards Hera hovering in the doorway, all anger gone now as she watched in concern.

He squeezed Ezra's wrist.

"Hey," he interrupted, voice low and reassuring. "Just rest, Ezra. Okay?" He finished setting up the IV and put his hand on the boy's head, ruffling his hair softly. "Just rest."

Ezra shook as he exhaled, tension releasing from his body. "Okay," he whispered thinly. There was so much more he wanted to say, Kanan could tell, but he followed the instructions to relax and was fast fading as soon as he let his head lay on the pillow.

Wrapping a sense of calm around his apprentice through the Force, Kanan helped ease away the fear and exhaustion, dim the pain he was feeling.

He held onto Ezra's hand as the boy's eyes closed and he slipped into blissful, beautiful sleep.

#star wars #star wars rebels #whumptober2024 #whump #ezra bridger #space dad and his precious pumpkin child #fanfiction #prompt fics #cute boys in peril

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quackity1999 · 4 months ago

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[ TO: [email protected] CC: [REDACTED][email protected] FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: Blueprint ]

Hey Boss,

Hope you're doing well. Attached is the latest version of the "casino blueprint" you requested:

Casino Layout :

Main Entrance & Lobby + Grand entrance with automatic sliding doors + Extra-wide ramps and stairwells (minimum 8-10 feet wide) + Reception & concierge desk w / lower counter for wheelchair users + Seating area, accessible lounge chairs and tables

Gaming Floor + Slot Machines Section (wide aisles for mobility device access) + Table Games Section (spacious layout for wheelchair maneuverability) + Dedicated High-Stakes Area

Bar & Restaurant Area + Lowered counters for accessibility + Spacious seating arrangements for wheelchairs and service animals

Event & Showroom + Ample space between seating rows + Accessible VIP booths

Hotel & Resort Area + Elevators with extra-wide doors + Wheelchair-friendly rooms with roll-in showers

Other Features + Accessible restrooms (wider stalls, grab bars, automatic doors) + Assisted gaming stations for visually impaired guests + Non-slip flooring for safety

Looking forward to your feedback!

Best, FoolishG

-🦈 [author here, just completely bullshit the emails but I thought it'd be an interesting touch. Remind me that I'll eventually have an actual blueprint sketched out to send to you.]

TO: [email protected] CC: [REDACTED]+mt FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: re: blueprints.

foolish,

fuck yeah, sweet. looks solid overall— appreciate the detail. just a few things we’ll need to go over:

• double-check the ramp angles at the main entrance; i wanna make sure they’re installed within ADA compliancex otherwise we'll get hounded like dogs.

• with the sliding doors— are we talking redstone sensor thingies or push-button activation? if they glitch or malfunction, i don’t want guests getting stuck outside and stopping the flow of things, or worse, getting injured: the paperwork for stuff like that sucks.

• counter heights – reception, bar, and any frequently used counters need to be exactly 34 inches max for wheelchair users. no “eyeballing” it.

• lighting adjustments? we probably need adaptable lighting in the strip clubs or something for those who can't do flashing lights. i don't know.

• for the elevator buttons & signage, we're gunna aim for braille, clear contrast, and reachable heights (no higher than 48 inches).

i think that's all i've got. god. this is gunna take months, isn't it? at least it'll make us look better. anyways— i'll get in touch.

yours,

quackity, president of las nevadas.

#quackitychirps #ask blog #🦈 anon #ooc: YOURE GUNNA DRAW LITERAL BLUEPRINTS?!?!;!?!#WHHHHHOOOOOOOOO HOLY SHIT? HOLY FUCK?#JUMPING AROUND LIKE A LEMUR ON CRACK RN #sorry im. So normal

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tojiscumdumpster · 2 years ago

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CHAPTER THREE - TOJI

⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀✧ summary page

“How’s school going, kid?”

Dinners with Megumi are always tense. Awkward. Silence most of the time until one of us says something, which is usually never. There’s a few things we don’t do together anymore, but eating at the table remains. And it looks like he still likes it when I make shogayaki based on how he cleared his plate.

I didn’t have the best childhood or teenage years growing up. Actually, it was traumatic as shit. The scars scattered across my body remind me everyday. So it’s hard for me to give love, be a father to a boy when I wasn’t given that myself—especially without the help of my wife.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t try.

Whether Megumi wants to admit it or not, we’re alike in many ways. I mean, he has my fucking face for fuck’s sake. He’s stubborn as shit like me. Smart mouth. Slightly tempered. Not talkative. The list can go on and on.

And in other ways, he’s a lot like his mom. Caring. Full of life (when he wants to be). Optimistic. Selfless. Earnest.

Lately, I’ve been getting the side of Megumi where he took after me.

I get it. I haven’t been the best father to him these past seven years. I practically had him fending for himself or dropping him with Kong when I didn’t feel like taking care of him. My wife’s death fucked me up bad and I took it out on Megumi.

He didn’t and doesn’t deserve that shit. He didn’t ask to be in this shitty ass world. We’re in another country. I’m his sole guardian. His only parent, and it’s about time I start acting like it.

So if that starts by me making small talk at the dinner table, then so be it.

“School’s fine,” he answers, flatly.

I take a sip of my ginger ale. “Made some friends?”

He gives me an annoyed look. “It’s only been a week.”

“Some people make friends fast.”

“I’m not looking to make friends.”

Yep. Definitely my kid.

“Okay. Well, what about your teachers?” I take our empty plates to put in the sink.

“They’re alright. One of them is pretty nice. My reading teacher.”

“Yeah? What’s her name?” Megumi tries to do the dishes, but I push him away. “I got it.”

“Miss L /N. She wants to set up a parent-teacher conference.”

“She said when?”

“Monday at three.”

Shit. I start work at four.

“I know that’s near your work time, so I can tell her you can’t-”

“Nah, it’s fine. I can make it. If anything, I’ll call in late.” He nods and gives me a tight smile.

A shitty expression, but I’m taking whatever that’s given to me. I’m honestly surprised he’s even talking to me this long.

“I have a kid from school coming over tonight. He wants to watch a movie,” he announces.

“I thought you said you didn’t make any friends?”

“I didn’t.” Is all he says before he goes to his room and shuts the door.

Progress was made, I guess.

I wouldn’t automatically assume Megumi hates you… He’s adjusting just like you are .

Words of Y/N replays in my mind. I’ve been thinking about her all fucking week. I didn’t even bother to meet up with one of my on-call flings after I met Y/N because I knew no one would compare.

Not after when I felt those sweet full lips and perfect ass of hers. My fist has been meeting with my cock too many times to my liking at the thought of Y/N.

In the shower. Before and after work. When I wake up. When I go to sleep. I kept fucking my hand imagining it was her pussy wrapped around me.

I know Y/N would take me well. She’s just so damn thick. Perfect height and body. A sexy, smooth and soft yet raspy voice. How she whimpered in my mouth.

Fuck, she’d be a good girl.

I’m never one to be desperate to have sex with a woman, but I’m beyond desperate. I need to fuck Y/N badly. Hard. Deeply. Have all of my cock fit inside of her pussy until she’s screaming that she can’t take it.

Everything about her is just so damn sexy. And I’m not only talking about her looks.

I’m usually the type to fuck and go, but something tells me I would want to lay down next to Y/N and hear her talk forever.

Forever?

What the fuck is wrong with me right now? Do I hear how I sound? Like a goddamn lover boy. I just wanted to fuck her. Not spend forever with her.

I know her pussy would be good, but forever good?

Yes .

That’s a question I know never will be fucking no.

It’s been days. I went back to the bar everyday this week hoping that I would see her.

I guess I’ll try again tomorrow.

Enough thinking. Time for work.

“Fushiguro, you’re working third floor tonight with Gojo. Bachelorette party.”

Fucking great. Not only am I pairing up with the annoying motherfucker, but also having to babysit drunk women.

Working at a VIP luxury club isn’t the worst, only if I’m able to do my normal shit like walk the floors. However, nights like these, especially Fridays where we usually have multiple events booked, it annoys me.

Because who gets stuck with the shit? Me.

The club owner better be fucking lucky he pays me generously. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be doing most of the things he asks.

Bachelorette parties are not my favorites because most of the time women think I’m the sexy and mysterious security guard stripper . In their fucking dreams. I don’t crave that kind of attention. Hence why I took a job as security so I don’t have to talk as much.

“Fushiguro, aren’t you glad we’re working together tonight?” The white haired fucker, Gojo, asks me.

“Are you trying to fuck with me?”

He smirks. “Depends. Is it working?”

“Dude-”

“Satoru, if Fushiguro punches you in the face again, don’t come complaining to me.” Another one of the securities joined the banter. Geto Suguru.

Usually, they pair those two together, but tonight they want to leave the babysitting to me with Gojo while he’s walking the floors.

Not looking forward to tonight.

At all.

“Fushiguro acts like he hates me but he doesn’t. Not when little Megumi loves me,” Gojo says.

I snort. “Is that you think?”

“I’m practically his big brother.”

Some of the men here are acquainted with my kid since I brought him to work with me in the beginning. Not an ideal environment for a kid, but didn’t have enough money to afford a babysitter. And despite him being twelve at the time, I had enough sense to not leave him alone in a foreign country.

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s just get this night over with.”

I head out the changing room to go to our post on the third floor. The club is damn near already packed and it’s not even eleven o’clock yet. People are drunk and dancing, bumping into me and shit.

Another thing I don’t like about nightlife.

Rather than take the elevator, I use the stairs because it seems like the ladies for the bachelorette party are using it to bring up their set up. Looks like some of them are already up here.

The moment I step on the third floor, I attract eyes from the women. They ogle me like I’m their dinner for the night. And believe it or not, having the attention on me is not my favorite. Like I said earlier, I’ve been dealing with women almost half my life. I offered my sexual advances for money to fend for myself after I was disowned by the Zen’in Family.

I’m single and forty-two. I still have my sexual needs, and it’s not often I’ll deny a woman that offers herself if I’m attracted to her. But that doesn’t mean I want to be stared at all night.

“Ouh, are you one of the male strippers? Sexy bad boy security guard? ” one of the women asked. Brunette. Grey eyes. Average height. Not too bad on the eyes either.

“No. I’m actual the security guards to babysit you, and make sure you don’t fucking puke everywhere.”

She giggles, twirling her hair around her finger. “Well, I’ll try to be on my best behavior, Mr. Security.”

Definitely not my type.

I give her a tight nod and walk to the back of the section out of eyesight.

Eventually the rest of the ladies join to begin their party. Gojo comes up the stairs late, per usual, and the attention turns to him. Unlike me, he likes when women stroke his fucking ego. All better for me while we’re up here for the night.

My assumption is that the bride-to-be just entered because of all the screams and her dressing in white. Am I still allowed to be fucking annoyed by unnecessary loud noise while working in a night club? Yes.

I solely chose this job because it requires less talking and gives me more money.

And I don’t play when it comes to that.

For the most part, time is going by fast. Thirty minutes turns to an hour, and an hour turns to two. Full house club and drunken bachelorette party. Gojo, of course, entertains them, but I stand in the same spot.

“Aren’t we missing someone? I hear the bride ask.

“Yeah, Y/-”

“I’m here! I’m here!”

That voice sounds familiar. No, I know that voice. When I look over to the section, deep skin that glows under the colorful lights, coils pulled in an updo, stilettos with a tiny fucking dress that’s cut out around the waist.

Y/N.

And fuck, she looks damn good.

“Y/N, you’re late,” the bride-to-be pouts. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

She kisses her on the cheek. “I know. I’m sorry. I had like three thousand tests to grade, then I had to go pick up your gift. Then, freaking Nanami. It was just a lot,” she explains. “But I’m here! And you have me for the rest of the night.”

“Okay, sounds hectic. So, you’re forgiven.” The bride-to-be pours a shot of tequila in a glass to hand to Y/N. “Here. You have a lot of catching up to do. As you can see—we’re drunk.”

Y/N giggles. “Oh, gosh.” But takes the shot and downs it anyways.

She makes her rounds to greet the rest of the party and it’s like they all gravitate to her. Like the true life of the party has arrived.

I study every interaction. I watch how those pretty lips move and spread a smile across her gorgeous face. It’s only been a few days and it feels like she’s gotten prettier since I last saw her.

My cock hardens at the thought of having Y/N’s ass in my hands and her full lips on mine again, maybe this time while she’s naked and riding me. Or preferably in that dress. It’s so damn short and tight. Her love handles shows, and again, she’s not wearing a fucking bra.

It’s like she’s begging for me to suck her pretty tits. I will if she wants me to.

“Shit, Fushiguro,” Gojo says, coming near me to interrupt my thoughts. “Being up here isn’t bad after all. All these beautiful women, especially the one that just came in. The thick one? She’s beyond gorgeous.”

I let out a territorial growl and shot daggers through his skull. Y/N isn’t mine, but she’s mine.

“Off limits.”

He laughs. “What? That’s your girlfriend? I doubt she wants a geezer like you.”

“I’ll fuck-” And before I could respond, it’s like Y/N felt someone staring at her because when she turned around, we made eye contact.

She smiled a few times since she got here, but none of the smiles compares to the one she’s giving me right now. It shows her excitement. Her attraction. Her amazement of seeing me, like she never would me again, the same way I thought about her.

Y/N says something to one of the other women before making her way to me. Her walk, how her legs look, especially while wearing those heels. How those full fucking hips sways—it’s sexy. She’s sexy, and I’d be damned if she doesn’t know it.

“Toji Fushiguro.” Her voice is calm and relaxing. “We meet again.”

“We do.”

She closes the space between us but still keeps a respectful distance, just enough to have her vanilla and warm berries scent invade my senses.

“Hi, big guy,” she breathes, sexually.

Y/N calling me big guy causes my dick to twitch in my pants. I really need to readjust myself right now, but it would make it real obvious how hard I am.

“You look beautiful,” I tell her like it’s a fact because it is.

“Thank you. You clean up well, too.”

“Just work uniform.”

She shrugs. “Then maybe I need to start coming here more often.”

This time I don’t need to ask if she’s flirting with me like last time. I know she is. Her body language is telling me that she wants me to fuck her.

There’s just something so organic about our chemistry. Our barely started chemistry, which makes me feel like we’ve been at this our entire lives. I refuse to believe we’re just strangers.

“You’re too pretty to be talking to him,” Gojo snorts.

Y/N gives him an annoyed expression, arching her brow. “And you’re too much of an asshole to be talking to me.”

The balance between Y/N being sweet and spicy makes a pervert out of me. Fuck.

Although I didn’t need the defending, it’s funny knowing not every woman is willing to stroke that motherfucker’s ego.

He doesn’t say a word. Just walks back to his side of the section while smirking at Y/N. But of course, she pays him no mind.

“I hope all your coworkers aren’t like that to you.”

“I don’t really care if they are or aren’t. I’m here to make my money and leave,” I said.

“I suppose. I still don’t like that, though.”

“Come here, Y/N.”

She completely closed any bit of space that kept us apart and pushed her breasts against my chest. I look down at her, dragging my eyes to her tits to see how full and swollen they are. Perfect size to put my cock between.

“Are you going to touch me?” she questions, invitingly.

“I can’t. Club rules. Unless we’re not seen on the floor.”

She raises her brows, smiling. “So… behind closed doors, you can?”

“I can.”

All she does is smile and go in the direction of the stairs, but first stops at the section.

“Ladies, I’ll be back. The security guard is going to show me where the bathroom is. I’ve never been here before.”

“Let us know how the dick is!” someone yells, leaving Y/N laughing while walking away.

I can neither confirm or deny that Y/N and I are going to fuck, but how she’s looking tonight, I’m willing to take whatever she gives me.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

#anime x black!reader #anime x reader #toji x reader #toji fushigro x reader #toji x black reader #toji fushiguro x black reader #jjk x reader #jjk x black reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x black reader #toji angst #jjk angst

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mjonthetrack · 24 days ago

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bell book II

Chapter One Hundred-Thirty-Five "Bien trabajo, gatita." (Luis’ Perspective)

Luis didn’t know what hit him first—her little feet pitter-pattering through the grass, the yell of “¡Papiiiii!”, or the way his arms automatically scooped Catalina up like she’d always been part of him.

But it was when he looked at her—really looked—that his chest did that stupid, heavy thing.

She had on sunglasses too big for her face—his sunglasses. Crooked, upside down. Her shoes were mismatched: one glitter jelly sandal, one pink croc. And that shirt… it was one of Tiffany’s. An old pink graphic tee that said "Black Girl Magic" in rainbow lettering. On Catalina, it hung low like a dress, tied in a knot at the side to keep it from dragging.

But it was the details that got him. Her hair was parted clean and neat, worked into two little ponytails that bounced every time she moved. He caught the faint scent of lavender—Tiffany’s favorite bubble bath, the one she guarded like it was infused with gold. Her tiny toenails were painted a soft coral pink.

He blinked.

She’d done that.

Tiffany had taken her time this morning—her day off—and done all that. Even after everything.

He spun Catalina gently, lifting her up to get a better look. “¿Quién te vistió, mi amor? Hmm?”

Catalina giggled and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Mamá Tiffany,” she whispered, like it was their little secret.

His heart twisted and tugged and pulled in directions he wasn’t ready for.

Then he saw her.

Tiffany, stepping out from behind the truck, curls tumbling around her shoulders, oversized sunglasses over her eyes. Her arms were folded, and she had that look—the one that said she was already over this moment before it started, but her mouth curled just slightly at the corners like she couldn’t help herself.

Then she crouched to Catalina’s height, soft and proud all at once, and murmured with a small grin, “Bien trabajo, gatita.”

His throat got tight.

She didn’t know he was watching like he was watching. Watching the way she smoothed a hand over Catalina’s flyaway curl, the way she glanced up at him like she wasn’t ready to admit anything out loud, but everything was sitting right there in her eyes.

Luis cleared his throat and adjusted Catalina on his hip. “¿Y tú?” he called to Tiffany. “You practicing your Duolingo again or just bribing her with lavender baths and stolen t-shirts?”

Tiffany raised a brow over her glasses. “I’ll have you know, I’m on level eleven now. And that t-shirt was her idea.”

“¿Sí?” he chuckled, bouncing Catalina once. “Looks better on her anyway.”

Tiffany rolled her eyes but didn’t leave. And he didn’t want her to.

God, if he could just freeze this—right here. The chaos. The warmth. Catalina still clinging to him like she belonged, Tiffany smirking like she hadn’t been running from all this just days ago.

He gave the little girl a kiss to her temple and looked at the woman who somehow held more of his heart than he ever meant to give away.

He wasn’t going to say it yet. Not now. But he knew.

She was here. She came.

And that meant everything.

Chapter One Hundred-Thirty-Six "Family Man" (Luis' Perspective)

Luis barely had time to breathe before a few of his boys wandered over from the rig, all swagger and nosy-ass curiosity. Catalina was still on his hip, snuggled in close, sunglasses sliding slightly as she sucked contentedly on a juice box.

“Aye, Martinez!” Eli, one of the younger firefighters, grinned wide and clapped him on the shoulder. “Damn, man! We ain’t know you was a family man now!”

Before Luis could even form a sentence, Andre—older, louder, and nosier—leaned in, squinting at Catalina. “Your baby girl is beautiful, bro. What’s her name?”

Luis opened his mouth, but didn’t get the chance to respond.

Because then Leo, never one to hold back, gestured between Catalina and Tiffany—who had just come into view again, arms folded, hips swaying with attitude as she surveyed the food table.

“Ain’t no way she came from her,” Leo teased. “That baby is full Latina, bro. That’s definitely your DNA. But her?” He gave Tiffany a playful once-over. “She don’t look like she popped that baby out. She looks like she’d be yellin’ at the nurse during labor for getting sweat on her crocs.”

Tiffany paused mid-step, turning slowly, eyebrows inching up behind her oversized sunglasses.

“Excuse you?” she asked with a sharp snap of attitude.

Luis smothered a laugh. He knew that tone.

The men went quiet like kids caught in the kitchen too close to a fresh pie.

“How you know I ain’t popped that baby out?” she said, cocking her hip and lifting her chin like she had the birth certificate in her purse. “Y’all got MDs in obstetrics now? Wanna tell me about my own uterus?”

Andre snorted and tried to stifle a laugh. Catalina mirrored Tiffany’s stance by accident, folding her little arms and squinting like she was ready to throw down too.

“And don’t be teasing him,” Tiffany added with a huff, turning with the flare of someone who knew damn well she was more wife than placeholder. “He actually got a heart. Unlike y’all.”

And with that, she pivoted and walked toward the food table like she didn’t just leave them all slack-jawed.

Luis adjusted Catalina in his arms, biting back a grin as she whispered, “¿Mamá pelea?”

He laughed softly. “Sí, mija. Mamá pelea.”

Eli blinked. “Yo. Did she just… check us and protect you at the same time?”

Leo nodded slowly, watching Tiffany scoop up a plate like she owned the whole damn event. “Yeah. She scary, bro. I like her.”

Luis just smiled, eyes following the sway of Tiffany’s sundress as she made her way down the food line. Catalina was still perched on his hip, but his heart? That was already halfway across the lawn—walking in Powerpuff Girl confidence and snapping at men twice her size like it was nothing.

“Yeah,” he said softly, mostly to himself. “Me too.”

Chapter One Hundred-Thirty-Seven "Q&A, Tiffany Style"

Tiffany had just settled at the table with a loaded plate when it happened.

They came in packs. Like hyenas in skinny jeans and sun hats. The firefighter wives. Tiffany had peeped them from across the field—curled lashes, perfectly glossed lips, lululemon or Target mommy-chic, holding lemonade in mason jars like it was spiked with answers to world peace. One spotted her first, then whispered something to the others. And then suddenly—there they were.

A whole flock of friendly faces with not-so-friendly curiosity glinting behind their Botox-tight smiles.

“Oh my god, you’re so pretty!”

“Hi! I don’t think we’ve met—are you Luis’s wife?”

“Is that your little girl? She's adorable.”

“Wait, wait, is she mixed? She has to be mixed.”

Tiffany blinked. Fork halfway to her mouth.

The questions kept coming like rapid fire. Polite tone, weaponized nosiness.

"Where’d you deliver? She’s so tiny!"

"Are you from the island? You have that glow—are you Dominican?"

"Are you here for good or just visiting Luis?"

"Do you cook? Because girl, if you don’t, I have a great arroz con gandules recipe—"

Tiffany held up one finger. Then two. Then all five. Slowly. Like the Lord was still working on her patience.

She blinked once, twice, set her fork down, and took a slow, dramatic sip of her drink. Then, in a tone flatter than a pressed curl under a hoodie in July, she said:

“A—I'm not married. B—That is not our child. No, we didn’t kidnap her—she got abandoned by her parents, and social services placed her with me temporarily.”

Silence. Wide eyes.

Tiffany raised one brow, already mid-reply to the next unspoken question.

“C—I’m a nurse practitioner in the emergency room. I work doubles, I drink too much Red Bull, and I have a six-year-old roommate now who thinks I’m her mom and calls Luis ‘Papi,’ so yeah—my sanity is hanging on by a curl.”

Stillness. Slight blinking.

She gave a tight smile.

“D—I don’t eat coleslaw. Don’t offer it to me. Don’t sneak it into sandwiches. I’m good.”

Someone opened their mouth.

She held up a finger again.

“And E—I am Black and Samoan. Not Dominican. Not Cuban. Not Cape Verdean. Not anything else y’all are trying to mentally check off to feel comfortable. Just Black. And Samoan. And tired.”

They stared.

Tiffany smiled again, brighter this time. “Any other questions?”

One woman cleared her throat. “Um… where did you get your sandals? They’re cute.”

Tiffany leaned back, stabbing a bite of potato salad like a queen addressing her court. “Amazon. Size eight. Prime shipping. And no—I’m not gonna link it.”

Luis, watching from the grill, had to turn his back to keep from full-on wheezing.

Catalina stood nearby clutching a juice pouch and grinning like she knew her new mama had just snatched half the neighborhood’s edges clean off.

Chapter 138

Tiffany rubbed her temples and stood from the plastic fold-out chair, her sandals clicking softly against the pavement as she trudged toward her SUV. The fire station event had gone longer than expected, and the mingling, explaining, smiling, clarifying—pretending—had left her emotionally bankrupt.

The sun was beginning to dip, casting honeyed light over the lot, stretching her shadow long as she popped the key fob to unlock the doors.

She sighed.

Her curls were starting to frizz in the heat, her lavender bubble bath scent from earlier long faded. Catalina was trailing behind her, her little hand clutching a paper firefighter hat one of Luis’s colleagues had given her. She was still in Tiffany’s oversized T-shirt—her makeshift dress—and sparkly sandals. Her energy hadn’t dipped one bit. Tiffany, on the other hand, felt like she was holding herself together with prayer and the last flicker of sanity.

She opened the back door and gently helped Catalina up into her booster seat. The little girl yawned and pulled her firefighter hat down dramatically over her face like a sleep mask. Tiffany smiled, soft and tired.

"Drama queen," she whispered, brushing a hand over the girl’s forehead.

As she closed the door and moved to the driver’s side, she saw Luis jogging toward her, wiping his hands on a towel. His turnout gear was half unzipped, hanging from his waist.

“Tiff,” he called out.

She paused mid-step, her hand on the handle. She didn’t say anything. Just waited.

Luis slowed when he got close, his eyes soft. "You leaving already?"

"Yup," she said flatly. “Been white-woman interrogated, sun-baked, and asked if I was your baby mama. That’s enough adventure for one day.”

Luis laughed under his breath. “You handled it though.”

“I’m not a damn soldier, Luis,” she muttered. “I’m just tired.”

There was a beat of silence. She opened her door and climbed inside, but didn’t start the engine yet. Luis leaned on the open window, watching her quietly.

“You did good,” he said finally.

Tiffany looked over at him, exhausted, but something in her softened. “She had a good time, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said. “She lit up when she saw you talkin’ to the other women, like she was proud. Like she belonged.”

That hit her in a place she didn’t want to acknowledge. She sniffed and looked away, tapping the steering wheel.

“I’ll call you later,” she mumbled.

Luis didn’t push. “Drive safe, princesa.”

She gave a tired nod, rolled up the window, and finally turned on the engine. She didn’t look back as she pulled out of the lot, but through the rearview mirror she could see Catalina fast asleep, little plastic hat askew.

And despite everything… she found herself smiling. Just a little.

Chapter 139

The front door creaked open as Tiffany balanced her oversized hospital tote on one shoulder, keys between her teeth, and her half-full iced coffee in hand. Her pink scrubs were already wrinkled from being stuffed in her laundry basket the night before, and her purple Crocs with Moana and Tiana buttons were making soft thuds as she jogged down the porch steps.

She was muttering to herself, thinking she was alone.

“These shifts are killing me,” she sighed, her voice low but sharp with exhaustion. “I spend more time in the ER than anywhere else. I’m gonna die in a damn hospital bed… probably during someone else’s surgery.”

She took a long sip from her coffee, completely unaware of the tall figure that had just stepped out of his truck and was making his way up her walkway.

Luis paused, his brows pulling together as he heard her words float through the crisp morning air. The fatigue in her voice wasn’t just about the hours—it was deep-rooted, bone-weary. He hated hearing it, especially from her.

She spun around mid-step, startled by the sound of the gate swinging shut.

“Dios mío!” she jumped, nearly spilling her coffee. “Luis!”

He raised both palms in surrender, lips curved in a quiet grin. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” she lied, shifting her tote up higher and brushing a frizzy curl behind her ear. “What are you doing here this early?”

“Bringing Catalina back. She left her stuffed bunny in my truck. Thought I’d swing by before work.”

Tiffany blinked, suddenly remembering the toy that caused a near meltdown the night before. She nodded slowly and then stepped aside, gesturing toward the door. “It’s unlocked.”

Luis stepped past her and paused on the porch, watching her for a moment longer.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

She gave him a tired half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m fine. Just another double. ER’s short again, and I’m picking up part of another shift.”

“Tiff…”

“Don’t start, Luis. Please.” She turned, walking toward her car. “I got forty-seven seconds to beat traffic and get my ass across town.”

He watched her open the car door, sliding in with muscle memory and barely any energy behind it. As she pulled the seatbelt across her chest, she finally looked at him again.

“I’m just… I’m trying, okay?”

Luis nodded. “I know you are.”

She paused. The silence stretched between them before she exhaled and offered the smallest, sleep-deprived smile. “Thanks for the bunny rescue.”

“I do what I can,” he said. “Take care of yourself, princesa.”

She nodded and drove off, her taillights blinking against the morning fog. Luis stood there a second longer, gripping the stuffed bunny in one hand, and the weight of her exhaustion in the other.

He wasn’t going to let her burn herself out—not without someone there to catch her when she did.

Chapter 140

The fire station was quiet, just after morning roll call. The scent of coffee lingered in the air, and the usual teasing from the guys was softer than usual, hanging under the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional crackle of the radio.

Luis was organizing equipment in the bay, already sweating through the back of his shirt, when the fire chief stepped out of his office.

“Martinez!” the older man barked with that familiar gravelly voice that had trained generations of firefighters. “You got a second?”

Luis turned, dropping a wrench back into its tray. “Sure, Chief. Everything alright?”

Chief Barlow motioned with his head for Luis to follow him. They stepped into the office—a space full of old photographs, service medals, and the familiar leather-bound chair that had creaked under the same man’s weight for the last twenty years.

“You’ve been with me a long time,” Barlow said, cutting straight to it. “You’ve grown into a hell of a leader, and the men respect you. That ain’t something that comes easy.”

Luis furrowed his brow, confused. “Thank you, sir.”

Barlow nodded and leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. “I’m retiring at the end of the month. My decision. It’s time. And the board’s already on board with who I recommended to fill the position.”

Luis blinked. “Who?”

Barlow smiled, small and proud. “You.”

The silence cracked over Luis like thunder.

“You’ve earned it,” Barlow continued. “Comes with a serious bump—six figures, full pension, extended benefits. Real stability. You’d have the power to lead your team, train the next generation. You’d be shaping this department from the top.”

Luis sat slowly, his mind racing.

Stability. Legacy. Security.

And all he could think about was Tiffany.

How she’d dragged herself through shifts on fumes and sarcasm. How she wore her burnout behind a tired smile and pink Crocs. How she’d barely allowed him to help her, even as she unraveled in silent sobs and sleepless nights. How she still couldn’t look at Catalina without panic behind her eyes.

He swallowed hard.

If he took this job—he could take care of her. Not just with words or good intentions, but with structure. With the kind of life she wouldn’t have to grind herself into the dirt for. She wouldn’t have to shoulder everything alone.

But then it hit him—day four of five.

The social worker’s grace period was almost up. One day. One day to somehow get the woman who was just barely letting him close again to believe she could keep a child who wasn’t even hers. A child who didn’t speak her language. A child she never asked for.

He raked a hand through his curls, leaning forward on his knees, a curse slipping past his lips.

“Shit…”

“You alright, son?” Barlow asked, watching him.

Luis forced a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Just… a lot happening fast.”

Barlow gave a knowing look. “Think it over. You got till Monday to give me your answer. Then the board makes it final.”

Luis nodded distractedly, shaking the chief’s hand before stepping out.

He stood outside the station for a long minute, watching the sunlight warm the pavement, listening to the distant sounds of the city waking up.

One day left.

One stubborn woman who still looked at him like a walking betrayal.

One child who was already calling her mamá.

One job offer that could change everything.

And one shot to make it all stick—if she let him in, if she believed they could be a family, even in the mess of it all.

He exhaled slowly.

Time to move.

Chapter 141

Luis had barely made it to his truck, Chief Barlow’s offer still pressing like a weight against his ribs, when his phone buzzed. He saw the hospital’s number on the screen and felt his gut twist instantly.

He swiped to answer. “Martinez speaking.”

A professional but worn-sounding woman’s voice came through the line. “Yes, hello—this is Dr. Regina Carson, I’m the head associate supervising Miss Tiffany Fatu. We’ve used her emergency contacts, and you were the one she listed. If someone could come collect her—”

Luis was already moving, keys in hand, walking fast. “What happened?”

There was a pause, a sigh on the other end. “We had a psychiatric patient—he got out of restraints and got ahold of a prep tray. Tiffany intervened before anyone else could and took the brunt of it. She’s not seriously injured, but she took a hit to the side and shoulder. She's bruised up, shaken. We’ve discharged her—she insisted she was fine, of course. But I think she’s done for today.”

Luis’s grip tightened around his steering wheel as he threw himself into the driver’s seat. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“Thank you,” the woman said. “And… Mr. Martinez?”

“Yeah?”

There was a beat of something maternal, understanding. “She’s exhausted. You can tell she’s past the point of burnout. Maybe you can get through to her better than the rest of us. She won’t stop. Even when it hurts.”

Luis swallowed hard, the words sitting like lead in his chest. “I’ll take care of it.”

The line went dead.

He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and started the engine, tires screeching as he peeled out of the fire station’s lot, heart pounding in his chest.

When he walked into the ER, the nurses didn’t even stop him—half of them knew him from previous fire calls. They just gave him sympathetic looks and nodded toward the back room where staff rested between shifts.

She was sitting on the edge of the cot, one shoulder bruised and pink through the sleeve of her scrub top, an ice pack lazily draped there. Her bottom lip was split slightly, and her bun had fallen into disarray. A pair of her Moana Crocs were kicked halfway off, and a band-aid clung to her knee.

Still, she was muttering something sarcastic under her breath as she fumbled one-handed to open a juice box.

Luis stepped in quietly.

She glanced up.

“…what, no mariachi band?”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “I got a call. Came right away.”

She scoffed and sucked on the juice box like it owed her money. “Figures. Can’t even get beat up in peace.”

“Jesus, Tiffany,” he said softly, eyes scanning her like he could fix the bruises by looking hard enough. “You okay?”

“I’m alive,” she said flatly. “That’s more than the tray.”

Luis let out a breath, running a hand down his face. He wanted to say something—anything—but all he could do was walk over and sit next to her.

She didn’t move away.

Her head tipped lightly against his shoulder, and after a beat, her voice softened.

“…He was having an episode. I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

Luis just nodded, resting his hand lightly on her thigh, grounding her.

“I can’t keep watching you kill yourself like this,” he whispered finally.

“I can’t not show up,” she said just as quiet. “That little girl calls me mamá, Luis. I’m not even fluent enough to tell her I’m not.”

He tilted his head, looking down at her.

“And what if you are?”

She looked up at him, surprised.

“What if she’s yours, Tiff?” he asked, voice low and serious. “What if she’s ours? And I’m not saying it like some fairytale bullshit. I’m saying it because I’ve seen how she looks at you. I’ve seen how you hold her, how she feels safe with you, and how you—”

“I didn’t ask for her.”

“No,” he agreed. “But she asked for you.”

She looked down at her hands, silent.

“I got offered the chief’s position,” he added suddenly.

Her eyes widened, head whipping toward him. “Wait—what?”

“Fire Chief,” he said, nodding. “Six figures. Benefits. Stability. I can take care of both of you, if you let me. If you let yourself… stop being everything for everyone all the time.”

She blinked fast.

He leaned closer, resting his forehead to hers. “I want to build something with you. With her. I just need you to stop running long enough to see that we already started.”

Her lip trembled—just slightly. “…I’m tired, Luis.”

“I know, baby.” He gently brushed a curl from her cheek. “Let me help carry it.”

She didn’t answer with words.

But when she reached for his hand—bruised fingers curling around his—he knew he’d cracked something open.

And maybe, just maybe, there was still time left.

Chapter 142

The car ride back to Tiffany’s house was quiet at first—so quiet it felt unnatural, especially for her. Luis glanced over from the driver’s seat more than once, catching her profile in the soft glow of the dashboard lights. Her eyes were red-rimmed and tired, staring straight ahead, one hand limp in her lap, the other loosely holding a fast food cup she hadn’t even sipped from.

Then her voice broke through the silence. Small. Raw.

“I just don’t know how this would work.”

Luis kept his eyes on the road but tilted his head a little, listening.

“I never planned for a kid,” she went on, voice tighter now. “Definitely not one that’s not mine. One I can’t even talk to, not really. She’s already six—she’s already been through stuff I probably couldn’t fix with a lifetime of therapy and stickers. I can’t connect with her the way she deserves. And everyone keeps acting like this is all settled, like I just… adopted her in my sleep.”

He stayed quiet. Let her talk.

“It’s suffocating,” she whispered. “I don’t even know how to be a mom. Mine was gone when I was ten, Luis. One minute I had her, the next—funeral flowers and silence. There was no guidebook. No backup. No woman to call and say, ‘what does this fever mean?’ or ‘how do I do her hair?’ or ‘what if I mess up?’ I had to guess.”

Her voice cracked, and she turned her face toward the window.

“I was legit planning my hot girl summer tour to the nearest beach with my friends, like, half a month ago. I had bathing suits in my cart. I was planning thirst traps. Now… this?”

Luis reached over, resting a warm, steady hand on her thigh. Not to quiet her. Just to anchor her.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know, baby.”

She gave a short, humorless laugh. “No, I don’t think you do. I didn’t even get a moment to say no before they handed her over like a lost puppy and said, ‘congrats, she lives with you now.’ I didn’t even have groceries. I was eating saltines and peanut butter.”

Luis looked at her then, the softness in his gaze something she almost couldn’t bear to meet.

“You didn’t get to say no,” he agreed. “But you didn’t leave either.”

She blinked fast, her jaw tightening.

“That kid was scared out of her mind and clinging to you like you were heaven. You could’ve handed her off the second they tried it. Could’ve said no, filed the appeal, told them to come pick her up. But you didn’t. You gave her a bath. You did her hair. You fed her, clothed her in your own damn shirts, painted her toes. You made her feel safe.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” she muttered, barely above a whisper.

“That’s what being a parent is, Tiff,” Luis said, voice firm but gentle. “Doing the best you can when you have no clue what you’re doing. Showing up, even scared. Loving them without needing to say it in the right language.”

She stared at the dashboard. Her knuckles were pale around the drink cup.

“I’m not saying it’s fair,” Luis continued. “It wasn’t. The way they did this—no warning, no support, just dropped her in your lap? It was bullshit. But… maybe it happened to her the same way it happened to you. She lost her parents. One day they were there, then they weren’t. Now she’s in a strange place where no one sounds like her, where everything’s different. And the one constant? The one person who’s been soft and safe and solid, even while crumbling herself?”

He looked at her fully now.

“Is you.”

Tiffany’s lips parted, but nothing came out.

He turned back to the road. “You don’t have to figure it all out today. You don’t even have to decide right now. But you should know—Catalina already did.”

Silence again.

She finally spoke, voice hoarse. “You said you got offered fire chief.”

“Yeah.”

Her throat bobbed. “You taking it?”

“I want to.” He gave her a sideways glance. “Not just for me.”

She didn’t respond. Just looked out the window again, eyes glimmering under the passing streetlights.

But she didn’t move his hand off her thigh either.

And when they pulled into her driveway, she sat in the car a little longer. Not to stall. Not to flee.

Just to breathe.

Because maybe—for the first time since Catalina showed up, scared and Spanish and starry-eyed—Tiffany wasn’t just reacting.

She was considering.

Chapter 143

The key turned in the lock, the door creaked open, and soft light from a single lamp in the living room spilled across the hallway. The scent of arroz con pollo lingered in the air, warm and comforting.

Luis stepped in first, a protective glance behind him as Tiffany followed with careful steps. She looked like herself, only dimmed—less firecracker, more flickering candle. Her oversized hoodie practically swallowed her, and one Croc had a limp from how hard she’d been walking all day.

On the couch, Abuela Rosa was sipping tea and flipping channels when she saw them. Her brow lifted in surprise.

“¿Estás temprano?” she asked, sitting up straighter.

Tiffany gave a tired but warm smile, and even with the bruising near her temple and the soft wince in her shoulders, she still moved over and gently kissed the older woman’s cheek.

“I got beat up at work by a psych patient,” she said matter-of-factly, like she was reporting traffic. “My head snitched on me to your grandson and now… here I am.”

Abuela Rosa blinked, shook her head, and patted her knee for Tiffany to sit beside her. “Dios mío, mija. You need to rest, not talk. Sit. I’ll make you té de manzanilla.”

Luis smiled quietly, setting Tiffany’s bag down by the stairs and heading toward the kitchen.

But Tiffany eased down slowly next to Abuela Rosa and leaned back with a sigh, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “I didn’t even get to clock out myself. They called me out like I was a kid skipping school. It was humiliating.”

Abuela Rosa tisked and ran her hand through Tiffany’s curls gently. “You work too much. You carry too much.”

“I’m trying to keep the wheels on the bus,” Tiffany murmured. “Even if the bus is swerving, on fire, and missing two tires.”

Luis returned with a cup of tea and handed it to her, his eyes watching her with that tender, heavy look. “I told you already—you don’t have to do everything alone.”

Tiffany took the tea, grateful and slightly pouty. “Well, no one told the hospital that. Or social services. Or that tray-wielding lunatic in psych.”

Luis chuckled, but it faded quickly. He sat across from them, elbows on his knees.

Upstairs, the muffled sound of cartoons still ran from the guest room. Catalina was safe, tucked in, sound asleep with her stuffed llama and her nightlight on. The image hung between all of them unspoken.

Abuela Rosa looked between the two of them, her gaze sharp. “You are deciding soon, sí?”

Tiffany’s smile faltered a bit. “They gave me one more day.”

Luis spoke before his grandmother could. “She’s been thinking about it.”

“I’ve been surviving,” Tiffany corrected with a wry laugh, then took a sip of her tea. “But yeah. Thinking too.”

Abuela Rosa didn’t press. She just nodded slowly and patted Tiffany’s knee again. “Whatever you choose, mi niña… just know you already gave that little girl something no one else did. You stayed.”

Tiffany looked down at her tea, the scent of chamomile rising gently. Her voice came quieter now.

“Just scared I’ll mess it all up.”

Luis exhaled deeply. “Tiff… you’re not perfect. But neither is parenting. Or love. Or family. You just… keep showing up. That’s what makes it real.”

Abuela Rosa nodded in agreement.

And for a moment, there was peace. Tiffany leaning into the couch, Luis watching her like she hung the stars, and the grandmother who loved them both quietly folding them into her prayers.

The road ahead wasn’t settled yet.

But the house was warm.

And for tonight, that was enough.

#damian priest x oc #damian priest fanfic #romance #x black oc #mature fic

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stylographic-blue-rhapsody · 5 months ago

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some time ago at table, espen and verian had an interaction that amounted to verian being baffled when espen said she liked asking friends for help. and then we had a discussion about her skill at cutting hair and, well.

705 PD, Aurora Watch outpost at the Vermaloc Wildwood. The last winter of Espen’s trainee years, and the first of Khith’s as a graduate

It was past midnight the first time Khith asked Espen to cut their hair.

“Danlys. You’re still up.”

Espen blinked myopically, adjusting from the low candlelight to the darkness of the room beyond. In the doorway stood Khith, arms crossed and expression sour.

To anyone else, Khith’s flat tone would sound reprimanding. Espen, hearing the actual question beneath it, replied, “Fenshollow wasn’t feeling well, so I took her shift. There are no patients requiring attention now, if you need something?”

“You should let someone else take over the on-call shifts for once. You’re still technically in basic.”

She smiled. Now that was a reprimand. “The way you let other people take over the open overnight patrols?”

Khith rolled their eyes and sat in the chair on the other side of the desk. “Doctoring is much harder than pacing through the dust and we both know it.”

“Did you come with a purpose, or are you just here to bully me?” She asked, amused. “Wait, why are you up? It’s Caniri’s brigade on duty tonight, not yours.”

“Couldn’t keep myself in reverie.”

Espen said nothing as Khith fidgeted with the edge of their tunic. There was an odd tension in their shoulders, their mouth twisting in a way that belied true distress as opposed to their resting lower. She dropped her eyes back to the medical reports in front of her and continued to make notes in the margins—they would speak their mind when they were ready.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence broken only by quill scratching parchment, Khith said, “I want my hair cut. Shaved. Just the right side.”

Espen paused. For as long as she had known them, they kept their hair long and parted on the left, allowing it to fall forward and obscure the right side of their face. It was clear that it was intended to hide the scars there—precise cuts, to her medical eye, and clearly done with a sharp blade. Wounds made by a person and not a monster.

“Okay.” She put down her quill. “And you want me to do it?”

Their jaw clenched. “You have the steadiest hands.”

“Okay,” she said again, softer.

When she had retrieved a razor and a comb and a chair of good height, she asked, “How tight to the skin?”

“Doesn’t matter.” After a beat of Espen’s expectant silence, Khith closed their eyes and said, “I’m tired of the sideways glances, Danlys. If the greenies want something to stare at, I’ll give them something to stare at.”

Oh, and wasn’t that something she knew all too well, herself?

Espen made a soft noise of acknowledgement and brought the comb to their forehead, intent on creating a straight part to follow. When the teeth touched their skin, however, Khith twitched hard enough that it knocked her hand up and away.

“Sorry,” they said, gritted.

She set the comb down wordlessly and instead began to card their hair with her fingers, starting at the ends and working towards their scalp. Khith continued to flinch at the contact, but eventually relaxed enough that she could introduce the comb.

With patience and time, Khith’s hair was satisfactorily brushed and parted with the side to be kept long braided tightly along the part as a guideline.

Espen picked up the shaving razor—a thin, curved piece of metal that fit neatly into her palm. “Ready?”

Automatic tension hiked Khith’s shoulders. They let out a breath and forced their shoulders back down. “It’s fine. Do it.”

“I can go slow,” Espen said.

“It’s fine,” Khith repeated. “I know you won’t hurt me.”

Espen’s heart ached. Softly, she said, “I won’t.”

And she didn’t. Slow, steady, she cut in short motions that kept the razor from catching on Khith’s scalp when they flinched. Their visceral reactions lessened as she moved away from their face, and as the shorn hair fell away under her blade, she saw why: the fine scarring that cut vertically over their eye and across their cheek extended just beyond their hairline.

When she finished, Khith ran a tentative hand over their newly shaved scalp and muttered, “It’s soft.”

“Do you want a mirror?”

“No.” They paused, and then said more slowly, “No. Not tonight. I’ll… tomorrow. Thanks, Danlys.”

“Of course.”

…

The second time Khith asked Espen to cut their hair, they brought her fresh persimmons. The third, fourth, and fifth times, they brought plum wine, sweet boiled buckwheat cakes, and candied apricots. It’s not payment, they said each time when she objected, I’m just bringing this to share.

…

The sixth time Khith asked Espen to cut their hair, they shared the story of their scars as she passed the razor along their scalp, and for the first time did not flinch at her touch.

“Dybbuk possession of an unburned corpse. Thought it would be funny to dismember me with a hunting knife in front of my parents.” Khith’s tone was matter-of-fact, sharp and steady.

“How old were you?” Espen asked, soft.

“Eighty nine,” they said. “It was my birthday. We were going on a trip to Rosohna.”

Espen swore quietly. It wasn’t unheard of, especially beyond the bounds of the cities, but that could not diminish the horror of it. She had already shadowed a senior field medic during response to two similar events. Both deaths had been gruesome and nauseating.

Based on the position of the scars, Espen wondered how they had escaped with an undamaged eye, but she hesitated. As if they sensed her question, Khith continued, “Watch patrol arrived in time and put the thing down. Had a medic with them. She…”

They trailed off abruptly and swallowed hard. Espen didn’t press, and the silence lingered. Eventually, Khith said, “My eye was gone, I was bleeding out. Everything happened too fast, and in the chaos she—she created a new one for me using power she didn’t have.”

Khith left it there, but they didn’t need to elaborate. Espen knew the consequences as well as anyone formally trained in the art of the Weave: at best, the medic would have lost some access to her magic. At worst, the overextension would have killed her. Khith’s tone made the soldier’s fate clear as crystal.

“Khith, I’m so sorry.” Espen relinquished the flyaways she had been pushing away to squeeze their shoulder with her free hand.

They scoffed, some characteristic surliness returning. “You know I hate sympathies and apologies, Danlys, so cut that shit out.”

When she huffed a laugh and returned to her task, Khith said, “Why I enlisted, I guess. To pay it forward.”

“That’s quite noble,” Espen murmured.

“Yeah, well, don’t go spreading it around. Can’t have people thinking I give a damn about anything.” Khith ran a hand over the short fuzz as Espen stepped back and began to clean the shaving razor. “It would ruin my reputation.”

“As if you ever cared about that,” she laughed.

“Ugh, can you imagine? It sounds exhausting. Those Firmament assholes must trance twice as much as the rest of us from the effort of pretense.”

Khith pushed out of the chair and stretched. After they helped sweep up the silvery clippings and Espen had put everything away, they made to leave. When they reached the door, Khith snapped their fingers and said, “Damn, I forgot—I made some of the sweet rice buns you like so much. I’ll bring them tomorrow. They won’t be fresh, but they should still taste good.”

Espen made an exasperated noise. “I told you, me cutting your hair is not a favor to be repaid.”

“And I told you,” Khith drawled, “That’s not what this is. You never ask any of us to do nice things for you, so I’m taking matters into my own hands.”

They turned fully back to her, smile soft in a way she had never seen from them before. “Danlys, everybody wants to love you the way you love them. So let us, alright?”

#two wips fleshed out in two days what is happening #I love tragedy but also I love espen being cared for ykwim #I really really hope khith is actually still alive in the present in game #I simply do not know for sure #the bazzoxan cohort #espen danlys #blue speaks

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whispersinthedawn · 1 year ago

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Concealed in the Coriolis Ch 2

“She is sleeping,” Phlegyas murmured. “Will your work require her to wake up?”

“Perhaps the sleep will have cured her already,” Ixion added hopefully.

“She’s not asleep,” an unknown voice commented. It sounded pleasant enough – melodic, of a low timbre that nonetheless seemed capable of attaining a high pitch. Or it would have been pleasant had the man’s next words not been, “She’s just been running around trying to move tables.”

Percy flushed.

An appalled silence fell over the room before Ixion said weakly, “Ah, Coronis. Do you need help getting up? A priest from the temple of Apollon is here to see you.”

With reluctance, exhaustion, pain, and sleep weighing down his limbs, Percy turned onto his back and pushed himself into a sitting position. Only once he’d propped himself against the headboard and adjusted the blue bedsheet to cover his trembling hands, did he turn to face his visitors.

Ixion had at last put on a chiton instead of walking around with a cloak hastily thrown over his underwear, but Phlegyas had merely combed his hair and replaced his circlet with a more ornate golden band inset with jewels.

And then Percy saw the newcomer who’d spoiled his attempts at surreptitiously gathering information.

The priest looked like Lee.

His blonde curls framed a face tanned from the Sun. A composed smile that invited others to trust him unconditionally spread his lips, and his bright blue eyes could have been compared to the cerulean of a clear sky.

Percy couldn’t help it. He stiffened.

No one missed his reaction. Ixion automatically glared at the young man, his hand going to the sword belted at his waist while Phlegyas’s eyes cooled with suspicion.

The priest's smile disappeared, and an expression of concern crossed his face, “Did the pain worsen, princess?”

The faint hint of mockery in the tilt of the man’s head, the sparkle at his throat from a gold necklet, and even the way the man towered over the figures of Ixion and Phlegyas rang the gong of dissonance.

Percy blinked furiously and the mirage of his dead friend disappeared. He could see the traces that had so disconcerted him, but the differences now glared back at him with the finality of death. The arch of the priest’s eyebrows was different, the slope of his nose sharper, his cheekbones higher, and his jaw more defined. Percy had never paid as much attention to Lee’s mouth, but he was certain that the demigod’s lips had been thinner and not quite so moisturised, what with his habit of unconsciously licking his lips whenever concentrating on something.

And the broad set of shoulders – with a pang of grief, Percy acknowledged all over again that Lee would never get the time to grow into the muscular frame that had been his birthright, that he’d always retain that lanky height and stretched-thin cheeks of a teenager just out of a growth spurt.

He would have worn the same clothes with glee though. The yellow chiton that hung to the priest’s knees, the gold bracelets and necklace, even the gold chains serving as a belt to emphasise his hips – Lee would have adored it. And the purple cloak draped over one of the man’s shoulders with its fine weave and embroidered lines of what was probably poetry, even more. Perhaps not the naked feet, though that might be explained away by the fact that they were in a bed chamber.

Percy forced a stiff smile to his lips, leaned back against the headboard of the sickbed, and smoothed out the fabric of the blue sheet covering his lap. “No,” he said.

“No?” the priest echoed, that same tilt to his head that sent Percy’s hackles up. “Then may I hazard a second guess?”

Percy nodded reluctantly. He didn’t know why, but something about this man stuck in his throat. Abruptly, he didn’t want to ask this priest for help, but a doctor was as good a person as any at diagnosing magical maladies, wasn’t he?

The priest’s smile widened, lending a beauty to his features that really didn’t belong on the face of a man who’d sworn himself to celibacy.

Was Percy the only unattractive person in the family, he wondered morosely. Everyone else wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Hollywood film, but the only girl Percy had ever received a confession from was someone stuck on an island and cursed to fall for people who wouldn’t love her back.

(There had been Annabeth and a kiss they didn’t talk about but – the hope of unspoken sentiments crushed beneath its heeled feet the possibility of rejections baldly voiced.)

“You remembered something,” the priest pronounced with all the gravitas of someone levelling a murder accusation.

“No,” Percy retorted instantly.

“That’s a lie,” the priest rebuked him.

“I didn’t remember it,” Percy elaborated, resentful at having been caught. Did Coronis simply have a particularly truthful face? “I would have needed to forget something in order to remember it in the first place.”

Ixion took a step closer to the priest, the hand around the hilt of his sword a clear threat even the most naive person in the world couldn’t have misunderstood. “Have you met this man before, sister?” he asked, threat dripping off his voice.

“It was a memorable occasion, I gather?” Phlegyas laughed even as his face promised murder if the answer proved untenable.

Percy couldn’t let his annoyance end up with the poor demigod skewered at the end of a prince’s blade. “No,” he replied shortly. “He just reminded me of someone else.”

“Someone beloved?” the priest guessed with an acuity that unsettled Percy.

“He was a friend,” Percy agreed slowly.

Reading the next question off Phlegyas’s eager face, Percy added, “He’s dead now though.”

“Oh,” Phlegyas said, before dithering, clearly at a loss. “I am aggrieved for your sake, daughter,” the man finally said. “To lose those we cherish is one of life’s many inevitable pains, but it is one I would have hoped to shield you from.”

Percy shrugged. “My blood makes that impossible.”

A demigod who didn’t lose friends – did such a life even exist? Even their dreams weren’t realms of halcyon days and fantasies where everyone lived happily ever after but nightmares of blood and gore dripping off every surface. And then they came true.

The priest’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “You are not so close to divinity that monsters would attack you while you are defended by the best of your family’s guards.”

Percy glared at the man even as the reminder that they thought themselves to be conversing with Coronis held his tongue. Coronis had been accompanied by guards all her life. Even the few sojourns she’d taken without overt supervision had been with companions trained to fight with daggers and poison, ready to defend their princess with their lives.

“Stop fishing,” Percy snapped instead.

“Cannot, I am afraid,” the priest demurred with a mischievous smile Percy wanted to punch off his face. “If I am to heal your memory, I first need to nudge it. And the hints you drop are the grains I will follow to the granary.”

***

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#pjo #fanfiction #percy x apollo #perpollo #percy jackson #apollo #apollo x coronis #Concealed in the Coriolis #apollo x percy #Coronis #Apollo in disguise #It's not the god who looks like Lee #It's Lee who looks like Apollo #Don't try lying to the god of truth

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deadtime-stories · 5 months ago

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Apex: Chapter 5

Adult | Sci-Fantasy | Trans MMC | Mechs

First draft is being posted as written. Errors and continuity issues will exist.

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They didn’t go far. This was the top floor of the palace, and at the end of this hallway was a conservatory for the king’s private use. It had always been boring and austere, terribly unimaginative with its square windows and lack of flair, but now as they entered Auren found it converted into Luceris’ personal office.

It was still fairly austere, but more in the vein of a soldier carrying limited possessions than Tiberius’ lack of taste. A few fur throw rugs covered the marble floors, with a few more tossed across a cot set up in the corner. There was a plain desk against one wall and a trunk for clothes against another, and a large, counter-height table in the middle.

The last had several large sheets of paper laid out on it, which Luceris flipped over before Auren had a chance to see.

The server set their dishes out on a smaller table, and Luceris pulled out a chair for Auren to sit. Both felt lightweight but sturdy, built from strong metal with state-of-the-art processes, and Auren knew advanced engineering when he saw it. The General’s aesthetics might be rustic, but the items themselves were modern and well-made.

“You can go,” Luceris told Taryn and Gavan. “I’ll take him to his quarters myself later.”

They nodded and disappeared. Luceris waited for the server to finish and bow her way out, then closed the door and carefully removed the veil once they were alone. He placed it on a small rack, where several other masks and veils of different materials were kept at hand for use.

“So, tell me,” Luceris took his own seat, absently pulling out the tight ribbon holding his hair back in a ponytail and letting the dark waves fall free in the privacy of his own quarters. “This fit they say you had, are you unwell?”

“Calling it a ‘fit’ makes me sound like some kind of fainting maiden,” Auren replied. “I have an adverse reaction when I’m directly exposed to aether.”

“And yet, you piloted an Avatar during the battle.”

“That’s different. Avatars filter aether for power, something in the process refines it. And even then, if I’m exposed for too long I suffer spark mania like I did when we fought. But direct exposure, like you throwing raw aether around the hangar, causes something Castir likens to an allergic reaction.”

“Castir,” Luceris mused, swirling the wine in his glass. “He’s the shrill one who yelled at me when I came back from using your Avatar?”

“Sounds accurate.”

“And this allergy, it’s why you have that contraption on your neck?”

Auren’s hand went automatically to the hormone stabilizer. There were glyphs Aethromancers could imprint on skin that would adjust the physical health of the bearer. They could help the overweight slim down, help the diabetic adjust their insulin, and even stabilize the hormones of those needing HRT. If the person wasn’t made ill by aether, anyway.

“Yeah, that’s why,” he confirmed. “No magical help for me, I have to do everything the hard way.”

“And that’s why you’re mostly confined to the palace.”

Again, Luceris was right. About twenty percent of the human population had some talent with manipulating aether, there was always a huge risk of encountering one while out alone.

“It’s not so bad,” Auren lied. “Like I said, the nobility does a lot of illicit partying when they’re here. And aether use is rare with them, there’s no need to learn magic when your life is already on easy mode.”

Luceris nodded absently.

“Your new Avatar,” he frowned, tapping his fingers on the table. “Sunrise. You said it was battle tested, but you also said nobody uses it but you. How have you tested it without suffering repeated bouts of spark mania?”

He was having an easier time eating without the beaded veil, but his tone and mannerisms were still those of an inquisitor rather than a host tending to a guest.

“I can’t answer that.”

“I already have most of the data from your hangar computers copied and saved,” Luceris warned. “I can just go look for the data I want, you may as well save me the trouble.”

“You’re free to go look,” Auren offered. “But you won’t find anything. I can’t answer you because I don’t have an answer, we haven’t figured out why Sunrise doesn’t affect me the way a regular Avatar does. My guess is because it focuses all aether away from the pilot and into neutralizing nether.”

Luceris didn’t like that answer. His face took on a petulant look, as if Auren was personally spiting him by not nearly dropping dead every time he tested his prototype.

“What do you want from us?” Auren took advantage of the short pause in the conversation. “Nobody’s crossed the southern border in hundreds of years, now suddenly you come out of nowhere and invade. What could Tanas-Ashe possibly have that you want? What are you going to do with us?”

The tapping fingers stopped. Luceris’ gaze remained on Auren’s face, and it took everything he had not to squirm. He was starting to wonder if he’d signed his own death warrant by speaking out of turn when Luceris reached for the wine bottle to refill their glasses.

“It’s almost frightening,” he mused. “Twenty minutes ago, you spoke like a child. Your accent was all wrong and you kept making grammar mistakes. Now you’re using Vesprian words I haven’t even spoken for you to copy, I assume making guesses based on what you already know. Those guesses are terrifyingly accurate, and your accent is becoming flawless.”

The only correct answer to that was to say of course, because learning was what Auren was created to do. But Luceris wasn’t easy to read like Gavan and Taryn, so Auren kept his mouth shut.

“I don’t care about this city,” Luceris admitted lazily, leaning back dangerously far in his chair. “I chose it for two reasons only: Tanas-Ashe is the biggest nation in the north, and it has no allies between its capital and the south. Now that I’ve conquered it, I’m going to rifle through its pockets for anything good then ditch it and go home.”

Auren stared at him, waiting for him to laugh or declare that was a joke.

“You went through three months of warfare for nothing?” He asked stupidly. “What’s the point?”

“The point is in the conquering,” Luceris gave that annoying smirk again. Even without the rush of spark mania, Auren was tempted to smack it off his face. “I’m Vespria’s General, there’s no higher I can go in the military. I’m of a Noble house, but I’ve also hit a social ceiling. The only way I can raise my status further is through a cultural practice involving four seemingly impossible feats of strength. One of those is to conquer a foreign nation and secure the Vesprian Emperor a war bride, the requirements say nothing about keeping this godforsaken snowball under possession.”

Auren thought he might swallow his tongue. He’d never done anything so difficult in his life as biting back that this was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard.

“That’s it?” He managed. “You’re here giving me gray hair because your boss needs a girlfriend?”

“The Empress passed away last year,” Luceris gave a shrug. “I’ve spent the time since then giving a lot of people gray hair, it was your turn. But once I finish vetting the women here, I can go back to Vespria for good. There’s no reason for me or my people to remain in Avrelas, you can all go back to whatever it is you do in this frigid hellhole as soon as we’re on our way.”

An alarm went off, calling Luceris’ attention to his watch, where a hologram popped up with some kind of calendar reminder. It was banished before Auren had a chance to see it, and Luceris rose.

“I have an appointment this afternoon. Time for you to return to your apartment.”

He was once again the no-nonsense General, pulling on a black fabric mask like the ones Taryn and Gavan wore. It was a wall suddenly going up between them, ending any communication, and Auren chose not to poke the bear.

Their walk to his quarters was made in silence, Luceris leading the way and Auren following like a good little prisoner. Gavan and Taryn had returned to their post outside his door at some point, abruptly straightening as their General arrived.

One thing was still bothering Auren, even with the assurance life would be returning to normal soon enough. He wasn’t sure if he’d be speaking to Luceris again, so he took the chance to bring it up.

“This war bride you’re looking for,” he broke the silence while scanning his thumb to unlock his door. “Does she get a say in whether she goes back to Vespria with you?”

“No,” Luceris replied. “Which is why Princess Thessalie is the ideal choice, she’s already been raised to be married off without complaint.”

Auren couldn’t help it. As much as he tried to be reasonable and forget, the day he left Kyrastir was burned into his mind. He was torn away from his family with no time to say goodbye, forced into a small plane and whisked away to an alien place where he knew nothing of the language, customs, or people. The terror he’d felt in those first few days was an open wound that still hadn’t healed, even twenty years later, and the thought of Thessalie being forced to experience that made his blood boil.

“Don’t you dare!” He fumed before he could help himself. “She was raised to marry an ally, someone who she’s grown up spending time with at court and who won’t cut her off completely from her family. She’s not a piece of property for you to drag back with you like a trophy! There are plenty of women crazy enough to volunteer to marry your emperor, leave her alone.”

Luceris’ face was half-hidden, but his eyes lit up like he’d just gotten everything on his list for Wintertide. He leaned down, and Auren could tell he was smirking as he practically purred his response.

“Make me.”

Auren had never felt such a violent flare of indignation as Luceris managed to provoke. He was a man of reason, with excellent self-control and a steady hold on his emotions. Until now, when he did exactly what he’d wanted to do the first time he saw Luceris out on the Stretch and took a swing at his face.

The speed Luceris moved with was the most shocking thing, followed by how hard he slammed Auren into the floor. Auren didn’t even understand how he did it; one moment his fist seemed sure to connect, the next, all four of Luceris’ limbs were moving and Auren was getting a taste of the marble. To add insult to injury, he was completely immobile. Luceris outweighed him, outsized him, and drastically outmuscled him, and had him completely pinned.

“This is disappointing,” Luceris’ voice was colored with a faint, derisive chuckle. “With how fast you learned Vesprian, I expected much more fighting skill.”

Auren lifted his head, just enough to spit the blood from his bitten cheek onto the floor.

“You’re lucky then, I’m not allowed to learn how to fight.”

“Because that would make you dangerous? Impossible to keep as a pet?” Luceris leaned down to speak in his ear, so close Auren could feel the heat on his neck even with the mask he wore. “What a shame. With a pair of daggers and a few weeks of instruction, you could be magnificent.”

Luceris rolled away, hopping up to his feet with a disgusting ease.

“Get off the floor,” he called back as he stalked down the hall. “You’re embarrassing.”

Auren rolled onto his back, wincing at his bruised nose, and flipped rude gestures at Luceris’ back with both hands. Taryn and Gavan said nothing, thankfully averting their gazes from his bloodied face as he stumbled to his feet and retreated into his apartment, feeling a damn sight more than just embarrassed.

#fiction #fantasy #transgender fantasy #lgbtq #writing #original fiction

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thelastspeecher · 2 years ago

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I was minding my own business at work today, just doing something, idly thinking about my nonsense. And then out of nowhere, like a burst of divine inspiration, an exchange that would take place in my Accidental Abduction AU appeared in my brain. And then I wrote a whole scene so that I could put that interaction in something.

So here's a random, out of the blue Accidental Abduction AU write. It takes place immediately following this one. Enjoy.

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Stan followed the girl alien through the spaceship halls. At first, the ship had reminded him of the things on Star Trek. The general shape and construction of the hall and rooms still did, but it wasn’t quite as fancy and clean. The ship looked a bit worn, like it had been used for a long time. There were also intermittent decorations, most of them looking like they were either purchased at a craft fair or made by children at school. Stan slowed to look at a vase that had been tucked away in a corner. He would have expected the vase to house some weird alien plant, but the flowers inside were regular Earth roses.

“My mother loves that kind of flower,” the girl alien said, noticing Stan’s distraction. Stan’s attention quickly snapped back to her. “We do not often go planetside when we are near Earth, but whenever we do, my father insists on procuring some for her. He even found seeds a few trips ago, which has allowed my mother to grow her own. They are not the same, though. Something about our atmosphere or climate makes them grow…different.”

“You guys go to Earth?” Stan asked, walking again. The girl alien began to walk as well. “Like, beam down on the planet?”

“We do go down to Earth, but we land rather than teleport down. My parents are, hmm, hopefully this translates properly. They are…old school. They do not like the teleportation function.”

“Yeah, parents can be sticks in the mud sometimes,” Stan mumbled. He frowned at the very inhuman alien girl. “How the hell do you guys visit Earth without the government capturing you to dissect or whatever?” The alien girl smiled, but this time, to Stan’s relief, hid her needlelike teeth.

“We have our ways of visiting without drawing suspicions.” The hallway suddenly opened into a wide room. A white table, laden with exotic-looking food, was set in the middle of the room, ringed by white stools. Underneath the table was a slick dark red rug and decorations like those in the hallway hung on the walls. An alien with magenta hair like the girl alien and light pink skin was cleaning the kitchen area in the corner. Next to the kitchen area was an entry to another hallway. One of the walls was actually a large window, looking out into the void of space. Stan was tempted to walk over to the window, but before he could, the very first alien that Stan had met on the ship spoke.

“Ah!” said the alien, the father of the family. He was sitting at the table, as was the alien girl’s brother. The alien dad smiled at Stan. “You have finally brought us our guest.”

“He was distracted by the roses.”

“I would imagine he was surprised to see something from Earth on our ship,” said the pink alien cleaning the kitchen. Judging by her voice and general appearance, she was the mom of the family. The alien mom turned around and scowled at her son and daughter. “I am so disappointed in you two for not letting us know early enough to return this poor boy home.” The alien girl and alien boy bowed their heads sheepishly. Stan stood in the entryway awkwardly, uncertain of what to do.

“Please, come sit,” the alien dad said. Stan hesitantly walked over to the table and sat on one of the stools. At first, the seat of the stool was far too low for him, but it automatically adjusted for his height, getting taller until he could reach the table properly.

Makes sense they’ve got their chairs set short. They’re all way taller than me. Stan glanced around, mentally taking stock of the aliens’ heights. The girl and boy were both at least six feet, while the dad was at least seven and the mom was nearing eight. Are women taller than men for this species? The alien dad coughed politely, drawing Stan’s attention.

“When we first met, I was too flustered to ask for your name. Would you mind sharing it with us?”

“Uh, Stan.” When Stan didn’t elaborate, the alien mom prompted him.

“Earth names from your culture tend to consist of a given name and surname. Could you provide us with your full name?” the alien mom asked.

“How do you know about- y’know what, never mind. My full name is Stanley Pines. But call me Stan.”

“Stan,” the alien mom said experimentally. She smiled. “How quaint.”

Dunno if I agree with that assessment, but I’m not gonna argue with the people I have to rely on for the next year. Ugh, I’ve got to depend on these guys for a full fucking year!

“Well, Stan,” the alien dad said, “you will likely be unable to pronounce our names, so we shall have to come up with a workaround for that. Now, however, it is time to eat. We have done our research and made some food that should nourish you well.”

“None of this stuff is gonna poison me?” Stan asked. He suspiciously eyed the item directly in front of him, which looked like a small loaf of bright red bread with blue flecks.

“Correct,” the alien mom said with a nod. “I am familiar with what foods humans can and cannot eat and have removed all items harmful to you from the table.”

“Um. Okay.”

“We will serve you,” the alien boy said quickly. “That way you do not have to worry you are doing something wrong.”

“…Okay,” Stan repeated. He sat silently as the aliens filled a metal plate with the items on the table. When the plate was placed in front of him, he stared at it. Almost everything was a color that made alarm bells go off in his head.

If I saw food on Earth that looked like this, it would either kill me or cost about a thousand bucks. He grimaced. But I don’t really have a choice. Stan picked up the utensil he had been given, which was just a spork, and scooped up the bright orange mashed potatoes with dark red gravy. He hesitantly took a bite. His eyes widened. The “potatoes” tasted like caramelized onions, while the “gravy” had a strong beefy yet cheesy flavor. It combined to form something Stan recognized. This tastes just like French onion soup! What the hell?

The first bite was enough to awaken Stan’s stomach. His hunger now roaring and curiosity about the food piqued, Stan quickly scarfed down everything on his plate. To his delight and confusion, all the food was delicious and most of it tasted like something he’d had on Earth.

“I knew the mashed rom would be a winner,” the alien mom remarked as she watched Stan inhale his food. “It is my mother’s favorite.” Other than that, the alien family left Stan alone during the meal, talking amongst themselves instead of trying to pull Stan into the conversation.

Under most circumstances, I’d be offended. But I’m honestly just relieved. I don’t want to talk to these guys. Stan looked at the alien boy and girl, the closest things he had to peers on the ship. The alien boy noticed and nodded silently at Stan before turning back to his sister. Not right now, at least. I need some space to deal with all this.

Stan finished his first serving, as well as his second and third, before he was satiated. Now that the growling in his stomach had been resolved, a new and urgent need made itself known. Stan crossed his legs and cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the alien family.

“Do you need something, Stan?” the alien dad asked.

“Uh, yeah. Where’s your bathroom?” Stan asked. The aliens all cocked their heads curiously.

“Do you need to bathe?” the alien mom asked.

“I mean, eventually, but not right now.”

“Try a different word,” the alien dad suggested. “Often, the translators work literally, and turns of phrase or odd terminology are translated incorrectly.”

“Um. The restroom?” Stan tried. The alien boy frowned.

“You mean your bedroom?” he asked.

“No! I- ugh.” Stan sighed.

I was trying to be polite. I don’t want to put my foot in my mouth like I usually do. But polite clearly isn’t working.

“I need to take a piss,” Stan blurted out. The aliens all blinked.

“Oh!” the alien boy said. “You are asking for the toilet.”

“Yes.”

“I will show you the way.” The boy alien got up from the table. His sister scowled at him. “What?”

“You offered just to get out of cleaning the dishes,” the alien girl said, crossing her arms.

“No, I did not! I-”

“Neither of you are going to get out of any chores,” the alien mom said. “Your father can help Stan.” The alien kids groaned but began to clear the table. The alien dad and Stan both stood.

“Follow me,” the alien dad instructed. Stan followed the alien dad out of the dining area/kitchen and back into the same hall that he had been through before. “Luckily, your room is next to one of the- what did you call it?”

“Um, a bathroom?”

“An interesting name, given the baths are elsewhere,” the alien dad murmured.

“On Earth they’re in the same room.”

“Odd. Regardless, your room is next to one of the…bathrooms on the ship. The room that actually has the baths, however, is past the eating area. Will you need to bathe before going to sleep?”

It’s been a while since I had a bath that wasn’t just baby wipes…

“Uh, yeah.”

“I will send my son to fetch you from your room after he and his sister have completed their chores.” They arrived in front of yet another circular door. Like the previous doors Stan had seen on the ship, the alien dad placed his hand on the door, causing it to light up purple, then blue, then finally descend into the floor. Before Stan could step into the bathroom, the alien dad spoke again. “I must apologize again for the circumstances under which you came into our lives. Rest assured, we will do our best to make you feel comfortable, perhaps even like one of the family.”

“…Sure.”

“If not family, then at least friends,” the alien dad said. Stan nodded.

“That feels more likely.”

“Then that shall be our goal!” the alien dad said jovially. He smiled as warmly as he could with his nightmarish teeth. “I will be leaving an item you can use to entertain yourself in your room. Please let me know if you would prefer something else.”

“…Sounds good,” Stan mumbled. The alien dad walked away. Stan entered the bathroom, the door closing behind him.

After using the toilet – which was thankfully very Earthlike in design – and struggling with the door a bit, Stan left the bathroom. Now that he had figured out the trick to opening the doors, he entered his bedroom without any issue. There was something placed on the desk in front of the massive window. Stan walked over to it and picked it up. His eyes widened. It was a sketchbook. A small box of writing utensils that looked similar to crayons had been set beside the sketchbook.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Stan walked up to the window. He stared out silently for a few moments. Off in the distance, he could make out some asteroids. Stan walked back to the desk. He sat down, picked up one of the weird space crayons, and set the tip to the paper. The lines were jagged at first, as he got used to the alien writing implement. But eventually, a rough sketch of the asteroids formed. Stan sat back with a small smile on his face.

This, though, I can work with.

#I love this AU so much it's one of my faves and imo one of my most original ones #if people are curious I will share what particular exchange appeared in my head like a heavenly gift #Accidental Abduction AU #Stanley Pines #Angie McGucket #Pa McGucket #Ma McGucket #Lute McGucket #McGucket Family #my writing #my stuff #speecher speaks

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the2flexibleplatform · 11 months ago

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CSS One-Liners to Improve (Almost) Every Project

#css#webdev#listicle

Most of these one-liners will be one declaration inside the CSS rule. In some cases, the selector will be more than just a simple element; in others, I will add extra declarations as recommendations for a better experience, thus making them more than a one-liner —my apologies in advance for those cases.

Some of these one-liners are more of a personal choice and won't apply to all websites (not everyone uses tables or forms). I will briefly describe each of them, what they do (with sample images), and why I like using them. Notice that the sample images may build on top of previous examples.

Here's a summary of what the one-liners do:

Limit the content width within the viewport

Increase the body text size

Increase the line between rows of text

Limit the width of images

Limit the width of text within the content

Wrap headings in a more balanced way

Form control colors to match page styles

Easy-to-follow table rows

Spacing in table cells and headings

Reduce animations and movement

Limit the content width in the viewport

body { max-width: clamp(320px, 90%, 1000px); /* additional recommendation */ margin: auto; }

Adding this one-liner will reduce the content size to occupy 90% of the viewport, limiting its width between 320 and 1000 pixels (feel free to update the minimum and maximum values).

This change will automatically make your content look much nicer. It will no longer be a vast text block but something that looks more structured and organized. And if you also add margin: auto; to the body, the content will be centered on the page. Two lines of code make the content look so much better.

Aligned and contained text looks better than a giant wall of text

Increase the text size

body { font-size: 1.25rem; }

Let's face reality: browsers' default 16px font size is small. Although that may be a personal opinion based on me getting old 😅

One quick solution is to increase the font size in the body. Thanks to the cascade and em units browsers use, all the text on a web page will automatically increase.

Larger text size makes things easier to read.

Increase the space among lines

body { line-height: 1.5; }

Another preference for improving readability and breaking the dreaded wall of text is increasing the space between lines in paragraphs and content. We can easily do it with the line-height property.

Spaces between lines break the wall of text and the rivers of white.

This choice (with the previous two) will considerably increase our page's vertical size, but I assure you the text will be more readable and friendlier for all users.

Limit the size of images

img { max-width: 100%; }

Images should be approximately the size of the space they will occupy, but sometimes, we end up with really long pictures that cause the content to shift and create horizontal scrolling.

One way to avoid this is by setting a maximum width of 100%. While this is not a fool-proof solution (margins and paddings may impact the width), it will work in most cases.

Prevent horizontal scrolling and make images flow better with the text

Limit the width of text within the content

p { max-width: 65ch; }

Another tactic to avoid the dreaded wall of text and rivers of space is to apply this style even in conjunction with the max width in the body. It may look unnecessary and sometimes weird, as paragraphs will be narrower than other elements. But I like the contrast and the shorter lines.

A value of 60ch or 65ch has worked for me in the past, but you can use a different value and adjust the max width to match your needs. Play and explore how it looks on your web page.

Break the bigger chunks of text into smaller blocks for readability

Wrap headings in a more balanced way

h1, h2, h3, h4, h5, h6 { text-wrap: balance; }

Headings are an essential part of the web structure, but due to their larger size and short(-er) content, they may look weird. Especially when they occupy more than one line. A solution that will help is balancing the headings with text-wrap.

Although balance seems to be the most popular value for text-wrap, it is not the only one. We could also use pretty, which moves an extra word to the last row if needed instead of balancing all the content. Unfortunately, pretty has yet to count on broad support.

Balanced wrapping can improve visibility and readability

Form control colors to match page styles

body { accent-color: #080; /* use your favorite color */ }

Another small change that does not have a significant impact but that makes things look better. Until recently, we could not style native form controls with CSS and were stuck with the browser display. But things have changed.

Developing a whole component can be a pain, but setting a color that is more similar to the rest of the site and the design system is possible and straightforward with this one-liner.

It's the small details (and colors) that bring the page together

Easy-to-follow table rows

:is(tbody, table) > tr:nth-child(odd) { background: #0001; /* or #fff1 for dark themes */ }

We must use tables to display data, not for layout. But tables are ugly by default, and we don't want data to look ugly. In particular, one thing that helps organize the data and make it more readable is having a zebra table with alternating dark/light rows.

The one-liner displayed above makes achieving that style easy. It can be simplified to be only tr without considering the tbody or table parent, but it would also apply to the table header, which we may not want. It's a matter of taste.

Easier to follow the data horizontally (by row)

Spacing in table cells and headings

td, th { padding: 0.5em; /* or 0.5em 1em... or any value different from 0 */ }

One last change to make tables more accessible and easier to read is to space the content slightly by adding padding to the table cells and headers. By default, most browsers don't have any padding, and the text of different cells touches, making it confusing to differentiate where one begins and the other ends.

We can change the padding value to adjust it to our favorite size. However, avoid overdoing it to avoid unnecessary scrolling or too much blank space.

Easier to follow data horizontally and vertically

Reduce animations and movement

@media (prefers-reduced-motion) { *, *::before, *::after { animation-duration: 0s !important; /* additional recommendation */ transition: none !important; scroll-behavior: auto !important; } }

Okay, okay. This code is way more than a one-liner. It has a one-liner version (removing animations by setting their duration to zero seconds), but other things on a web page make elements move.

By setting these declarations inside the prefers-reduced-motion media query, we will respect the person's choice to have less movement. This approach is somewhat radical because it removes all movement, which may not necessarily be the user's intent -it is "reduced motion" and not "no motion." We can still preserve movement on a case-by-case basis if appropriate.

No animations? No problem!

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