#Challenges of Open Workspaces

[interiorergonomics]

Balancing Openness and Privacy: Designing Effective Open Office Spaces

Open office spaces have become a prominent trend in workplace design. This so, simply because they promote collaboration, communication as well as a sense of community among teammates. This layout eliminates physical barriers such as cubicles and private offices then resorts to creating a more fluid and flexible environment. Advantages of Open Workspaces: Enhanced Collaboration and…

[diamonddaze01]

WHAT'S UP, DANGER?

ᯓ★PAIRING: williams driver! hansol x aerodynamics engineer! reader | ᯓ★WC: 4.1K ᯓ★GENRE: pure fluff ᯓ★RECOMMENDED LISTENING: what’s up danger, blackway & black caviar → the song williams revealed their 2025 car to! ᯓ★A/N:  purely self-indulgent, based on a conversation i had with @ylangelegy about williams!hansol. // williams looks so strong this year and it’s all because alex albon worked for YEARS to help design this car // side note: i literally pulled out all my old meche and aerodynamics notes to write this. its most definitely inaccurate. oh well

read the rest of the pedal to the metal universe here!

ᯓ★SUMMARY: There were a million things you expected on your first day at Williams, but a driver waiting for you at your desk with a napkin sketch in hand was not one of them.

60 DAYS UNTIL PRE-SEASON TESTING

There were a million things you expected on your first day at Williams, but a driver waiting for you at your desk with a napkin sketch in hand was not one of them.

You barely had time to settle in before a figure appeared at your side. His presence is immediate—Hansol, the team’s lead driver, standing in the doorway like he owns the place.

“Chwe, leave the engineers alone,” a voice calls out from the back. You don’t even need to look up to know it’s your boss, his tone dripping with exasperation. But Hansol doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break his quiet focus. He stands still, arms folded, and waits.

“Got ideas,” he says, like that’s enough. His voice, typically cool and calculated on the track, now carries an edge of something more… urgent.

Your fingers hover over the crumpled napkin he slides across your desk, its surface marked with grease stains and ink smudges. The edges are folded in on themselves, like it’s been stuffed in a pocket a little too long.

You glance up at him. “Do you have an engineering degree?”

“No,” he says, flat. “But I drive the damn car.”

You lean back in your chair, eyeing him carefully. “That doesn’t mean you know how to fix it.”

His eyes narrow, the slightest shift in his posture. “It does mean I know when something’s wrong.”

It’s a challenge.

You pull the napkin toward you, smoothing out the folds, your fingers tracing the lines. The sketch is rough—an almost-doodle��but there’s something in it, a fragment of an idea that, for some reason, makes sense.

“…This is wrong,” you say, tapping a section.

Hansol’s mouth twitches—not quite a smirk, but close. “Prove it.”

And just like that, the war begins.

You don’t back down. You’ve barely settled into your desk, haven’t even finished setting up your workspace, but if this is how things are going to be, so be it. You’re not here to entertain half-baked theories from a driver who thinks seat time makes him an aerodynamicist.

Still, the sketch isn’t complete nonsense. That’s what annoys you the most. The concepts are crude, the numbers nonexistent, but the logic? It’s almost there.

Hansol watches as you grab a pen, flipping open your notebook. “This,” you say, underlining a section, “assumes we’re generating enough downforce at high speed to compensate for the drag penalty.” You tap the napkin. “We’re not.”

For a moment, his expression doesn’t change. But the slight twitch of his mouth, the faintest upward curve, almost imperceptible, is enough to tell you you’re not wrong.

“But what if we could?”

You blink, taken aback by the suggestion.

“Explain,” you murmur, leaning forward.

He steps closer, voice calm but his gaze steady, never leaving you. “I think the lack of load distribution on the floor is messing with stability in high-speed corners. The balance shifts mid-corner—if we get better floor efficiency, we wouldn’t have to compensate so much with the front wing.”

You stare at him. For a driver, he’s making too much sense.

“This is aerodynamics,” you say, finally.

He exhales, almost a sigh, like the answer was obvious all along. “It’s not just a drag issue. It’s an efficiency issue.”

It’s a simple observation. And yet, you know that if you’d said it first, it wouldn’t have sounded nearly as clear.

“Alright,” you say, more to yourself than him, already calculating the possibilities in your head. “I’ll look into it.”

His lips twitch again—there’s something almost amused in it. “Good.”

And then, just like that, he’s gone. The space around you seems to breathe again, the hum of the garage filling the silence. You can’t help but shake your head, a small, disbelieving smile tugging at your lips.

37 DAYS UNTIL PRESEASON TESTING

The simulation runs in loops, numbers flashing across the screen like the world’s most unforgiving clock.

You watch Hansol’s inputs on the virtual track, tracing the movements of the car, every corner, every adjustment, the feedback looping with a precision that almost makes you forget you’re still inside the factory. His movements are sharp, calculated, but something feels off. You can see it immediately—the way the car’s drifting in the corners, the faint shift of the rear end when he throttles too early. It’s all there, hidden beneath the data.

The feedback’s not right. The car’s too unstable in the high-speed sections, and his hands aren’t the problem. The numbers don’t lie: the aerodynamics are throwing everything off. He’s fighting the car, and it’s costing him time in places he can’t afford.

“God, you’re pushing too hard,” you mutter, eyes glued to the screen. You zoom in on the telemetry, tracing the spikes and dips in the graph. A flick of a button and the frame pauses. You scan it again. You can practically feel the instability—every oversteer, every correction. The car’s not talking to him the way it should.

You’re still caught up in the data when you hear him, a shadow falling across the room. His footsteps are silent against the concrete.

“Pushing too hard in Sector 2,” you mutter, your eyes never leaving the screen. The telemetry data’s sharp, slicing through the silence. It tells you everything you need to know.

Hansol leans against the monitors, still in his race suit, his helmet dangling loosely from his hand. His eyes never leave you. You can feel the weight of his gaze, a quiet intensity that somehow fills every corner of the room. The corners of his mouth twitch, just barely, like he’s fighting a grin. “That’s the sector where I have to push.”

You let the data flicker again, deliberately slow, as if it might make him see the picture you’re painting in silence. Then you turn to face him. Arms crossed, you meet his eyes head-on, letting the pause stretch for just a beat too long. “Not if the car’s unstable.” You watch his reaction closely—does he get it? Does he feel it, too? “You’re losing time because you’re fighting it.”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. His eyes drop to the numbers, just for a moment, almost like he’s seeing the simulation for the first time, letting the feedback hit him in a way he hasn’t. It’s like he’s looking for that one elusive piece of the puzzle, the thing you both know is there, but neither of you can quite name yet.

Then he speaks, voice low. “So fix it.”

You exhale slowly, the weight of all the late nights, the endless back-and-forths, the simulations, the math, the wind tunnels. It’s been weeks of this. Not just him—you, too. But when he speaks like that, like it’s simple, like all the parts of this fragile, complicated machine are just waiting for someone to press the right button, you feel a flicker of frustration. Maybe it’s just the exhaustion of being so close and yet so far.

You spin around to face the whiteboard, your fingers digging into the edge. “We’re trying something new in the wind tunnels. If I’m right, it should stabilize corner entry.” The words come out quicker than you intended, like you’re trying to beat the clock, trying to force the car to understand what it should be doing.

His gaze shifts from you to the whiteboard, then back to your face, cool and unwavering. “If you’re wrong?”

You can almost hear the smile in his voice, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him yet. Instead, you tap the edge of the table, focusing on the data again, the swirl of numbers almost a distraction. “Then you owe me drinks.”

There’s a beat of silence, but you can feel him. You can feel the air shift with his grin, the quiet twitch of his lips. “I feel like that should be the other way around.”

“Too late.” Your tone is final, and you turn back to face him, finally meeting his eyes. There’s something in them, something that says this isn’t over. It’s never over between you two—not really.

His lips curl into a half-smirk, but it’s fleeting. Then, with one last glance at the screens, he pushes himself off the desk, straightening up in a way that somehow makes him seem taller, broader, even more imposing. “We’ll see.”

And just like that, he’s gone—his footsteps fading into the hum of the garage, leaving behind only the faint echo of his presence.

For a long moment, you’re left alone with the buzzing of your thoughts, the unrelenting tick of the clock, and the quiet hum of anticipation that still lingers in the air. 

His challenge hangs there, like a dare. 

Fix it.

23 DAYS UNTIL PRESEASON TESTING

The hum of the factory feels too quiet now that the team’s gone home. The last of the lights flicker in the hallway outside your office, and even the sound of the ventilation seems muted, like the whole building’s winding down for the night. Except you’re still here, hunched over your desk, staring at a CAD model that’s starting to blur. The screens in front of you are all you can see—numbers, lines, angles, just another late-night grind that hasn’t gone right.

You’re on your third cup of coffee, trying to ignore the tickle at the back of your eyes, the pull of exhaustion you know will hit hard in a few hours. But there’s something—something that’s not clicking with the design. You can feel it, a faint tug in your gut like a thread you can’t quite pull.

The soft chime of the door makes you pause, just long enough to listen. Someone’s here.

You don’t need to look up.

“Thought you’d still be here.”

His voice slides through the air, casual but unmistakable, and you glance up for a fraction of a second, catching Hansol in the doorway. He’s holding a bag in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his jacket. His eyes are already on you, the same quiet intensity, but there’s something else there now—like a challenge you don’t quite understand.

You raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting some rest?”

He shrugs, stepping into the room with the same slow, deliberate stride that’s always made you notice him, even if you pretend you don’t. His gaze flickers over the CAD models still open on your screen, the complex curves of the car’s floor design stretched out in digital space.

“Can’t sleep.” He pauses for a beat, his lips twitching just slightly. “Couldn’t help noticing you’re about two seconds away from crashing your computer.”

Your fingers hover over the mouse, stilling for a moment as you absorb the comment. You want to shoot back something sharp, something about not needing anyone’s help, but instead, you just lean back in your chair, eyes still on the screen. “I’m fine.”

He steps closer, that bag of food still in his hand. You hear the crinkle of paper, and then a faint, familiar scent hits your senses—something warm, comforting, like… your favorite late-night food. A small frown pulls at your lips. How did he know?

You look up this time, meeting his gaze fully. He’s standing there, holding the bag out to you like it's the most casual thing in the world, though there’s a flicker of something in his eyes you can’t place.

“You’re the only one in this building still awake,” he says, his voice low, like it’s a joke only he gets. “Figured you could use some actual food.”

Your stomach gives a small, almost imperceptible growl, and you curse yourself for it. He smirks, ever so slightly, like he’s enjoying it.

“I didn’t order—”

He cuts you off, tone almost teasing. “I know. I did.”

The bag smells of something rich, comforting, and you know exactly what it is before you even open it. You never told him you liked it. Never had to.

“Thanks,” you murmur, taking the bag from him, fingers brushing briefly against his. It’s a simple moment, one you could pretend didn’t mean anything—but it does.

He stands there for a second, watching you as you dig through the bag. His eyes don’t leave you, not for a second. There’s something unspoken hanging in the air, like the weight of the last few weeks suddenly becomes tangible.

“Don’t eat too fast,” he says, his tone careful now, like he’s trying to sound casual, but it isn’t. It’s not casual. He’s not casual.

You glance up at him, eyes narrowing in that way that says you’re trying to find the right words. “Why? Afraid I’ll choke?”

Hansol’s lips quirk up, just the smallest curve of a smile. “Not at all.” He shifts his weight, his gaze shifting just a fraction of a second before he looks at you again. “But if you crash, I’ll have to deal with your stubborn ass on the track tomorrow.”

The words hit you differently this time. You swallow a bite, the food almost tasteless for a moment as your pulse spikes, but you don’t let it show.

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. So you eat instead, letting the quiet hang between you like a conversation that never happened, or one that’s already been said too many times. The tension lingers in the space, unspoken and real, like a race about to start without either of you quite ready for the gunshot.

Hansol doesn’t move. He stays by the door, arms crossed now, watching you like he’s waiting for something. Or maybe just watching because it’s easier than saying what’s in his head.

After a long silence, he shifts on his feet, clearing his throat. “Well, I’m going to head out,” he says, but the words don’t quite match the way his eyes linger a moment longer than they should. “You’ve got things covered here, right?”

You glance up at him, meeting his gaze. For a heartbeat, the world stops moving. The air crackles, like it’s charged with something neither of you can quite place.

“Yeah,” you say, voice steady, “I’ve got it.”

He doesn’t nod, doesn’t say anything else. Just turns, walking out the door like he’s leaving, but in a way, you know he isn’t. Not really.

The door clicks shut behind him, and the quiet settles in again, but it’s different now.

12 DAYS UNTIL PRESEASON TESTING

It’s late (again), hours stretching into an endless hum of calculations and adjustments. You’ve got the CAD program open on the screen in front of you, the numbers and simulations blending together into an intricate mess of numbers that don’t quite line up the way you need them to. You’re getting close, but every time you adjust something, it seems to get worse.

Hansol is perched on the corner of the big oak conference table, legs swinging idly as he watches you. You don’t know when he’s been here for so long, but you’re too caught up in the data to care. The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the screen, and all you can focus on is the problem at hand.

You tap a few more keys and tweak the load distribution again. A faint furrow creases your brow. It’s not working. It’s not supposed to be this complicated.

“Have you considered adjusting the load distribution across the rear end in sector three?” His voice cuts through the silence, casual but pointed.

You blink, pausing mid-swipe. “What?”

“You’re carrying too much load through the rear tires. That’s why the car’s losing stability at entry.” He leans forward, resting his arms across his knees. “It’s not about the front oversteer. It’s about how the rear is reacting when you try to push through.”

You furrow your brow, trying to break it down in your head. You’ve been running numbers all night—all week—but this? This isn’t something you’ve even thought to look at. The rear distribution.

You swipe through the numbers, pulling up the load distribution graph again, zeroing in on sector three. Your finger taps against the screen, the familiar patterns of tire wear and load data flashing in front of you.

“Look,” Hansol continues, “in sector three, you’re bleeding too much load from the rear tires when you hit the apex. It’s causing them to slip earlier than expected, but the data just… doesn’t show it. The front’s fine, but the rear’s handling it all wrong.”

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. You adjust a few parameters on the screen, pulling the load distribution slider across. You’re silent for a long stretch, watching the numbers shift, recalculating, mentally reviewing every twist in the data.

And then, it clicks.

The back end of the car is too soft, under-loaded during that critical entry phase. No one’s noticed because they’ve all been looking at the front tires—trying to balance the downforce and stabilize the load there—but the rear is what’s tipping it over the edge.

Your fingers fly across the keyboard, adjusting the balance, redistributing the force, smoothing the curves, and—there. The graph sharpens into place. The load is spread evenly now, the numbers lining up in a way that feels… right. The data shifts, the simulation running smoother.

You let out a yelp, loud enough that Hansol nearly falls off the edge of the table. He scrambles for a second, eyes wide. “What the hell was that?”

Before you can even think, you’re off your chair and lunging toward him, throwing your arms around his neck in an unexpected, victorious hug. You barely even register it happening. The relief, the rush, the moment where everything finally clicks.

“I got it,” you gasp into his shoulder, your voice almost too loud in the quiet room. It’s raw excitement, an emotion you didn’t even know you were holding in until now.

Hansol’s hands come up to steady you, instinctively wrapping around your waist. He’s still a little stunned, but the hint of a grin pulls at the corner of his lips. “You’re crazy,” he mutters, though there’s something almost amused in his voice. He doesn’t pull back, not immediately, even as you start to realize how much closer you are to him than usual.

You pull away, breath still coming in quick bursts, suddenly aware of the awkwardness of the moment. Your face heats up, your gaze flickering away from his. “Sorry,” you mumble, feeling ridiculously self-conscious now. “I—uh, I didn��t mean to—”

But Hansol doesn’t move away. Instead, his fingers brush against the skin under your eyes, where your bangs have fallen messily, and with a gentleness that catches you off guard, he sweeps them back. His thumb skims across your face, cool and soft. His gaze is steady, but his smile? It’s that damn knowing smirk.

“Well done,” he says, his voice quiet, but there’s a certain weight to it. “Now get some rest.”

You blink, a little dazed from everything—because somehow, in the span of a few seconds, it feels like something’s shifted.

But before you can figure out what to say, he pulls back just enough to head for the door, voice lingering in the space between you both. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t screw this up.”

And it’s teasing. It’s definitely teasing. But there’s something else there, too. Something you can’t quite name.

FORMULA 1 ARAMCO PRE-SEASON TESTING 2025 Track: Bahrain International Circuit

The heat wraps itself around everything, clinging to your skin like a second layer. You pay it no mind, too focused on the tablet in front of you and the way your pulse thunders in your throat. 

The first lap comes in. Solid. Not great, but solid. The engineers around you murmur, their eyes glued to their own screens, fingers moving with purpose. The air smells like oil and exhaust, the sound of tires skimming over tarmac cutting through the stillness.

The second lap is better. A little faster, a little smoother. You feel the shift, the subtle change in the rhythm. He’s finding it. But it’s the fourth lap that makes your heart skip.

By then, you’re leaning forward so far that your fingers are starting to cramp on your tablet. You can hear every breath you take, every soft click of your nails as you tap through the data. The sector times pop up, a blur of numbers that doesn’t make sense until you read it again. Purple. Purple. Purple.

The screen feels alive in your hands. The tires are biting, the engine roaring to life with a speed you didn’t expect to see today. Hansol’s pushing. Not just the car, but the limits of everything.

A small part of you wants to look away. It feels too much like waiting for a train to derail. You don’t, though. Your eyes stay glued to the screen, each new sector time only adding to the rush building in your chest. The screen flashes again, and your fingers go cold despite the heat around you.

FASTEST SPEED TRAP

The corners of your mouth pull into a triumphant smile without you even realizing it.

Hansol’s lap finishes, and the moment hangs for a beat longer than it should, the sound of the car coasting back to the pit lane filling the silence like a distant drumbeat. You hear him before you see him. The way his engine still hums in the pit lane, the roar of the crowd inside his head, even though the only sound that remains is the distant squeal of tires.

The garage doors roll up as the car pulls in, and when Hansol climbs out, his helmet comes off with the same easy grace he’s always had. His face is flushed, sweat dripping down his neck, but there’s something different about the way he moves. More electric. More alive.

He strides over to you without hesitation, his eyes already locked on yours, a grin spreading across his face. It’s not the usual cocky smile he pulls when he’s already feeling himself. This one’s satisfied, a little wicked, but mostly: I told you so.

You straighten up, trying to hide the way your chest tightens at the sight of him—his fireproofs clinging to his skin, droplets of sweat rolling down his neck in that way that makes you wonder if you’ve ever seen him before. Or if you’d been too busy pretending not to notice him.

He stops in front of you, and for a second, you don’t know what to say.

Then he breaks the silence. “The napkin never lies.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrays you. “Shut up, Hansol.” 

Your voice doesn’t match the words. It’s harder than you meant, quieter than you thought, but he just laughs, that low, breathless sound that cuts through the air with ease. It’s a laugh full of energy and sweat and something else you can’t quite place.

“I’ll let you make it up to me with drinks after,” he says, still catching his breath, chest rising and falling from the exertion, as if he hasn’t just shredded the track in a way you didn’t think was possible for him.

You squint at him, narrowing your eyes like you’re trying to figure out if he’s still teasing or if there’s something more hidden in his words. “Are you asking me out?” you ask, only half-joking.

For the first time today, he falters. Just the slightest hesitation. His eyes flicker away from you, then back again, like he’s unsure whether to give a response or not. He just shrugs, a small shrug, one that somehow feels like a challenge all on its own. “And if I am?”

A laugh nearly slips from your lips before you catch yourself. You could press him, make him answer, but instead, you gather your things in a motion that’s almost too casual to be believed.

“Took you long enough,” you reply, the words slipping out before you even process them.

He doesn’t say anything else, but his eyes linger on you for a beat longer than necessary. Then, without warning, he leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath against your ear.

“You’re buying the first round,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost intimate.

You freeze, the words sinking in a little too deep. When you turn to meet his eyes, there’s that same challenge, but with a quiet intensity that makes it impossible to look away.

“Count on it,” you reply, barely above a whisper, as he walks out. 

The moment hangs in the air long after he’s gone.

[princesscait26]

Oh Deer

Alastor x Y/n

Summary: What happens when y/n uses Alastors mug.

The morning hummed with the promise of a new day at Hazbin Hotel. Y/n, feeling the pull of caffeine, ventured downstairs to the kitchen, her eyelids heavy with the remnants of sleep. A cursory glance at her array of cups revealed a mountain of unwashed dishes, prompting a tired sigh. Resigned, she reached for the nearest ceramic, which happened to be Alastor's iconic mug emblazoned with the words "Oh Deer." A mischievous grin crept across her lips as she imagined the chaos she could sow with this borrowed cup.

Pouring herself a generous serving of coffee, she indulged in a sinful amount of sugar and cream, relishing the sweetness that danced across her taste buds. With her concoction in hand, she sauntered into the living room of the lobby, her tail swishing behind her with excitement, ready to tackle the day's challenges.

From his post at the bar, Husk's bleary eyes widened in horror as he spied Y/n cradling Alastor's prized possession. Panic clawed at his chest as he approached her, snatching the mug, his voice a frantic whisper. "Are you out of your mind? He'll have your head for this," he hissed, the fear in his tone.

Y/n chuckled, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she defiantly reclaimed the mug. "Relax, Husk. I'm just a doe enjoying her morning brew," she quipped, her smirk daring him to challenge her further.

Husk's expression wavered between disbelief and trepidation, but ultimately, he decided to wash his hands of the impending chaos. With a resigned shake of his head, he retreated to the safety of the bar, determined not to be caught in the crossfire of Y/n's antics and Alastor's wrath

———————————————————————

Alastor, the illustrious radio demon, embarked on his customary routine. With each step echoing a sense of purpose, he descended into the kitchen, eager to fuel himself with the elixir of wakefulness before ascending to the radio tower for another captivating broadcast, replete with reminders of those who dared to cross him.

However, his meticulously planned morning took an unforeseen detour as he reached for his prized mug, only to find it conspicuously absent from its designated spot. A flicker of confusion danced across his features before morphing into a scowl of irritation. The scent of coffee hung heavy in the air, betraying evidence of recent use. How could anyone be audacious enough to pilfer his cherished vessel?

Venturing into the lobby, Alastor's keen eyes swept over the familiar faces occupying the space. Husk diligently tending to the bar avoiding his bosses gaze, Charlie engaged in animated conversation with Angel Dust, and Vaggie brushing Charlie’s hair—all mundane scenes in contrast to the brewing storm within Alastor's mind.

Yet, it was the sight of Y/n, nestled comfortably amidst a sea of paperwork, cradling a cup of coffee in her hands, that drew Alastor's attention like a moth to flame. A devilish grin spread across his lips as he honed in on the object of his suspicion.

Approaching with predatory grace, Alastor loomed over his favorite little doe, his presence casting a palpable shadow over her workspace. With a tilt of his head and a glint of mischief in his eye, he addressed her in a melodic tone that belied the underlying threat. "What have we here, my dear?" he crooned, his voice a siren's call of danger.

Y/n met his gaze with feigned innocence, her lashes fluttering as she summoned her most pure expression. "Just a cup of coffee, darling," she replied, her voice dripping with sweetness as she dared him to challenge her façade.

A tension lingered between Alastor and Y/n, their relationship a delicate dance of affection and provocation, evident to all who dwelled within its walls. Over time, they had forged a bond woven with pet names and whispered endearments, their connection an open secret among the patrons who watched with bated breath as their story unfolded.

As Y/n sat, in the familiar warmth of Alastor's presence leering against her, sending a cascade of shivers down her spine. His voice, a velvet purr, tickled her ear as he leaned in close, his breath ghosting over the nape of her neck. “That belongs to me, cheri.” Y/n was at a loss for words, heart pounding in her chest and her face as red as Alastor’s ears. With deliberate intent, he materialized before her, his proximity a deliberate distraction as he reached for the mug cradled in her grasp.

A pout graced Y/n's lips as she resisted his advance, her fingers tightening around the mug as if daring him to challenge her claim. Alastor, undeterred by her defiance, closed the distance between them, his nose almost touching hers and his gaze locking with hers in a silent challenge. The tension in the room could be cut with a knife, every eye trained on the unfolding drama, anticipation crackling in the air like electricity.

Charlie, her smile a beacon of encouragement, stood hand in hand with Vaggie, their shared anticipation mirrored in the gazes they exchanged. Husk, his expression a mixture of concern and resignation, braced himself for the inevitable fallout, while Angel Dust held his breath in rapt anticipation, his eyes fixed on the unfolding spectacle.

With bated breath, Y/n awaited Alastor's response, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of apprehension and desire. As he took the mug from her grasp, a triumphant smile graced his lips, the thrill of victory evident in his crimson gaze. He went to retreat as he thought he had won but, Y/n seized his hand with a surge of newfound confidence, pulling him close in a bold display of affection.

“This belongs to me” she says and their lips meet in a fervent kiss, the world around them falling away as they surrendered to the undeniable pull of their attraction. For a moment, time stood still, the only sound echoing through the lobby the soft murmur of their mingled breaths.

As the kiss lingered, a resounding crash shattered the fragile stillness, the sound of breaking glass punctuating the moment jolting them back into reality. Alastor, his resolve crumbling like the shards of his shattered porcelain cup, returned Y/n's embrace with both hands and a passion that ignited the room, their connection transcending the confines of words and gestures.

In the aftermath of their impulsive display, the patrons of the hotel stood in stunned silence, their shock palpable as they beheld the wreckage of Alastor's beloved mug lying in ruins upon the floor. Yet, amidst the debris, a newfound understanding dawned, as they witnessed the depth of Alastor's devotion laid bare in the wreckage of his shattered mug, a sacrifice made in favor of a love that defied all expectations.

Amidst the scattered remnants of Alastor's shattered mug, Nifty, the ever-efficient maid of the Hazbin Hotel, sprung into action with characteristic zeal. "A mess, I'll clean it," she declared, her voice ringing with determination as she swiftly gathered the fragments littering the floor.

[slytherin-princess-x]

Catch me if I fall pt.2

Theodore nott x clumsy!reader

The pages of the advanced potions book fluttered under my fingertips as I thumbed through the beautifully illustrated diagrams. Each potion recipe seemed to pulsate with a promise of power and mastery, igniting a spark of excitement in me. As I read, I felt a sense of purpose wash over me; maybe I wasn’t just the clumsy girl in Slytherin after all.

“Have you ever made any of these potions before?” Theodore asked, leaning casually against the table. The library’s soft lighting caught the glint of his dark hair, creating an ethereal halo around him. I could feel his gaze on me, his interest genuine and reassuring.

“Not really,” I admitted, glancing up. “I’ve mostly stuck to the basics. But I want to try something new, something that challenges me.” I shifted my weight, my nerves stirring. “There’s a potion in here called the Potion of Secrets. It says it reveals hidden truths when consumed. Sounds intriguing, doesn’t it?”

“The Potion of Secrets?” Theodore raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Are you sure you want to uncover secrets? What if you learn something you wish you hadn’t?”

I chuckled, but the thought lingered. What kind of secrets could be unearthed? I glanced back at the page, tracing the elegant script with my finger. “I think it would be worth it. Plus, it could be useful in class or—”

“Or it could expose your love for someone,” he interrupted, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

My heart raced, and I felt the heat rise to my cheeks once more. “Theo!” I exclaimed, feigning annoyance, though part of me knew he was right. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” He leaned closer, and the playful banter we shared felt charged with something deeper. “You’re not the only one with secrets, you know. Maybe I’d like to know what you really think about me.”

I opened my mouth to retort but paused, caught in the intensity of his gaze. Was there something more behind his words? “Okay, fine,” I said, trying to play it cool despite the tumultuous emotions swirling within me. “Let’s say I do want to make it. Will you help me?”

Theodore straightened up, his expression shifting from playful to serious. “Of course. We can meet in the potions lab after dinner tomorrow. But be careful; potion-making can be tricky, especially with something as volatile as the Potion of Secrets.”

The next day, anticipation coursed through me as I gathered the ingredients I would need for the potion: crushed dragon root, powdered moonstone, and a few others that I hoped wouldn’t explode or turn me into something unspeakable. As I placed everything into my satchel, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this potion would change things between Theodore and me.

The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a warm glow over the castle as I entered the potions lab. The familiar scent of herbs and spices enveloped me, providing comfort even as my heart raced with nervous excitement. Theodore was already there, his sleeves rolled up, meticulously organizing the workspace.

“You made it,” he said, his smile genuine, but there was a hint of mischief in his eyes as he glanced at my satchel. “Ready to unveil some secrets?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied, taking a deep breath and trying to steady my nerves. Together, we set to work, following the intricate instructions in the book. The atmosphere was charged, filled with the heady scent of boiling potions and the palpable tension of unspoken feelings.

As we stirred the cauldron, I stole glances at Theodore, marveling at how effortless he made everything look. He was a natural; his movements fluid and graceful, just like the other Slytherins. Yet here we were, shoulder to shoulder, sharing this moment.

“Okay, the final ingredient,” Theodore said, handing me a vial filled with a shimmering liquid. “This is the essence of truth. Add it slowly. If it’s too fast, we’ll end up with a mess.”

My hands trembled as I uncorked the vial, pouring it in with great care. The cauldron emitted a vibrant glow, and the mixture bubbled excitedly. “Is it supposed to do that?” I asked, my voice a mix of excitement and trepidation.

Theodore leaned closer, watching intently. “I think we’re on the right track. Just a bit longer…”

As the potion simmered to a slow boil, I could feel the tension in the air intensifying. “What happens if we drink it?” I asked, my heart racing.

“Only one way to find out,” he replied, the weight of his words hanging heavily between us. “But remember, we might learn things we didn’t want to know.”

I looked into his eyes, feeling a blend of fear and thrill at the prospect of uncovering hidden truths—both about the potion and about us. As the potion cooled, I took a deep breath, my resolve solidifying. “Let’s do it.”

With a steady hand, we each poured a small amount of the potion into two goblets. Our eyes met, and in that moment, the world around us faded. It was just the two of us, standing on the precipice of something monumental.

“To secrets revealed,” Theodore said, raising his goblet, his gaze unwavering.

“To secrets revealed,” I echoed, my heart pounding in anticipation. We clinked our glasses together and took a sip.

The potion’s warmth spread through me, a rush of energy that felt electric. I gasped, caught between exhilaration and uncertainty, the room swirling around us as our hearts beat as one.

And then, everything shifted.

I could feel the pulse of magic in the air, and in that moment, the true nature of our secrets began to unravel, each sip pulling us closer to truths we were both afraid to face.

Taglist: @yootvi @redeemingvillains @littlemadamred @smut-anarchy

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Great Expectations 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Professor Holmes’ class is your most difficult, but he’s about to make it even more challenging.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (modern AU)

Note: monday

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Friday arrives too quickly for your likely. Amid the usual cluster of readings, lectures, and assignments, you have Professor’s Holmes’ additional task to add to the pile. It feels unfair that he would point out your own efforts only to force more upon you. His praise hardly seems like that in retrospect. 

That you did the readings likely made your experience simpler, though the vague instructions leave you uncertain. No rubric, no objectives, no outline. Your format in the usual style and triple-check the word count before you resign yourself to fate or fortune, whichever favours you. 

As usual, Professor Holmes prefers a physical copy, neglecting the digital workspace designed by the campus for ease of access. He doesn’t seem to be the type for the easy way out, does he? You try not to malinger on your gripes and head off, promising to reward yourself with a double whip frap for your work. It’s certainly more than you’ll receive from your professor, even if you do manage to gleam your first A+ from the man. 

The softness of autumn mingles with the crispness of early winter. You mourn the orange and yellow leaves as they start to curl at the edges and brown, blowing across the pavement and catching on pantlegs and tree roots. Midterm season is almost over but it won’t be long before finals rise to haunt you. 

You come up the Herringbone building and look up at the romanticist arches and columns. The esteemed architecture has you feeling even smaller. Surely, the professor will only add to that. 

Inside, the air is dry from the heat blowing from the high vents and curved staircases crest the foyer. You follow the left one up and continue along to the small set of steps that lead up to a hallway with only three office doors. Holmes is at the very end. You went there once before when you needed to be signed into the course; he was certain to make you wait then threatened not to sign the form at all. 

You stop and stare at the frosted glass with his pedigree emblazoned on it. You contemplate just shoving the paper through his slot but the light is on. You raise your fist and gently tap on the wood. You bounce on your feet as you wait, tugging at the itchy collar of the blue sweater dotted with little clouds. In the warmth of the stuffy building and under your wool jacket, it’s stifling. 

You hear movement from within and ready yourself for the encounter. You don’t think you’ve ever talked to Professor Holmes without some degree of awkwardness. On your end, of course. He can’t be bothered to care what others think of him. 

The door opens and you try to smile but it feels like chewing rocks. He looks back at you without an ounce of emotion. You gulp. 

“Um, Professor, I have my paper--” 

He’s already walking away as you stand dumbly in the doorway. You blanch as he circles back to his desk and sits heavily in his seat. He leans forward and dips his head, bending over an open leather folio with a lined pad within. A curl falls onto his forehead and he reaches without looking for the pipe propped up on a mahogany tray. 

“Come in,” he says before he puts the pipe to his lips and bites down. He teethes on it as he snatches up a pen with his other hand. You warily obey and cross the threshold. 

“So, um, here you go,” you near the desk and lay down the stapled paper. He doesn’t look up. “Erm, thanks, professor. I hate to disturb, so I’ll just leave it here--” 

He sighs and sits up, flicking back the curl as he replaces the pipe on the tray, “they won’t let me light that, even with the window open.” 

You glance over at the drawn curtains and nod, “oh.” 

“You’re the first,” he interjects before you can summon any sort of response. 

“Ah, oh--” 

“You are rather quick, aren’t you?” He challenges as he rolls the pen between his fingers, his shoulders spreading wide against the puckered leather chair, “fleet of foot, as some Victorian ponce might say. Quiet.” 

You blink and purse your lips, giving a shrug. 

“You didn’t say hello,” he intones, “it is courteous when you see an acquaintance to greet them, though I suppose etiquette does continue to change.” 

“Um, I didn’t want to... impose?” You murmur. 

His expression remains cryptic. You can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused or something else. 

“So you didn’t,” he shrugs, his vest bracing on his chest. 

“Sorry, er, sir. But um, there’s my paper, I’ll... let you be. I’m sure you’re busy enough--” 

“Terribly busy,” he confirms dryly. “Since I’ll have a new batch of papers to mark, I’ll be kept well in hand.” 

You clasp your hands together and sway, “right, uh--” 

“And you’ll be off like the rest of those dull girls, paying no mind to the real purpose of study, but rather the wordly pleasures of the modern campus. All that pumpkin spice and such.” He reprimands. 

“Oh, uh, professor...” you know better than to argue. He is set in his ideas of his students and what should make you any different than the rest. 

“Right then,” he reaches for your paper and barely glances at the title page. He flips to the short essay and his eyes skim. He reaches for the antique pen and marks up the page as he goes. He hums as he scratches with the nib. “Good point but clunky prose. No, redudant.” He scribbles his comments in the margins. He turns to the second page and sighs. He closes it and holds it out. “You show comprehension but you need refinement.” 

“Um, thanks, er...” you take it hesitantly and back up again. He watches you with his bold blue eyes, not showing a single crack in his veneer. 

“Go off and enjoy your weekend, don’t fret over the fault of others. Certainly, you show more promise than most who haunt my lectures,” he says. His tone is flat but his words are praising. The contradiction has you off-foot. 

“Thank you, Professor, have a good weekend too.” 

He doesn’t respond as he puts his attention back to another stack of papers. You turn on your heel slowly and scurry to the door. He clears his throat and you stop. 

“Perhaps I mightn’t have such a tedious weekend.” 

You glance back but he still has his head down. You nod and leave him be with a sharp inhale. You hold your breath in until you close the door from the other side. 

Only a few more weeks and you’ll be through this class. Hopefully, you won’t ever have to face the heart palpitations that come with each encounter after that. For now, you will focus on the last paper and the eventual exam. Those are hurdles that look higher the closer you get. 

📕

There’s a cafe off campus you prefer. The library kiosk and the franchised booth in the Student Rec Centre are always overcrowded. This place isn’t so bad. A local mom and pop with a single barista. Maude, the retiree turned businesswoman, works slowly but efficiently. Traffic matches her pace but is enough to keep her thriving. 

“I’ll bring it to you, dearie,” she smiles as she hands you a plate with a crumbly scone on it. You thank her and go to find a seat. 

The place is homey. The seating is mismatched. There are armchairs around a low coffee table, some long tables with thrift store dining chairs, and square table in the corner with two benches and some stools. The rug that stands center to the sitting space is faded but its patterns still visible. 

You claim one of the armchairs near the bookcases and sit. Despite the tense submission, you’re glad not be stressing over another mark. Another A- to add to the rota in Holmes’ class. You could do a lot worse given what you’ve overheard from your classmates. 

The door opens and closes, letting in a chilly. You keep your coat on as you balance the scone on the coffee table. You’ll wait until you have your mocha and savour them together. It’s a rare treat but the dropping temperature coaxed you into it. 

A familiar baritone pricks your ears. You glance over before you can bury your nose in your phone and flinch. What luck. You almost doubt it’s a coincidence. Twice in a row you’ve managed to stumble upon the Professor outside of class. 

Your shoulders sink as you turn back and plant your elbow on the armrest, shielding your face behind your hand. What do you do? Your mind races. Despite what he said in his office he does not radiate welcoming energy. You can’t just flee and leave your order behind; it isn’t fair to Maude and you wouldn’t want to waste the money. 

Professor Holmes’ voice carries. He orders a black coffee and two shortbread biscuits; the Saturday special. The elder barista takes his order and as usual, bids him to sit down so she can bring it to him. You chew your lip as time ticks on. Make up your mind. 

Too late.  

“Pardon, oh,” Holmes approaches and gives pause as you look up at him. “You aren’t reserving these for your friends?” 

He gestures to the other arm chairs. You shake your head and clasp your phone tight in your hands. He dips his chin and sidles around the coffee chair. He removes his jacket and hangs it on the rack between the bookshelves. He lingers there as he browses the titles on the spines. 

Maude appears with your mocha in a large mug on a matching saucer. You thank her as she sets it by your scone. She calls over to Holmes, “I’ll have your coffee and biscuits in just a moment, dearie.” 

He turns his head and nods but says nothing else. She shuffles off and you lean forward to take your mug. Somehow your chocolatey treat doesn’t seem so sweet any more. He backs up and lowers himself across from you. You shyly return his gaze over the brim of your cup. 

“You come here often?” He asks. 

The question has you off-guard as much as his presence. You slurp noisily before you pull the cup away and put it down. You take the napkin by your scone and wipe your lips. 

“Sometimes. Once in a while. Er, I... I make my coffee at home. Tea, more often.” You clamp your lip shut before you can ramble on. 

“Mm, yes, I prefer tea as well. I was suggested the dark roast here by a colleague however.” 

You don’t know what to say. You’re entirely unprepared for the conversation. You’ve never thought much of what he might speak of outside his lectures. His interests, you assume, would align with his expertise. 

“You are enjoying your time? You haven’t any schoolwork?” He asks. 

You slant your lips one way then the other. You look down at the bag by your feet and back at him. He wears a wool sweater with elbow patches; not quite casual but casual for him. 

“I was going to do my readings...” you say. 

“Ah,” he sits back in the chair as Maude brings his coffee and biscuits. He thanks her tersely. 

You bend over and reach for your bag. You slide out your notebook and open it to the printed articles stashed between the pages. You hope it’s enough of an excuse not to talk as much. 

“My class?” He asks. 

“Yes, sir, er, Professor,” you answer. 

“Those are available digitally, as I understand.” 

“I know, but I, er, prefer print.” 

“Mm, yes, it does permeate more effectively, doesn’t it?” He intones. 

You agree with a silent nod and try to focus. You’re too shy to check if he’s watching you but it feels like he is. He sighs and sips from his cup. 

“What were you on the hunt for then?” He asks abruptly before you can read the introduction for the fifth time. You look up, perplexed. “At the craft store?” 

You open your mouth then pause. Finally, you summon the answer, “thread.” 

“Thread?” 

“Yes, I... make little things. Sometimes. It wasn’t urgent. I don’t have my sewing machine in my dorm and... no time.” You shrug and let the papers lay flat on your notebook. 

He considers you as his cheek dimples and he leans his chin on his knuckles. He looks down at the cup he holds over one leg. He sucks his teeth. 

“Rather flat,” he dislodges his elbow and leans forward. “And what did you get? It smells intriguing.” 

“Mocha with peppermint,” you answer. 

“Mm, with whip?” He peeks at your cup and the melting glut of cream. 

“Yes, Professor,” you reply. 

“I think I might trade mine for the same,” he stands with his cup in hand. 

You watch him, confused and uneasy. So much for getting some studying done. You doubt you’ll be able to concentrate with him looming on the other side of the table. 

[bradleysass]

intricate - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 652

The campus library was unusually quiet for a Tuesday afternoon, sunlight filtering in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long golden streaks across their shared table. Regulus barely noticed. His eyes were glued to the open textbook in front of him, his fingers methodically flipping through annotated pages. A half-eaten sandwich sat beside him, forgotten in favor of legal doctrines and case precedents. His highlighter hovered over a passage, unmoving, as he read the same paragraph for the third time, struggling to commit it to memory.

Across from him, James Potter was equally lost in his own world, mumbling to himself as his pen scratched furiously across a large sketchpad. His dark curls were an absolute mess, one hand occasionally running through them as he squinted at his notes, muttering half-formed ideas under his breath. Every so often, he would take a bite of the wrap precariously balanced on the edge of his workspace, never quite breaking his rhythm. His foot tapped under the table, an absent-minded motion that betrayed the rapid fire of thoughts moving through his mind.

Their lunches together were rare but consistent. Stolen moments of quiet companionship amidst the chaos of law school and architecture. Neither spoke much—not out of discomfort, but out of necessity. Their minds were elsewhere, immersed in two completely different worlds. Yet, they gravitated towards each other in these brief hours of shared silence, as if some unspoken agreement had been made. There was comfort in the presence of another person who understood that silence didn’t always need to be filled.

Regulus paused in his reading, his attention drifting from the fine print of his textbook to the intricate scrawl of designs on James’ paper. He watched as James tilted the page slightly, chewing absently on the end of his pen, still murmuring about structure, load distribution, and aesthetic balance. His fingers traced the edges of the page, as if mentally correcting an unseen flaw. A second notebook lay open beside him, filled with calculations that Regulus could only vaguely make sense of.

Curiosity got the better of him. Leaning forward, Regulus studied the drawing properly—the sweeping curves and sharp angles, the way every detail seemed meticulously considered yet effortlessly sketched. The design sprawled across the page, clearly something elaborate, something challenging. He recognized certain elements from buildings they’d passed on walks together, architectural details James had stopped to admire, quietly explaining why they stood out to him.

“That’s such an intricate design,” he remarked, breaking the quiet for the first time in over an hour.

James startled slightly at the voice, looking up from his sketch as if he’d forgotten Regulus was there. Then a lopsided grin spread across his face, warm and boyish. “Yeah? D’you think so?”

Regulus nodded, fingers tracing the air above the page, not quite touching. “It’s ambitious.”

James snorted. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Regulus tilted his head, lips twitching. “No. It suits you.”

James watched him for a beat longer, as if trying to decipher something, before leaning back in his chair with a small chuckle. “I think I should make it bigger,” he said thoughtfully. “More dramatic. Maybe add a courtyard.”

Regulus hummed, tilting his head as he took in the sketch again. “A courtyard would add symmetry,” he mused, surprising himself with how easily he considered the idea. “Or at least balance out the structure.”

James beamed at him, like he’d just handed him a rare gift. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

For a moment, James just looked at him—dark eyes flickering with something fond, something easy. Then, as if deciding the conversation had reached a natural conclusion, he turned back to his sketchpad and continued his work, only this time, a little softer. And Regulus, unable to ignore the strange warmth in his chest, returned to his textbook, their quiet companionship resuming as if it had never been broken.

[inkk-tv]

[ ꜰᴏᴏᴛʙᴀʟʟ ᴘᴜʙ ɢᴏʟꜰ : ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ]

Admittedly, it's only when she's standing in the park across from the first pub that she realises exactly what she's gotten herself into. "This feels unfair." "Aw, come on Luce," Arthur says with half a smile, swapping his t-shirt for their team kit. "Have a bit of faith."

in which: Lucy is reluctantly recruited into Chris' pub golf video at the last minute, but it turns out to be very worth it.

4.7k words [ masterlist ] [ part two ]

[oc x arthurtv x chrismd] [warnings: excessive drinking, sexual inudendos]

There’s a certain risk that comes with renting an office in a building full of youtubers. Mainly being ambushed in the kitchen by a camera for a reaction or her two cents on whatever challenge video was underway is not an uncommon occurrence. Although, being fully roped into a video is never too far out of the realm of possibility. 

Luckily, there’s only one person with the gaul to break into her office, and that’s Chris. 

It’s been affectionately nicknamed, ‘the fishbowl’.

Sitting right on the hallway's bend, with two walls and a giant door of nothing but glass that means anyone who steps out the lift can see right into her office. Hence the name. Once she showed up to find someone had stuck fish and bubble stickers all over the windows- she’s pretty sure it was Sam, who does all her captioning, but she’s never gotten him to confess it.

It’s a pretty decent workspace despite the lack of privacy. Lucy’s desk is off to one side, and the three desks for her London-based employees are in a little cluster to the right of it. Only Shelly, the head editor and Lucy had been in today, but it’s nearing five pm and Shelly had headed off about twenty minutes prior, so it’s just Lucy hauled up alone working on a script as she hides from the rest of the building.

Chris invites himself in. As always. For some reason, the wall of glass just doesn’t present the same barrier to him as it does to everyone else. 

She glances up as the door hinges open, the soundproofing scraps against the carpet before closing with a soft click. There’s something a little frantic in his expression- not exactly panic, but stress maybe- and he’s got a white monster energy can that's dripping condensation in one hand and a takeaway bag from the fish and chip shop two blocks over that uses the perfect amount of salt, in the other.

Lucy is no fool. She knows a bribe when she sees one. "No."

All the tension leaks from his shoulders as Chris heaves a defeated sigh, falling back onto the two seater couch just inside the door. "But I haven't even asked yet."

"But you brought me an incentive." She points out and Chris leans over to thunk the can down on the corner of her desk he could reach. Lucy scrunches her nose up at the ring of water that settles underneath it. "You didn't even do that last time and that involved having footballs booted at me for three hours."

Objectively, Lucy has fun on the ChrisMD channel. She’d always been an active person and while the dreams of being a professional athlete did not work out for her like many others, she does still like sports, especially if they’re team based. Chris’s videos are perhaps the most fun variant of them she’s experienced since quitting her Sunday league team back in uni. 

But Lucy drew a hard line in the sand after the break up.

The problem with having fun on Chris’ videos, is that somewhere along the line, wires got a bit crossed. Lucy isn’t really all too sure when it happened, but she remembers realising. Looking at Chris, and realising she fancied him. It was four months before, and she spent all of it agonising over every conversation they had, kicking herself for liking a taken man, beating herself up over every word or glance as the guilt of it all ate away at her. 

Then he was single and the biggest motivator for Lucy to shut her fucking mouth and stomp down her feelings, she got a little worried things would run away from her. She wasn’t keen to make a mess of things, in private or on the internet, so she took a step back. 

It does help that in her last appearance on the ChrisMD channel, she took a particularly solid shot from Simon Minter to the stomach during the World Cup Ball video. A few days later, Lucy's flatmate had bullied her into going to A and E where they found out she’d managed to acquire a cracked rib. 

Simon- bless him- still apologises every time she runs into him. 

Lucy doesn’t know how to thank him for giving her a reasonable excuse to avoid Chris for an extended period of time.

"You had fun." Chris points out with a roll of his eyes, unpacking the takeaway bag to set two boxes on the coffee table in front of him, opening one and digging into a calamari meal.

"And a broken bone."

Another sigh. "This isn't goal keeping."

Lucy's hands still over her keyboard, little cursor blinking on page is of what was going to be a 12 page script. She huffs a breath, telling herself that she will at least hear the man out. 

It was a stupid thing really, fancying him. It’s probably one of those prolonged exposure things, she spent so much time with him that things got blurry in her mind. But the controlled exposure has been working. No more nights out if he was going and no one on one hang outs for the past few months have really helped her get a handle on things. Make the lines of platonic and romantic a little clearer in her head. 

Even if he’s grown a beard that looks annoyingly good on him. She’s allowed to appreciate it without fancying him. Or at least, that’s how she tries to tell her flatmate. 

Lucy had put measures in place, a little bit of distance to get over her puppy crush and they had been working. 

The little bubbliness she used to get has been smothered in the past few months. They’d done Chip’s karting race together just fine and she’s been significantly more invested in the occasional hinge date she secures. Lucy’s building her way up towards nights out again, knowing that he’ll be there and trusting her mouth to not run away from her. Maybe filming with him would be good- keeping her contained to the version of herself that the internet is allowed to see, the version that never fancied one of her coworkers. 

When she pushes her chair out from the desk and turns to level Chris with a look, considering it for a few long moments before sighing and looking up to the ceiling, already regretting what she hasn't agreed to yet. There's a smile on Chris' face - he knows he's won. Apparently, Ciaran Carlin managed to snag himself a case of food poisoning the day of Chris' 'pub golf' shoot ("thought you did football content" - "Its football themed.") so they were down one whole player. Hence why Chris was there, a few moments from dropping to his knees to beg. 

Lucy is, admittedly an outlier amongst the office. At least in terms of content creation. It's actually the Fellas Studio building, but those who invested in the business to help the boys get it up and running, like Chris and Lucy, have their own office space inside. She makes video essays with the occasional social commentary video mixed in - a far cry from Chris' football challenges or the min-maxing style of videos that seems to have taken over the platform in the last few years.

So their friendship has stayed mostly off camera, as she doesn’t often have people on her main channel, posting occasional vlogs on her second channel but he’s only ever made the cut once or twice. The most the internet knows of Lucy Bell and Chris Dixon is that he’s roped her into a few football challenges over the years. 

When it comes to Chris’s channel, Lucy does make for a good feature. She’s just tipped over four million subscribers in the last few months, with almost a completely different audience, so it brings in a lot of new viewers. She’s not half bad at football either, a few years playing football in uni meant she could keep up with most of the UK YouTube scene if Chris begged nicely enough. 

"Alright, but it’s an extra twenty quid for each time you bite me." 

The biting gets her every time. She’s always had a bit of a thing for it, teeth marks and hickeys. It’s a condition that Lucy adds to save her own sanity more than anything.

See, there’s something about Chris when he’s drunk that just makes the man want to bite. Sink his teeth into whichever friend is closest after a pint or two. Doesn’t matter where, hand arm or neck- he’s even gone for her ear once. He’s not handsy per-say, because none of it was sexual really, but it couldn’t be called clingy either because he got way too mean.  

Cuteness aggression seems to fit the bill. But no matter what someone was to call it, the fact is, Chris gets his teeth out when he’s drinking.

Maybe charging him for it will be enough to remind him not to.

Chris grins. "Done." 

Turns out, the pub golf ‘night-out’ she had been lured into starts at one pm. 

Admittedly, it's only when she's standing in the park across from the first pub that she realises exactly what she's gotten herself into. "This feels unfair."

The line up was clearly in no way designed for fairness. With the 'English team' consisting of Lucy, Chris and Arthur-TV, going against the 'German Team' of Stephen Tries, Bambino Becky and Harry Wroetoshaw.

Now Lucy isn’t a lightweight- at least not proportionally. For a woman of five five, she could hold her drink. But Chris Dixon on the other hand, who was the same height, most definitely was a lightweight. There was not a whole lot of faith to be put in their alcohol tolerance.

"Aw, come on Luce," Arthur says, swapping his t-shirt for their team kit. "Have a bit of faith."

She ducks her head to hide the quick frown that flashes over her face. There’s only two people who call her ‘Luce’ and that’s Chris and her flatmate, Spencer. It’s obvious where he’s picked it up from and the thought of Chris chatting about her to one of his friends with such familiarity is enough to make her stomach flutter. Today was not going to be good. 

Lucy's met Arthur before, in passing. At parties or events, seen him at the office once or twice when he'd presumedly come to film with someone. He’s good friends with George and Arthur Hill too. She knows him and Chris have been mates since school, and that he's one of the most frequent victims of the ChrisMD channel. Miraculously, she's never ended up on a set with him before.

She hopes he holds his drink well.

"A little hard to have faith when Becky and Harry are gonna drink us under the table." She says, thumbing at the team jersey she’s been given.

It’s soft, more so than she expected. 

Football has never much been Lucy’s thing. She was on a team during her uni years, but that was more social than competitive. She owns a couple of kits, her old uni jersey that was mainly a work shirt and the Brighton Jersey her brother bought her for Christmas one year- Lucy makes sure to wear it whenever she watches a game. But that’s about the extent of it, she’s never had much reason to go buy an official kit. 

But apparently for the football-ification of pub golf, team jerseys were a must. 

The tag says it’s their away kit from the 1990 world cup and the fabric is so abrasively red, Lucy feels like a stop sign when she pulls it on. It doesn’t help that it was originally bought for Ciaran, so it’s two sizes too large. Sadly it completely tanks her outfit, the black skater skirt and platform mary-janes with lacy white socks had gone so much better with the cosy white knit sweater she’d started the day in, but it does sort of work. Even if it makes her look like a pick-me girl. 

The collar slips about on her shoulders and Lucy pulls the collar about a little, trying to make it sit properly, which apparently, Chris takes as an invitation. 

He comes up from behind and drapes his arms over her shoulders- not exactly unusual behaviour from him, but it does typically take a few more drinks. There’s not even a moment of hesitation before Chris sinks his teeth into the meat of her shoulder, biting down. Not hard enough to hurt exactly, more like a pinch. 

She doesn’t yelp but grunts a little, swatting at his hair to duck out of his grip. When he backs off, there’s a dark semi-circle on the jersey, highlighting where he’d bitten at the material. “Right. That’s twenty quid then.”

Chris blinks, then rolls his eyes. “What? No, come one. We haven’t even started filming yet.”

He’s smiling though, watching as Lucy digs a black marker out of her purse and bites the lid off to draw a thick line on the inside of her right forearm. “A deal is a deal, Chris.”

“We’ll if we’re keeping track like that, someone else has to be in charge of the pen.” He plucks it from her fingers and Lucy goes to swipe it back but he pulls it up high above both their heads. 

She could snatch it back. They’re about the same height; every time someone whips out a tape measure they end up with a different answer to who is taller, so it always depends on the shoes. Today, she’s even wearing platforms with more than enough heel to beat out Chris' white air forces but Lucy’s not sacrificing a single sliver of her dignity to jump for the marker. 

Perhaps realising that she’s not taking the bait, he holds it out to Arthur instead, who has been watching them with a raised eyebrow. “What’s this then?”

“Lucy agreed to be in the video, if I paid her twenty pounds each time I bit her.” Chris says, looking a little proud of himself for some reason, as if wrangling her into a video was some sort of impressive feat. “But I don’t trust her to not just draw a bunch of lines.”

“Damn. That’s smart, you’ll make a couple hundred quid today, easy.” Arthur plucks the marker out of Chris’ fingers and looks at it a little funny. “Will you give me twenty every time you bite me?”

The marker is tucked away into the pocket of his shorts with a grin. 

“You were coming no matter what.”

“With you looking like that, damn right I was.” Arthur holds his hand up for a high-five, probably more of a reflex than anything. Chris doesn't go for it, but Lucy does, swinging up to her tiptoes, to clap her palm against his.

“Come on,” He grins at Lucy, keeping their hands clasped for a few seconds with the momentum and it has her feeling a little better about the afternoon ahead.

One of the film crew, Sam she thinks his name is, waves Lucy over to mic her up. They make their way through the ‘before game interviews’, with the warning they will be spliced with the aftermath that was to be recorded at the last pub.

"Are you going to enjoy today?" Chris pokes the mic against the tip of her nose and Lucy scrunches it up a little at the feeling of scratchy foam.

"Considering I was bribed to be here, no." She plays the reluctant friend well, but they both know she’d been happy to help Chris out in his time of crisis and that she probably wouldn’t end up chasing him up about the money she was supposedly charging him per bite.

The first two holes (“It’s Goal, Luce. Use the right terminology.”) left their team with a rather bleak outlook.

Lucy’s played enough drinking games in her life to be able to down a pint in one go, so that isn’t a problem. She chugs the IPA, so while it’s down in one, Lucy is left with a bitter taste in her mouth, complaining to the table that if she was forced to drink beer, it should at least be lager. Arthur and Chris both down theirs in one, but are cautioned for shit jokes and chose to do a shot each instead of taking the additional points. 

The second pub is no hands, white sambuca shots, but they get a bench so it’s not much hassle to lean down and get her lips around the glass rim and knock it back.

But when they’re done, and Arthur’s wandered off, her, Chris and Harry pounce on his backpack to turn it inside out. It makes her feel like she’s back in secondary playing silly pranks when someone leaves their bag unattended. Tragically he comes back with the news that he’s thrown up. Twice. There’s an attempt to blame the McDonalds wrap he’d scranned a bit too quickly but Calfreezey is not a forgiving referee and they are penalised three points, leaving them at seven as Chris has failed to down his shot in one. 

“We are not winning that dominos pizza.” Arthur whines, frowning down at his inside out bag.

Lucy holds her hands out, an unspoken gesture that he accepts with a smile and starts piling his belongings into her hands. “Cheer up Mr.Television. I’ll Deliveroo one to the last pub.”

“And ruin Chris’ incentive? Where’s your competitive spirit Miss Bell?” He quips back, grabbing a fist full of his bag’s canvas and turning it back out the right way, shoving his pencil case and jacket back into it. 

There’s an instinct to roll her eyes at the last name but fair is fair. She did sort of do it to him first. “I think winning for us is already a lost cause. Becky and Harry can outdrink us all.”

Arthur zips his bag up and swings it over his shoulders, heading for the door but glancing back at her as he speaks. “Not Stephen?”

“He’s more of a mascot I think.” Lucy muses, skipping up to his side and out the door as he holds it with one hand. “Like Chris.”

“Fair enough, they are the two lightweights.” He says, jutting his chin out to where Chris and Stephen were squabbling a good hundred metres up the footpath. “You seem a bit better at handling the beers than Chris to be honest.”

She can’t quite stop the way her nose scrunches at the memories of parties and chundering in bushes out the front of train stations. Lucy hisses through her teeth. “Yeah, I had a few too many nights out in Uni. Spiked my tolerance.”

There’s this little quirk of Arthur’s head, like he’s a curious cat that’s been offered a toy mouse to play with. “I didn’t know you went to uni, what did you study?”

“Journalism. Hence the video essays- if you know what kind of videos I do.”

“Not to brag, but I'm kind of subscribed.” He puts on a little bit of a voice, an impression of the typical ‘nice guy’ when he says it with an exaggerated roll of the eyes that earns a smile.

“Really?” This time it’s Lucy who’s tilting her head, peering up at him a little from under the few loose strands of hair that hang over her forehead and it makes Arthur sort of sheepish. 

“Oh yeah,” He pulls out his phone and opens the youtube app. She’s in his subscriptions tab, along the top bar even. “I really like the rage bait one. And the one about the barbie movies.” 

“You actually watch my videos?” He must do. The rage bait one was recent but Lucy’s deep-dive into the animated barbie movies of the early two-thousands was from her uni days, buried under six years of more recent uploads. 

“Yeah, they’re good. Informative, funny.”

Lucy blushes. “Flattery gets you everywhere, Arthur. I’ll check out your channel after today, promise.”

“It’s not much, a lot of reality TV content- hence the name. I started with Airline freakouts and ended up with ninety-day fiancé.” He holds out his phone for her to take with his own channel pulled up. 

She flicks though, and it is admittedly a lot of ninety-day fiancé, but when she flicks the ‘popular’ filter on, some of the thumbnails look kind of familiar. “Wait, like the old ‘Airline UK’ show? I used to watch some of those.”

Arthur grins. “Really?”

“Yeah, just compilations of the passengers screaming at the easy jet desk.” 

There’s a mental note to watch them when she gets home (pr depending on how drunk she ends up, tomorrow) and see if they’re familiar. 

It happens every now and then, watching a video then realising years later you’ve just met the person who made it. A couple of months after meeting George Clarkey at the gym she realised she’d watched him chase a beep around his garage on tiktok a year earlier.

“Maybe you saw some of mine.” Arthur offers a little shyly, as if he’s nervous about suggesting it. “They did decent numbers. It’s how I got started with youtube.”

“Yeah?”

He hums in agreement. “Needed something to pay the bills in Uni and youtube ended up being way more fun than Law.”

Lucy can’t help the judgemental tone that sneaks into her voice. “You studied Law?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” He scoffs with a smile.

“No you’re just nicer than all the other law students I met while in Uni. Most of them were right pricks.”

Especially the one she’d dated in second year. He’d been good at first, but after a couple of pints he was anyone's. The guy played up on her all the time and it wasn’t until he tried hitting on the first year who’d just moved into Lucy’s student Accommodation that she finally called it off. 

After that, all the law students who tried to chat her up at the Uni bars left a bitter taste in her mouth. 

Not Arthur though. He isn’t quite a law student, she supposes, he’s a youtuber and Lucy does get on well with most of the UK scene. They were a good bunch and any of the dickheads were pretty easy to weed out- there is a couple she fully avoids, simply because she couldn’t be arsed putting up with them. Lucy scribbles Arthur’s name on the mental list of people she wouldn’t mind chatting to at the next party. 

He’s got decent chat, certainly better than some of the dull people she’s put up with out of politeness and when he smiles, it’s a flash of pearly white. Teeth that all line up perfect- save for his pointed canines. She could stand to see it a bit more often, carve out some space for it in her chest amongst the fluttering of butterflies. “Flattery gets you everywhere, Luce.”

“Hurry up you two, stop dawdling!” Chris shouts from out the front of pub number three. 

They wave him off with a few jeered ‘yeah, yeah’s but do pick up the pace a little. 

“I meant to ask earlier,” Arthur says. “Want to put your purse in my bag? it looks like it’s bothering you.”

Her purse has been bothering her. It was the one she’d taken into the office and was more for fashion than function, a little black leather crossbody bag that she’s had over one shoulder so it doesn't make her boobs look weird on camera. It’s only really got her phone, earbuds and keys in it. She’s been keeping it at her hip with one hand but it’s getting tiring. “Yeah, thanks Arthur.” 

He tucks it away gently, with much more care than he’d had with his own portable charger and pencil case a few minutes earlier. Arthur’s sweeter than she expected. 

Not many of the youtube boys were sweet. Nice, friendly even, but part of being amongst them meant she could take the banter and hard hitting. Catch hurled comments that strangers would say border on cruel with her bleeding hands and hurl them back. There’s an added layer, being a woman online appearing on channels with a male dominated audience. A thick oily sheen that taints the comments of collab videos. 

But Lucy has managed to find the youtubers she could stomach, some of which she spends more time with than others. George is her gym buddy, even if he’s been slacking lately. Will lacks enough of a social life that he tends to rot in the office just as late as she does so they always end up ordering Deliveroo and shit talking for an extra hour or two. She doesn’t mind the occasional pint with Harry or Tobi either. They’re all sweet, but sweet enough that it's threatening to make her blush? Well, only Chris made that far. 

Lucy tucks that thought away and settles into the seat at the end of the table, tapping the toes of her shoes together idly as the production team set up go-pros and camera angles.

Pub number three was goalie rules. Six seconds to down a pint and it had to be done with keeper gloves. 

All six sets set on the table are Large and it looks utterly ridiculous when they all don the gloves. Black and green leathery material that’s oddly padded on the inside, it feels weird enough that it sort of captivates her for a few moments, the new sensation against her hands. Lucy keeps balling her fists up then splaying her fingers again, listening to the scrunch of them before pressing her hands flat against the table to feel the padding compress and spring back up slightly when she released the pressure. 

Arthur has a similar reaction, although he just starts running his hands over everything. From the wooden table to his own legs. Down Lucy’s right forearm where it rests on the table, over Chris’s head. The latter of which, he does so much that it actually gets a reaction, which Lucy is starting to think most of Arthur’s oddities don’t.

“Stop rubbing my head!” Chris squeaks, ducking away from Arthur’s widespread palms that are messing up his quiff. “Rub the head I want to be rubbed!”

Lucy snorts into her keeper glove when Chris gestures rudely to his crotch and Stephen goes to kick it from under the table. 

Thankfully, before things can devolve into more dick jokes, a member of Chris’s team brings over a tray of pints. 

Lucy and Arthur both get it down in one, but Chris fails- laughing after about an inch and having to set the drink down. Easy to say, no one is impressed and he earns them a yellow card for time wasting.

“How have you done worse than the females?” Arthur jokes, setting Chris’ still half full glass between Lucy and Becky’s empty ones. 

“We’ll take ourselves back to the kitchen.” Becky declares, raising a hand for a high five that Arthur meets- an assurance that it’s all jokes- before leaning in to stage whisper to Lucy. “There might be pints in there.”

Despite England's mostly good performance, Calfreezy once again proves that he’s out to get them as he issues two yellows and a red card. Lucy and Chris take the penalty shots- tequila upon request- and there’s three points added to their tally as well. 

It burns the back of her mouth and stings against her tongue. Whichever production member had fetched their shots did not return with the curiosity of a chaser. Still, it’s easier to down than a pint so Lucy takes what she can get. 

Although, everyone seems to be under the impression that it’s going to finish her. Probably because she keels over coughing after getting it down. It’s the closest Lucy’s come to spitting out a drink all afternoon, which is saying something considering the IPA at the first pub was utter shit. 

Her reaction has Steven so confident in his team’s performance that he starts demanding forfeits, anything from shots of the winners choice to public spankings in ‘piccadilly square’.

While Lucy focuses on not tripping over the drag of her platform shoes, the taste of tequila lingers on her tongue and haunts her all the way to the next pub. 

[ masterlist ] [ part two ]

ink note: and we are underway! thanks so much for reading! feel free to send asks about the fic or check out the notes at the bottom of Lucy's masterlist to see how this fic is going to develop.

[ if you would like to be added to the fic's tag list, let me know in an ask and you'll be tagged when each chapter goes up :) ]

[muffinsin]

E ai, como vai?I would like to make a request, would it be possible to have a headcannon about the dimi sisters with a girlfriend who has social anxiety, severe depression and adhd? i just got my diagnosis and i really wanted to know how they would deal with a girlfriend with these things

Hey hon :)🙌 Absolutely :) I think I’ve had similar prompts in the past to each of these and more, so this could be considered a larger version of those past prompts🥳

INFO: NEW big post series, a full roughtly 115 chapter fanfiction is gonna come out. Dark "romance", quite niche, Daniela x Donna :) First chapter will be posted either this week or on the weekend. Reblogs are gonna be super appreciated

Masterlists

Bela

She’s always been very caring towards you

What comes easy to her is often something you find yourself struggling with, and still you know; she’s always there for you

She takes care of things you find uncomfortable, helps you manage things you struggle with

As you remind her to eat when she’s stuck overworking herself, she ensures you eat, too

She allows you to stay in her office throughout the day and in your breaks at work, where it’s quiet and private, giving you a break from the maidens working about the place

A meal is always prepared for you, and she often makes an effort to pause her work during the times you visit her to talk

Usually she tells you of her work and listens to you talk about your day

Having such a time with Bela is a huge motivator to keep working every day. This time also offers you great relief

At times, she uses this time to try and set goals for the day to help you battle your depression

She never asks for much, only a few things to help you go to bed feeling like you’ve accomplished something

Occasionally, these things are to try and pursue one of your (past-) hobbies

With Bela as your girlfriend, many things that would normally trigger your social anxiety are handled by her

She’s of a high status and, as such, has certain benefits. Benefits she’s willing to exploit to make life a little easier for you

Such as allowing you to somewhat choose what work you’d like to do in what areas

She allows you to retreat to more secluded sections of the castle, letting you work entirely on your own on difficult days, as to reduce your anxiety and discomfort

During that time you can manage yourself- or follow the schedule, depending on what comes easier to you- entirely

You can finish up faster if you complete your work fast, or take your time

She’s not one to rush you, and with the rush of the maidens and other staff members always about, this gives you a comfortable break when needed

Seeing as there is no one around to walk in or share the workspace with, you can hum a tune, listen to one, can work in a dimly lit room or fully lit, can be loud or quiet, don’t have to converse with anybody at all unless you wish so

It’s freedom, as much as one can off of, at work, and it helps more than you could ever thank her for

Her study, of course, is always open to you, too

Occasionally, you’ll be around her sisters if she has to work longer

And while Cassandra and Daniela at times challenge you with their boldness, they occasionally return some energy to you, too

Bela, in all of this, is like a weighed blanket

She’s your comfort no matter what, your love, and your happiness

She takes excellent care of you and very early on figures out little cues based on your body language to determine how you feel

Whenever you get overwhelmed around people or feel your social battery and energy drain, she comes up with polite ways of leaving with you

She never makes a scene, always acts very subtly in public as to help reduce your anxiety. Even as she, as a Dimitrescu, is bound to have some heads turn to her

And still, you never feel uncomfortable around her

If anything, she will always ease things for you

She’s confident, but doesn’t come across as bold

She’s intelligent, but never makes you feel as though you’re less so

She’s utterly caring for you and while she pushes you gently, she does so only to help you, ultimately

Cassandra

She isn’t entirely up to date with…well, most things that don’t directly concern her

As such, when you tell her of your diagnosis, she’s pretty clueless

She knows depression, knows the term, but knows very little of the other two

She’ll probably think she can cure your depression by cheering you up, though

Perhaps even by dragging some still-twitching prey into your room

A…sweet gift, certainly, but she soon realizes that there’s more to it

As it comes to your anxiety and adhd…she hardly understands these, but tries to be supportive nonetheless

She cares about you, after all, and therefore attempts to educate herself a little on what those terms actually mean

She tries to make life more comfortable around you, first

For example, she’ll attempt to help ease your social anxiety by reminding you that about every single maid you see in the castle is disposable and can be killed by her at pretty much any moment

She figures; you feel discomfort or embarrassment, she will just kill away the problem

No one has to know, she figures, and she doesn’t mind. She kills all the time, after all

And yes, this certainly does help in rare cases

What she also does, though, and what helps you so very much, is to allow you to pull away from situations

You don’t feel ready to do something? She would never force you

Cassandra is always in your corner, has always got your side

She isn’t one for being rational, anyway, being one to live in the moment more than anything

She cares little about responsibility regarding others, aside from her family, that is

You want to take a break from work, therefore? Or not work at all until you feel more ready?

She doesn’t mind. Boring anyway, she feels

She does so dearly miss you when you’re at work right when she wants to play, after all

You want to change your work environment?

She cares little for the work at the castle, but she will personally see to it that things get done to help you get what you want

Cassandra is not shy

Alas, when you feel uncomfortable or anxious, she has no trouble at all- and even offers- to stay right by your side the entire time

She doesn’t care whether she’s been invited or not, doesn’t care how it might seem when she joins you each time

You need her, you want her there. She will forever be there, then

Sure, she might cause a bit of a mess at times when she gets hungry, but she’s there for you

Whatever you need to get done, you know: you always have the option of asking her to join you

And with her by your side, she’s always there to assure you, but also talk for you

Which, sometimes, isn’t quite for the best, you suppose

She’s rather bold, and cares little for being sensitive to the staff

As such, she phrases things very…directly

Still, it helps you

When she’s with you, most either avoid looking at the two of you altogether or only glance at her occasionally, a look of fear and curiosity in their eyes

And, of course, she noticed instantly if you feel uncomfortable by just that

A single snarl of hers is enough to make those advert their eyes, too

And while she generally tends to leave an impression, just because she can, she actively works on making things easier for you

She’s a little quieter, intimidating people away, rather than for fun

She stops pulling attention towards the two of you, at least until the point you feel more comfortable and allow her to do so

Being no stranger to a bit of a seasonal depression in winter, Cassandra has some idea of what you might be feeling

She can’t ever fully understand, but she doesn’t need to. She’s there for you, and doesn’t claim she understands what she knows she cannot

Still, she takes care of you

She brings you things you might enjoy, makes you get out of bed, if only to play or hunt with her, if only that means you sit and hold her weapons or prey for her

You know, it’s just an excuse to get dirty, really, to help motivate you to shower

When you do, she will always ensure you have a warm meal waiting for you once you’re done

Daniela

She's very understanding

She doesn't fully understand, even as she attempts to, but she's there for you

She tries to cheer you up always, but doesn't mind quiet times, either

When you need her to, Daniela will always keep the conversation going for the two of you, rambling about this and that or only humming a little when you feel like enjoying some silence

She'll hold you tight every day, encourage you to get out of bed, if only for a little bit

Often, she'll make you shower then, even offer to join you, eat, and take a walk through the gardens

She probably isn't the best to help with your adhd, but she's supportive and would never judge you for it, either. She doesn't mind, really, showing some of the symptoms herself, whether she notices this or not

She'll occaisonally get distracted walking through the gardens with you, finding flowers she likes and insisting she must braid them into a crown for you

And really; you can't help but feel even slightly better

Sometimes, the emptiness hits you hard, and you feel like nothing nothing at all

She doesn't force you to move, then, but curls up with you, her flies buzzing quietly, her arms and legs around you

She'll stroke your back and hair, whispering gentle praises you know by now she fully means. She's so loving towards you, so caring

She can't always understand how you feel, but she will always try to battle the demons in your head to make you feel better

Unlike you, she feels no social anxiety at all, in pretty much any given situation

She knows what she wants, and she basks in the attention she receives from others, whether they're friends or strangers

As such, being with her in public can be a little intimidating at times

Or when she walks about, greeting people neither of you really know but chatting as though they were friends

It's a little intimidating and admirable at the same time

Thankfully, she never expects you to take part in those conversations, not unless you want to. She will, however, introduce you as her girlfriend before expertedly changing the topic of the conversation again to give you time to adjust

Much like Cassandra, Daniela is the type to always be with you, to always stick by your side, no matter what

She often joins you when you're forced to take part in social events at the castle

She'll hold your hand and, while she likes the attention, she will always stand in a quiet corner with you

You're more important to her than anything and anyone else, except maybe her family, who she loves at least equally, after all

She'll stay with you, occaisonally make little remarks about the setting or giggle to herself

When someone approaches you, she's quick to take over the conversation in a way that doesn't come across as pushy. For someone toying with, torturing, and eating humans, she's surprisingly good with people, you find

She's always looking out for you like this, always waits for your squeeze of her hand as a signal made up by the two of you that you'd like to say something, now

Of course, there's many signals like that

That way, she'll also easily excuse the two of you in a somewhat bold, but polite fashion

You are, and will always be, her priority

[redfoxwritesstuff]

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart, Chapter 4 (Human!Alastor x reader)

Rated Adult Chapter Trigger Warnings: Domestic Violence AN: Next week we will be moving updates from Wednesdays to Fridays. To accommodate this, readers can expect an update twice next week. Tag list is open and tags will be in the comments to accommodate a tumblr glitch resulting in only five mentions working at a time.

Audio fic by Nyx Productions, read by @nyx-umbrakinesis found here:  Part 1, Part 2Masterlist AO3 KoFi

The radio in the living room sent smooth jazz through the first floor of the home. Music while you took care of housework or cooking was a rare luxury you allowed yourself. The little joys in your life were far and few between, but when you have the chance to cling to one, you did not hesitate to hold it close whenever it was safe to. 

 Laurence didn’t care for radio or jazz, much preferring orchestral music on the rare occasion where he allowed the silence to be broken. With him out of the house, you could indulge as you sat at the work desk in the kitchen, kneading bread one handedly as best as you could. 

It would be much easier if you could put your weight into it or even just use both hands, but your shoulder screamed at you if you so much as made a move to try. You had a shawl tied into a makeshift sling, taking the weight off the joint and a sack of hot dry rice tucked into your top, tied against your shoulder, soothing the aching joint with the radiating heat. 

The bottle of aspirin sat at the back of the table, an ever-present reminder of the constant pain you were in. You’d need to go to the pharmacy soon and pick up some more to refill the bottle. The last thing you wanted was to risk Laurence noticing the bottle was getting low and to get on you for taking too much. 

Right now you were riding the slight fog that the tincture left in the pain’s wake. You didn’t dare take a full drop, only dabbing the tip if your tongue against the side of the glass dropper before putting the tincture back on Laurence’s side of the sink, spending minutes to line the bottom of the bottle up with the ring of discoloration it had left stained into the surface. 

You didn’t know if he would notice if it wasn’t just so, but finding out wasn’t high on your list of priorities. Laurence could be particular about some of the strangest things. Often you wouldn’t find out what those things were until you had set him off. 

You knew he didn’t want you taking the drops he took for his back pain. It was his opinion that the aftermath of neither his fists nor his affection did not leave enough pain behind for you to need them. 

After setting the bread aside to rise, you turned to the stove. It was a beast of an appliance, but it was a modernization you were grateful for. Turning a knob to open the gas valve under a burner, you listened to the hiss of the gas as you reached for the matches. It took a few tries to light the large match, hand trembling as you ran the match head over the rough side of the stove each time before you lit the burner, then the oven. 

Grabbing the heavy iron kettle off the counter, you braced it on your hip to help carry the large pot as if it was a small child. You set on the stove before shoving it over the burner to heat while you clumsily chopped the vegetables as evenly as you could. 

That was a battle in itself. Between the way your hand shook and not having use of your other arm to brace the vegetables with, your knife cuts were a mess. Laurence would be angry if he saw the sloppy work or the mess of vegetables that fell to the ground, wasted. 

Blinking back tears, you tried your best. There was no use crying over it. It was all you could do to do your best. It had to be good enough. Your best had to be enough. 

Dinner had to be perfect, you reminded yourself as you spread flour over the workspace and prepared to roll the roast in it. Every step of preparing your home for a guest and preparing the dinner was challenging, and this was no different. 

You needed to get the roast searing and take a few more pills for the pain, then you could face cleaning up the mess of the kitchen. You were ahead of the pain right now, but you had to stay ahead of it if you were going to get through this dinner without embarrassing Laurence. 

You loathed to dirty yet another dish that you would have to wash tonight, but with one hand you couldn’t pick up the hunk of beef very well at all. Rolling the flour covered roast onto a plater, you braced it against your hip as you carried it to the stove. 

It would all be so much easier if you would just use your other hand, but the shoulder was still so weak. It was better to keep the weight and stress off the joint as long as possible. There were a few more hours until Laurence would be back with the guest, one Mr. Moreau, who you were nervous to meet. 

Having guests was uncommon, as Laurence preferred to meet business associates outside of the home. On the occasion when he would bring you, you were an accessory to be shown off, seen but not heard. Just as was your role during your frequent dinners and trips to the cinema.

As the pork fat bubbled in the kettle, you set the plater on an unused burner, saying a quick prayer that the iron wouldn’t be hot enough to shatter it. There was no graceful way to wrestle the meat up into your arm, wet flour and blood smearing against your day dress.

The meat fell into the pan with a thud. The sound of sizzling meat filled the kitchen as you gathered the dishes and dropped them into the waiting sink, full of sudsy water. Washing them was just another chore on your list of things to do. Mechanically, you slowly set to work cleaning your workspace one handedly.

The fog in your mind gave shape to a sharp face and warm eyes you found your mind returning to often enough. When you cleaned, that was when you let your mind run free, knowing that you were least likely to be disturbed. 

It’s when you let yourself daydream. You let yourself think about the ways your life could have been different. It was when you let yourself be ungrateful for all the things Laurence had provided for you and how hard he worked to do so. 

You thought about what it would have felt like to fall in love and if falling in love was even something that really happened outside of story books read to children. What sort of man would you have fallen in love with? Would he have a square face like Laurence, or would he be sharp and angular, like the man at the butcher shop? Would you have fallen in love with someone with kind eyes and fluffy hair?

Would you fall in love with a man like the man you kept getting glimpses of? What sort of man was he? He was tall; you remembered how he towered over you even as he leaned down to ensure you had a good grip on his arm as he walked you out of the butcher shop. 

Was he as kind as he seemed? Was he as kind as he looked?

Or was it all a show? It was a show with Laurence. He had been so kind when you had first met, offering sweet smiles and sweeter promises. He courted you quickly, promising the world and while everything happened too fast to say you had fallen in love, you thought love was on the horizon as your parents accepted his proposal of marriage. The wedding followed shortly after. 

What did it feel like to fall in love? The question and image of fluffy brown hair circled your mind as you dumped the vegetables into the kettle. It took multiple trips to the sink to cover the roast with water that would become the gravy. 

With the music playing, you hadn’t heard Laurence’s car pull up in front of the house or the front door opening. What you heard was it slam shut.

You fussed with your hair in the large living room mirror and dabbed more cover-up over the redness that was quickly spreading on your face. Laurence hadn’t been less than impressed with your choice of meal and even less impressed with your arm in the makeshift sling. 

He had accused you of playing up the pain, voice climbing into a roar as he stormed into the kitchen after turning off the music. Accusations of wanting to look battered and beaten to make him look bad bounced off the walls as he loomed closer. 

There was only a moment for you to cringe back as he slapped you across the face, the force of the blow splitting your lip open. Laurence wouldn’t like the bright red lipstick you wore now as you stood waiting for the guest, but it was the only thing that could hide the cut. It wouldn’t do for him to see the evidence of how you angered Laurence. Sleeves and bangles obscured the rest of the fading, healing marks on your arms that told a story of your prior transgressions. 

Mr. Moreau was coming to do business with Laurence. If you were lucky, he would hardly spare a glance at you to notice the hidden marks and you could eat while ignored. If he didn’t look too closely, you could hope he wouldn’t notice anything that would take away from the air of perfection. 

Laurence didn’t tell you anything about the man that was coming, leaving you waiting for the unknown man to walk through your door with your husband. 

The sound of the door opening startled you out of your thoughts. You flinched, causing pain to shoot through your shoulder. Swallowing the groan, just as you always tried to do when Laurence might hear, you tried to pull yourself together. 

It took everything in you to spread the smile across your face and force your feet up off the ground with each step toward the door. Your black heels click clacked across the hardwood floor, reinforcing to you that been picking your feet up with each step, something you struggled to do naturally through the pain in your legs. Laurance hated when you would shuffle your feet, dragging your fingertips along the furniture for an added sense of security in the aftermath of his anger. 

It wouldn’t stop you from falling if your knees gave out again, but you were not above pretending it would. There was no kind man here to help scoop you off the floor and put you back on your feet if that were to happen. 

As Laurence stepped through the door, you tried to make your small steps look normal and elegant and not painfully cautious. 

“Welcome home.” You pulled the smile tighter across your face, trying to force it into your eyes as your husband’s eyes made a quick pass over you before he turned to welcome the guest inside. Hopefully, he found your appearance acceptable. 

A tall man stepped through the door, tanned hand reaching up to pluck the hat from his head, revealing a fluffy brown hair and a pointed nose. Laurence took his hat from him and hung it on the coat tree by the door. 

Your breath caught in your lungs as his warm brown eyes locked with yours, a smile spreading wider across his face. Would he say anything? Would he mention your fall at the butcher’s shop? Would he comment at all on your prior meeting?

“My Darling,” Laurence held his hand out for you. You tried and failed to walk smoothly to him, knees knocking together as you tripped and stumbled slightly over your own two feet. Thankfully, his attention was on the guest shrugging out of his coat. “This is Mr. More-”

“Alastor Moreau,” the man interrupted Laurance, reaching out for your hand as soon as he hung his coat on the tree by the door. “A pleasure to meet you. Quite a pleasure indeed!”

“Oh,” you startled when he took your hand, far from used to such bold and forward actions from Laurence’s business partners. The bangles around your wrist clattered together as he pulled your hand up while leaning down at the waist, placing a kiss on the back of your hand. His eyes closed, long dark lashes fanning against his cheeks as you felt your face grow warm. “That’s not-” 

His eyes fluttered open slowly. You watched helplessly as his eyes lingered on your wrist. Could he see the marks under the shiny metal and glittering beads? You hoped not, but feared he could. It felt like he could see everything. 

When it felt like you couldn’t stand it anymore, his eyes moved again and he slowly stood tall, towering over you. It felt like his eyes were looking past everything and right into your soul. What did he see? What did he know? 

Laurence’s hand wrapped around your waist as Alastor dropped your hand. You cringed at this touch, pain shooting through your shoulder when your husband pressed it into his side. His fingers dug into your hip possessively. 

You flinched in pain; the smile faltering on your face as Laurence jostled you against him. He was saying something, but you lost the words in the sea of pain. 

Brown eyes moved between you and your husband. His sharp eyebrow rose as he cocked his head to the side. What was he thinking? What was he seeing?

“This is my darling wife.” Your mind was finally catching up with the words being said. 

“Mr. Moreau,” you started, only to get cut off again.

“Alastor, please. For the lovely lady of the house, it simply cannot be anything other than Alastor.” 

“Alastor, then.” Laurence started only to be cut off by a sharp laugh. Was the only soft part of this strange man in his hair and eyes? 

“I did not know you were the Lady of this house!” 

Laurence stuttered, tripping over his words. Thankfully, his hand fell from around your waist as he gaped at Alastor, mouth opening and closing like a freshly caught fish. 

You allowed yourself one shuffling step away from your husband now that you were out from under his touch. It was a little room to breathe. Not much, but better than nothing. 

“Alastor,” you pulled your face into what you hoped was a warm and welcoming smile as you drew the guest’s attention from your husband’s reddening face. “I’m afraid dinner isn’t quite finished. It shouldn’t be long yet. Please, do make yourself at home.” 

“Of course, my dear. And a lovely home you’ve got for me to make myself at home in!” Alastor’s smile was wide and warm and yet it felt sharp to you at that moment. It felt calculating, cutting, but you couldn’t understand why that would be the case. 

“Yes, well,” Laurence cleared his throat, and you felt your shoulders slump. You were taking too much attention for yourself while you had attempted to buy your husband time to collect himself. 

You hadn’t intended to. You were just trying to be a good hostess. You were just trying to be a good wife. 

“Shall we get down to business?” Laurence held out his arm, directing Alastor to the stairs and away from you. 

“Yes, yes- of course. The details must be worked out.” Alastor’s eyes lingered on you as he turned. 

“Darling, we’ll be in my study. Be a dear and bring us up some drinks? Alastor and I-” 

“Mr. Moreau for you. Unless there’s something I’m not aware of,” Alastor again corrected.

“Mr. Moreau and I will be talking business while you finish up preparing the meal.” 

“Of course,” you bow your head for a moment before stepping away to get the ice for their drinks, willing each step to look more steady than they felt as Laurence leads the way through the living room toward the stairs. 

You were so focused on your steps that you didn’t notice the eyes following you or the way Alastor lingered behind Laurence, letting the gap between the men grow larger than expected as he watched you. Though you tried, you couldn’t hide the way you reached out, steading yourself in the doorway. It was one of the many things Alastor saw that you were not aware of. 

That bit of information was catalogued away in the mental file he was building on your household. Alastor was a sharp man, always noticing things. It had a tendency to get him in trouble in the past, but as a man, he found it rather useful. 

Laurence was possessive of you. A little kiss to your hand had gotten under your husband’s skin, yet he was willing to offer you as collateral on a loan? The idea was almost enough to draw a laugh from Alastor as he began to climb the stairs after Laurence. 

Was he that sure of his ability to be good for the money or just arrogant? And oh, how the man seethed at not getting the same privileges as his wife, forced to pay Alastor more respect than was required of you. It was backward from social norms, but that just made it even more amusing. 

Perhaps the loan would be worth making after all. The entertainment could be worthwhile and oh, what a lovely game this could birth. 

Next?Masterlist

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[fatuismooches]

fabulam diu oblitus - prelude.

synopsis: The tale of the raven and the sparrow has long been forgotten by most, but some will always remember.

includes: dottore w/ gn! reader

notes: This is the first part of a multi-chaptered fic that became too long to put into one post. It is a telling of your and Dottore's life as a fairytale, with fragile reader because yes. Thank you to all of my followers and anons who helped me figure out the animals that should be used and especially my lovely moot @kaixserzz!

prelude. first interlude. second interlude. postlude. sequel.

“Once upon a time, there was a baby raven. The raven was an inquisitive and curious hatchling who wanted to explore things that no one else had ever dared of. But because of his ideas, the raven was beaten, shunned, and cursed for the entirety of his childhood. Eventually, as soon as he reached adulthood, he was chased away from his nest, and from that day on, the raven swore to never trust a single soul ever again. But one day, the raven came across a sparrow, who seemed to love to challenge and test him at every possible moment.”

When Zandik was exiled from his hometown, he thought that he was prepared for what was to come, for he had experienced the worst of what humanity had to offer. He knew better than to give any other person the time of day and resolved himself to be cold and closed off. And he didn’t mind being that way, as everyone at the Akademiya was a sore, shallow disappointment. He wondered if anything of substance ever went through those brains of theirs. Ignoring his classmates had garnered him a poor reputation, but it didn’t bother Zandik too much as he was far more interested in his personal research.

That was until he met you.

You had barged into his life out of nowhere, much to his dismay, and invaded his space, now occupying one of the beds in the dorm. You had greatly sabotaged his workspace and time, as now he had to be conscious of what he worked on in your presence. He had to be careful in his own bedroom because of you. It was positively infuriating. But perhaps the most confusing and annoying thing was your attitude towards him. 

You were… kind. You would smile at him. You would inquire into his studies and research with supposedly genuine interest (he had yet to deduce whether you were being real or not.) You would cook for him and continued to do so even though he had yet to thank you for it. You would run errands for him willingly without any protest. You would shut down anyone talking shit about him immediately.

Zandik didn’t like it.

—

“Despite the sparrow’s kind nature, the raven couldn’t bring himself to accept it. It wasn’t unheard of for ravens to prey on sparrows, and at some moments, sometimes the raven wanted nothing more than to swallow up the sparrow so they wouldn’t be in his hair anymore. But there were no opportunities for the raven to do that, so he was forced to endure the sparrow’s presence. However, he came to realize that the sparrow had far more strengths than he initially gave them credit for. Over time, it blossomed into a most unique relationship, one that should have never been possible.”

Zandik wanted you gone. Your behavior didn’t sit quite right with him, for reasons that weren’t hard to guess. But there was nothing he could do. No amount of harsh words or bickering could seem to deter you. Surely you heard of the rumors? Of what he possibly could have done? Of what he could possibly do to you? And yet you insisted on sticking around, despite his vehement denial of your presence.

Although Zandik didn’t like you, that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate your usefulness. And more recently, your intelligence as well. You didn’t think like the other scholars at the Akademiya. You weren’t short-sighted or close-minded, you were always open to new ideas and discussions. You were willing to listen to him even while he was being rude and made zero sense, always having a notepad handy to write down his words. At first, Zandik thought you were mocking him, but a quick investigation into your notes made it clear that you were one hundred percent serious. 

Naturally, you didn’t think exactly like him either for obvious reasons, but it was… refreshing. That made you far more intelligent in his eyes than any other brain-dead scholar. Yet at the same time, your excessive kindness made him think you were painfully stupid. Especially when his cruel insults and ignorance didn’t drive you away, and at some point you had the audacity to start giggling at him whenever he did so. Very strange, stupid, and smart.

He had dubbed you an enigma. Indeed, you were puzzling and difficult to understand. Normally, he enjoyed the challenge when it came to stuff like ancient texts or questions that arrived from his research, however, he wasn’t sure if he liked these qualities in a person. He liked your curiosity but your personality made him feel things he didn’t want to. But much to his dread, even this scholar wasn’t totally immune to your sweet charms, and he was slowly but surely beginning to warm up to you.

—

“Against all odds, the raven and sparrow became one and the same. It seemed as though the two could not be separated.”

You were always sure it was going to be a long and arduous journey, becoming Zandik’s friend, but you were well aware of what you were getting yourself into. Though even you could not have anticipated how much Zandik would like you, despite it always being your goal. It started off gradually, and it took you a bit to realize his small changes toward you. 

Something you realized was that Zandik enjoyed being genuinely listened to. Perhaps because no one had lent him an ear, or even then never took what he said seriously. Perhaps he was mocked and shut down. So you listened. And he told you more, and more, and more every time. You could be doing your own thing, and Zandik would drag you away from it, under the premise that his work was far more important. The audacity! But you didn’t really mind, except the times he woke you up in the middle of the night to check over his conclusions. 

Even still, it was hard not to find his bursts of excitement and passion cute. It was hard not to find how he inhaled your cooking cute. It was hard not to find his little grunts of approval at your work or the reluctant compliment of “Good, I guess” cute. And oh, and don’t get you started on the way he blushed when you got a little too close, and then promptly told you to fuck off. Zandik was so cute. Unhinged. Not a good or nice person. Mean. But cute. 

Eventually came a time when Zandik stopped trying to get rid of you. He stopped locking you out of the dorm and he stopped throwing insults at you for merely existing with him. Instead came times when you two would “hang out” as you would put it. You’d teach him how to cook but uncharacteristically gave up after one lesson because he was truly that bad. You would do group projects together and then snicker to one another about how the other groups’ work paled in comparison. You two would go out together, initially for the purpose of research, but end up spending some time relaxing in the soft plush of the forest together. No words were said, but perhaps fingers and legs accidentally brushed each other every now and then.

These were good times, Zandik admitted to himself.

—

“Despite their blatant differences, the raven and sparrow seemed to fit together perfectly, wings and beaks tucked into each other effortlessly. Both had accepted each other for who they were, something no one else had done for either of them. Many years passed, and the two developed feelings for each other. However, neither of them was sure how to express their love.”

The good times lasted far, far longer than Zandik could have ever dreamed of. You had remained a constant in his life for many years. He could have never imagined you’d stick around nor would he tolerate your presence for so long. It was now that he realized that there would always be a vast amount of possibilities in this world, ones that he would never believe existed, but they certainly did. You were an example of that.

Another thing he realized was how differently his body and mind could react around you.

Zandik realized, that sometimes his palms could get hot around you. Not sweaty, but hot and tingly. It was a strange sensation. He realized, that when your skin came into contact with his, instead of feeling like he had just been scalded, he simply felt… warmth. Not the overbearing or underwhelming kind. It was just warm. The worst part was, he realized that on very few and rare occasions, his heart would speed up a bit and get stuck in his throat. It was horrible. Zandik despised it.

And his mind, his mind would unconsciously favor you. He would wonder, what time were you coming home? Did anyone bother you? When you didn’t understand something, his mind automatically went to the idea of explaining again (begrudgingly?) instead of leaving you hanging. He hated group projects even more now when they weren’t with you because his mind instinctively knew that other people simply could not hope to compare to you in the slightest. His mind grew in various ways over the years, but this particular aspect… he was confused. This part wasn’t necessarily a hindrance, but it was odd and he couldn’t control it. Zandik preferred to be in control, especially of his own body, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t understand. 

You, on the other hand, completely understood your own feelings as well as Zandik’s. There was no doubt about it. You were in love with Zandik. Zandik was in love with you. This was the irrefutable truth. You couldn’t determine exactly at what point he began to like you romantically, but you knew you had liked him for years. You were just glad the pining was mutual now because the feelings were starting to weigh heavy on your heart. But now, you found yourself in a plight.

How to finally confess to Zandik.

You really had no idea how to do it. If it was any normal person, you’d probably have an easier time. But no, this was Zandik, which made everything complicated. You had gone through multiple different scenarios in your head, and none of them seemed right. You thought about it, in the morning, during class, while eating, on expeditions, before bed. Yes, the procedure of making Zandik your boyfriend was occupying your mind far more than it should be, embarrassingly enough.

Zandik noticed your continuous contemplative state of mind as well. He wasn’t much of a fan. No, not at all. Did you realize how much of a nuisance it was to be explaining or giving instructions to you and then find out you’re staring into space (which coincidentally happens to be his face) instead? And then he has to snap at you to pay attention and instead, you just give him a silly smile? It was nonsensical. At some point, Zandik had decided this had gone on far too long and demanded you tell him what had occupied your mind so much that it turned you into an airhead. Unfortunately, it was mostly unsuccessful as you two only had a little back-and-forth, with you defending that you were just tired lately and Zandik calling you out on that bullshit. But he let it go.

Was he worried? No, of course not. It was just that having his assistant’s mind not focused on him was entirely bothersome.

… Alright perhaps he was a little worried. Just a little. He didn’t like it when you were troubled.

—

“But thankfully, the sparrow found a moment to show their true feelings. Was it the perfect moment? No, perhaps not. But it became one. And amazingly enough, the odd duo had become an odd couple.”

It was the most average of nights. Really, incredibly average. The two of you were stuck on the floor doing a group project for the past few nights. It was a lot of work, meant for a group of people, but of course, you and Zandik refused to add anyone else to the group, so now you two had been grinding the work together for a while. But neither of you minded. It really was much easier with the two of you anyway.

Right now, Zandik was rambling on about what to add and what to do next and the comparisons and contrasting of the data and a variety of other things. Normal Zandik things, as he pointed and waved his hands to make his point. But all of his words entered one ear and came out the next for you. You were far too busy admiring his beauty.

Zandik didn’t notice your adoring stare, no, of course, he was too caught up in his rambling, but that was okay. You didn’t know what came over you, but an impulsive thought to just make him see came over you. To taste him. To let him taste you. To let him realize the depth of your feelings. To let him realize the extent of his own feelings too.

And so for the first time ever, you cupped Zandik’s cheek, to which his words came to an abrupt stop. He practically swiveled his head around to give you one of those signature looks of his, and he had your hand that was on his cheek in a tight grip around your wrist, nails digging into your skin as an automatic response to such blatant physical touch. It hurt, but that was when you took the opportunity.

After all, it was hard to focus on the pain when his lips were on yours. 

You were kissing Zandik, who was immediately practically screaming into your lips, along the muffled lines of “whadahelareyodoigmph?” And you would have chuckled at his reaction, were it not for how entranced you were by kissing him. It seemed, that after the initial shock, Zandik piped down and also began to process what was happening. He didn’t fight back. He didn’t move away. His grip on your wrist loosened, and you took the chance to intertwine your fingers with his instead before pulling away in satisfaction. Zandik’s face was red and his lip quivered in a half-hearted scowl, probably cursing both you and himself because of the fact he enjoyed a mere kiss that much. But he wasn’t the only one affected. Your own heart was hammering out of your chest as you tried to stop yourself from smiling too widely.

“You know, I’ve…” you paused, trying to control your heartbeat, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.” So this was what was occupying that idiot mind of yours, Zandik thinks. How stupid.

Zandik's eyes flickered to yours, bearing a half-hearted glare, and they only said one thing: oh, he hated how easily you made him feel disgustingly weak, and how his fingers tremble in anticipation when you’re near, and how his heart beats far too much for what’s to come next, but oh, he demands that you do it again right now before he goes mad. So you did. You kissed Zandik again, and this time he kissed back.

His pointy teeth grazed your lip as he awkwardly kissed back, clearly unsure of what he was doing. But that was okay. You were probably his first kiss, after all, the idea of doing such a thing with anyone was revolting to him. Before he fell in love with you, of course. Well, this was your first kiss too, but you had read enough books to know what you were doing. You caressed his hair, gently rubbed his arms, and perhaps pushed him down on the bed a bit. It was very nice, to have years of feelings condensed into these kisses.

Neither of you said anything for the rest of the night after the kissing session, the group project now long forgotten. Except when you squeaked in pain since he had the gall to bite down on your lip, then swipe your bloody lip with his tongue deviously. You should have known that Zandik being inexperienced in something only lasts for a short time.

When you two finally went to sleep, Zandik allowed it when you climbed into his bed and delicately placed a hand on his chest, cuddling into him.

—

“The sparrow and raven’s romantic partnership began just like that. Nothing else needed to be said. In all honesty, nothing had changed much between the two who had been friends for years, except for the addition of an overwhelming amount of affection from the sparrow towards the raven.”

You and Zandik were dating now. It was truly a dream come true. Truly a dreamlike moment to randomly kiss his cheek and then watch him become a mixture of flustered and angry at you for doing such things. Truly a dreamlike moment to be able to squeeze his hand under the table when people were talking about him. Truly a dreamlike moment to be able to hold him and caress him all over, to watch his face as he received the love he never received as a child. And truly a… laughable moment as he familiarized himself with holding you, which took much work and effort. 

It was fine though. You were positive your relationship would endure throughout any kind of struggle.

—

“Though, like any kind of relationship, the two sometimes encountered a few bumps and turns that would perhaps set them back. But, these problems never lasted too long because… the sparrow and the raven had unusual ways of solving their problems sometimes.”

Zandik wasn’t very strong. Smart, a definite yes, but his physical abilities weren’t anything special, which was why you took it upon yourself to fight whenever the need arose. So when he came back to the dorms one day with hastily wrapped bandages and cuts and bruises, naturally you were extremely worried.

“Who did this?” He didn’t respond to you as he made his way to the bathroom and you quickly followed after. Zandik was digging through the cabinet for more medical supplies, the previous bandages now lying on the floor.

“Zandik,” you murmured. You knew that people didn’t like him, but you didn’t think it would go to such a physical extent. Most people had the common sense to leave him alone or merely talk about him instead. But now that you thought about it, you had an idea of who it could be. Ugh, those fools from the recent expedition. When Zandik exposed their faulty and false research in front of everyone with ease, they seemed to grow some kind of grudge against him. 

“Zandik, let me see.”

“There’s no need.” You watched as he roughly treated the wounds, his emotions clearly showing in his actions.

“Zandik, I can-”

“I said no,” your lover harshly snapped, gritting his teeth. He was trying to stop himself from saying anything else because he could say things he didn’t mean when he was in this kind of mood.

“Okay then,” you acquiesced and let him be. As much as you wanted to comfort him, it wasn’t a good time now. You needed to give him some space first. But at least when you left the dorm, you had a goal in mind.

You didn’t return until it was pitch black outside, and similarly, all the lights in the dorm’s building were off, so you wandered through the darkness until you reached your room. Ah, the door was unlocked too. Zandik must have left it open for you. You just hoped you didn’t get any blood on the doorknob.

The room was dark. Zandik probably went to sleep early. You went straight to the bathroom to clean up. After all, your hands and clothes were all icky with the blood of your classmates. Flipping on the light and looking at yourself in the mirror, you examined yourself. Good thing you weren’t wearing a nice outfit. And your face, not a single scratch of course. They couldn’t lay a hand on you and they wouldn’t be laying a hand on Zandik ever again.

“Where were you?” The sudden voice nearly made you jump. Zandik was at the doorway. So he was awake.

“Oh, Zandik. Hello. I was simply out with my friends, you know?” You gave him a reassuring smile. Obviously, the scholar knew that was a complete lie. He knew what you had done, he just had trouble understanding why. And how too.

Zandik came up to you and grabbed your hands, surprising you. His watchful eyes checked them thoroughly, the blood not bothering him in the slightest. You were truly unharmed. If you weren’t, he would have done something a lot worse than what you did.

“What, are you worried?” You teased. He seemed to be feeling better. Zandik only huffed in response.

“Why would you do that? Now the Akademiya is going to be behind your back.” Classic Zandik, using negativity to mask his appreciation.

“No, they won’t. Our little friends got beaten up by some Eremites instead. They told me so themselves,” you giggled almost a little crazily at his expression. “You’re not the only one with tricks up your sleeve, Zandik.”

“Even so, it was,” he paused for a quick second to think, “a fruitless waste of time. You could have been helping me instead.” Again, you couldn’t help but laugh at his words. It would really kill him to be truthful for once, huh?

“Look,” you placed both your bloody hands over his own. “You are my boyfriend, are you not?” You cocked your head to the side, waiting for a response to which he nodded. “Precisely. So by that logic, I am yours, and you are mine. And naturally, I like to take care of things that are mine. Especially if that happens to be my brilliant blue-haired scholar,” you smiled. Perhaps you seemed a touch bit possessive. But this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, no, you two belonged to each other after all. Zandik didn’t respond but he unconsciously gripped your hands a little bit tighter.

“Just make sure no one sees you doing the laundry,” he huffed.

“Yes, love~,” you pressed a kiss on his cheek to which he made another grumble but made no effort to stop you. After you two got cleaned up, a restful and peaceful sleep came naturally.

—

“Underneath the moon and stars, the two shared years' worth of memories, touches, and love. Though even the moon couldn’t quite understand this seemingly impossible couple, it still bore witness to their endeavors every night without fail. But one day, tragedy struck. The sparrow fell sick to a terrible illness.”

Your relationship with Zandik had become one of the highlights of your life. Perhaps it seemed like you were too crazed for the man, but what was love if you two weren’t a bit crazy for each other? Your life was truly a joy with this grouchy and easily irritable scholar who went a wee bit soft at affection. Well, that was if you excluded the few ailments you had come down with recently.

It started small at first. 

Seemingly minor things affected you. Perhaps a painful throb in your head that wouldn’t seem to go away, but you passed it off as the stresses of exams and school. Aches and pains when you moved your body, but maybe it was just from sleeping in awkward positions because you kept passing out in the middle of the night after pulling yet another all-nighter with Zandik. Sometimes you felt unusually cold, or perhaps hotter than normal. But you thought it was nothing too big, maybe something was going around in the Akademiya.

That’s what Zandik thought too… at first. You were a strong person, no stranger to fighting whether it was people or Ruin Drakes. You would bounce back. In fact, in the beginning, he thought you were overdramatizing your pain. Groaning and whining and clinging to him in an attempt to convince him to stay in the dorms today instead of going out on this expedition. Of course, he shook you off and rolled his eyes, telling you to hurry up. He didn’t miss the tiny sigh you let out, and the slight twinge in his chest but that was quickly washed over by the thought that you were simply milking your unwell condition in an effort to gain more of his attention. 

He didn’t miss how you were much quieter than usual, leaving his voice to fill the silence as you two walked. He didn’t miss your slow and tired steps, to which you had to ask for him to slow down which he begrudgingly did. And he certainly did not miss when you tripped and nearly fell were it not for him catching you in time.

Zandik was about to scold you for your carelessness but the words died on his tongue at your expression. Dulled eyes and pants, your chest heaving up and down due to the strain. You swallowed before your eyes sparked back to life again, seemingly recovering from that little fall. 

“Sorry,” you smiled at him with a hint of nervousness. “Guess I didn’t get enough sleep.” Yeah, you went to sleep a bit late last night, but it wasn’t a three AM kind of night. It was rather earlier than usual, to be honest. So you really weren’t sure why your body was acting like this. Zandik looked at you, silent and unimpressed, but you think he bought it. After that, you tried to return to your normal chirpy self despite the throbbing of your head. You were saved by the fact that this expedition was only examining plants and fauna for a class instead of the normal expeditions you and Zandik carry out.

It did not get better from then. Zandik surely noticed from the way his usual rude comments gradually turned into silence and quiet help at your genuine condition. He wasn’t stupid. He could tell that you were being real. But it all boiled over one afternoon.

You wanted to ignore your deteriorating state badly. You wanted to pretend that it didn’t exist. If you admitted it to yourself, then everything would be over. For what good were you when you were stuck in bed all day? Not just to yourself, but to Zandik as well? You knew he would never leave you, wouldn’t ever hate you but… still, it bothered and worried you more than you liked to admit. So whenever it was possible, you did some tasks for your lover.

Today’s errand was simple. You’d done it multiple times before. You just had to retrieve some parts Zandik ordered (legally, this time) and bring them back to the dorm. And you had done just that… only with a minor hiccup. Yes, it was only a small setback, being pushed and shoved by some of your classmates who didn’t like you or Zandik. Yes, it was just an insignificant occurrence, your body too weak to fight back and put them in their place like you normally did. And since it was so trivial, you didn’t want Zandik to know. So when you got back to the dorm, you put on your smiling face and acted oblivious, handing your boyfriend the purchase and then scurrying to the bathroom. 

Not to mention, there were some scuffs and marks on your uniform. They looked to be only minor, but Zandik still noticed them immediately. Your uniform was crisp and pristine before you left, after all. And whenever you got into an altercation, you’d tell him every time. This time, however, seemed different. Now that you looked back, you were pretty damn obvious, but your knees were hurting really bad.

The scholar waited a few moments before waiting outside the bathroom door, listening in. What he heard were whines and grunts of pains, and then something falling supposedly from the cabinet, and then a string of curses from you. You were definitely hurt.

“[Name].” His tone was flat and serious, and immediately all noise from the bathroom became nonexistent.

“…Yes?” That tone of voice. You were guilty of something.

“I’m coming in,” he didn’t bother giving you a grace period despite your sputters of protest. Zandik found you near the sink, only in your undergarments, Akademiya uniform discarded to the hamper, now stained with small patches of blood. Knees and elbows scraped and bloody. Instinctively you moved your heads to cover your elbows at least, in an attempt to minimize the severity of the situation… which didn’t really work.

“Oh… hey Zandik!” You smiled nervously. “See this,” you motioned to your injuries, “I just tripped and fell again. No big deal!” You had a good and believable excuse. It was just that your execution of it was really bad and your boyfriend could see through you easily. But he didn’t need you to tell the truth, he already had a hunch as to what happened. Plus, if you truly had fell, the gashes wouldn’t have been so deep.

“...” Zandik seemed expressionless as he went behind you and grabbed the bandages and the necessary supplies to disinfect it, before grabbing your hand and pulling you to the bed. You opened your mouth to argue but closed it again, probably realizing there was no getting out of this. It was eerily quiet as Zandik uncharacteristically treated your wounds with more care than usual. Most of the time, he was rough with it as he scolded you for being dumb, rolling his eyes as you chastised him for being so mean. This time, however, most of the sting was from the liquid cleaning the wound. He finally wrapped the bandage neatly around your knees and elbows, before he broke the silence.

“You’re not leaving the dorm tomorrow.” You snapped your head up at this statement.

“Excuse me? Yes, I-”

“No, you’re not. You’re staying in bed.”

“You can’t decide that for me. I can go where I-”

“Not when you’re like this,” he bluntly stated. It was harsh, but it was the truth, and you knew it. But hearing it like that hurt, even though you knew this was Zandik’s way of looking out for you.

The room was quiet again since you couldn’t argue any further.

And so, you had decided to take a break from going to classes for a while. Well, it was more like Zandik had decided that for you, his words being that it would be a great inconvenience for both of you if you continued to act like this, and so he confined you to bed rest and refused to let you leave. Sure, his expeditions would have to be delayed, he lamented, but it would be a waste of time to go when you weren’t in tip-top shape. So stop being an idiot and fighting him and rest already. You know, Zandik’s typical way of being worried. He even took the time to teach you everything, and of course, keep you updated on how shitty the professors were.

So now, your days consisted of resting in the dorm, sometimes doing homework that Zandik brought home, or your own hobbies. But you did feel bad. You didn’t like sitting around and doing nothing all day long when Zandik had to be by himself now. If you were going to be stuck in the dorm all day, the least you could do is tidy up a bit. And of course, cook for the two of you.

Cooking and sometimes even baking were things you liked, but it became one of your favorite things because of Zandik. It sounded strange, but you liked seeing him well-fed and not living off of his inedible cooking. Today you would make… shawarma wraps. Yes, you were in the mood for that today. And so you got to work preparing and cutting the ingredients. The only problem was… your hands were far more shaky than you wanted them to be. The knife quivered in your hands and now the vegetables were being cut weirdly.

Indeed, it had been harder to steady your hands nowadays, so you tried to go for easier food to prepare. But you really wanted to eat some shawarma wraps today,  so you continued on. If you just focus your hand, then surely the knife would just-

…And now, there was blood spurting onto the countertop and dripping on the floor. Just great. It was like nothing would go your way ever again once you came down with this mysterious illness. You blinked back tears the whole time you clumsily wrapped the cut and cleaned the kitchen. 

It was a horrible feeling really, to suddenly be unable to do things that were once so easy. To have things you once loved doing feel like a daunting chore now. No matter how hard you tried to avoid thinking about your illness, it felt like it was consuming your life now. You didn’t want it to start defining you… but it hurt. So badly, that you didn’t even bother putting up your usual cheerful front that evening. Zandik took one look at your hand and could deduce what happened. He would have scolded you, were it not for your terribly gloomy expression.

Once again, in pure silence, he redressed your wound (which was poorly wrapped by your unsteady hands.) You didn’t want to speak, nor did you want Zandik to speak. You didn’t want any pity or reprimanding right now. You quietly rested your head on his shoulder, requesting nothing more.

—

“From then on, the little sparrow’s condition only went on a downward spiral. It seemed like no amount of rest and medication could hope to help them recover. Slowly, it seemed like they were becoming a shell of their former self… quiet, tired, and closed off. The raven could only watch as his beloved grew farther… and farther… and more distant from him in more ways than one. In fact, it would be more fitting to call the sparrow a butterfly now. Butterflies are beautiful, but transient. They are truly a joy to admire, but if one gets attached, they will only end up in a world of pain as the butterfly leaves them far too soon.”

You had long given up on classes and work. The assignments Zandik brought home were piled up in a corner. Just looking at them made you feel exhausted. You tried to do some every now and then, but how could you focus on school when you felt like you were physically and mentally deteriorating with every passing day? Though, many had no sympathy for your current predicament which was why you found yourself in your current predicament.

Kicked out of the Akademiya. How embarrassing. Yes, you were not joking. They had a letter of expulsion delivered right to your door for being absent and missing too many assignments, and an order to pack all your belongings and leave within a week. You were not very surprised and kind of accepted it. Zandik on the other hand, had a few choice words for the messenger, before slamming the door with a bang. He was much more wildly upset about this than you were, a spew of curses directed towards a multitude of people in the Akademiya came flying out his mouth. He wouldn’t accept this, he said. But both you and him knew there was nothing to be done, especially since they would never listen to an outcast such as himself. So in due time, you found yourself admitted to Sumeru’s local hospital. Zandik’s expression was grim, which you tried to change.

“I know you’re going to miss cuddling up to me at night, dearest,” you teased in an effort to lighten up the mood. “Don’t miss me too much!” Zandik, however, did not have the slightest reaction, which made your smile dim.

“Hey,” your tone dropped a bit. “Don’t look so glum. Otherwise, you’re really going to make me think you can’t live without me.” This particular tease made his eye twitch.

Zandik scoffed, “You overestimate yourself. I am not so helpless that I would need you to be near me at all times. Furthermore, I suggest you be ready for when you come back. We have a lot of work to catch up on.” You couldn’t help but laugh at that. Oh, how perfect it was, despite all the changes in your life, Zandik never changes, does he? With his harsh words veiled with some kindness underneath, a silent promise to you that he will make you better and you will be healthy again in no time.

“Of course, of course, love. I promise I’ll be ready to be worked to the bone by you after all of this,” you smiled softly. Zandik rolled his eyes, but at that moment, everything felt like it was going to be okay.

And it… kind of was, for a while. If you ignore the whole context of the situation. You were surprised to see Zandik make time for you every day to visit you in your dreary hospital room, but he did. He would bring you things sometimes, books or puzzles so that your brain wouldn’t get bored. The hospital staff were initially on guard at his presence every day, for his reputation had spread even beyond the Akademiya, but they got used to him after many repeated visits. 

Zandik, on the other hand, didn’t realize how much different you made his life until you were actually gone. He told himself that he could deal with it, that he had done it long before he ever met you, so he would be fine.

He wasn’t.

No longer could he bask in you and everything that came with you. Your brains, your intelligence, your strength, your efficiency, your productivity, your voice, your smile, your laughs, your horrible jokes, your touch, your cuddles, your body - you, you, you. No longer could he call for you and you would be there in an instant, arms swung around his shoulders. No longer could he fall victim to being the taste tester for your new recipes. No longer could he consume your very being… it was driving him mad. He despised how you weren’t at your rightful place at his side.

And he despised how dull your eyes had gotten. For the first few weeks, it was “normal” at least. You’d still be excited to see him. Listen to him. Converse with him. Beg him to stop trying to cook again and just buy takeout. “Normal” things. But now, it was very different. You never outright ignored his presence but, you were far more distant. Barely speaking full sentences, save for the “mhm” and “uh huh” that sounded more forced than anything. Not even mustering the energy to reach out to him or brush your fingers against his You had asked for your bed to be placed right next to a window, and every time he visited, you were in the same position. Staring out the window longingly, gazing down at the city.

And there was nothing Zandik could do. There were no words he could say, no amount of comfort he could provide that would somehow make things better. No, the only thing he could do was solve the issue itself. He was best at that anyway, the scholar and researcher in him paying off. The Akademiya’s libraries were overtaken by him, day and night. No medical text went unread by him. He looked for answers during class lectures. During meals, during the early hours of the morning, and depths of the night. He looked and looked and looked without rest.

But one day, Zandik realized that perhaps he hadn’t taken things seriously enough.

He arrived at your hospital room like any other day, only to see a few nurses crowded around you, fussing and worrying to each other until they saw him, visibly stiffening. It was then his eyes flicked down to your body, which looked… oddly lifeless and unmoving. His brain figured out what this meant before his heart did. One already knew what happened while the other didn’t want to accept it.

“Err…” The nurse fiddled with her clipboard, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news, especially to one such as Zandik, “As of today, [Name] has fallen into a coma…” He couldn’t pay attention to the rest of her words. 

The whole world went silent to him at that moment. Everything around him did, as he could only focus on your figure.

—

“With the sparrow now asleep with no signs of waking up, the raven uncharacteristically found himself at a loss.”

Zandik decided it was time to occupy himself with other activities. Like the hospital in the desert he worked at, treating, or rather experimenting on the patients there. It was for a number of reasons. Staying in the empty dorm room without you bothering him every couple of minutes was beginning to drive him more than just mad. Going to the hospital to be greeted by your sleeping body provided nothing but a flurry of negative emotions in him. To curve his growing curiosity and thirst for knowledge. And although Eleazar wasn’t what you were afflicted with, perhaps studying it could provide some insight. 

It was entirely morbid, cruel, and unethical, whatever word one wanted to say would probably fit the bill. Using corpses as material for “medicine”, driving his last remaining patient mad. Yet there was no part of him that felt guilty. That felt bothered. In the end, all he could think about was how satisfying the results of this experiment were. He cured Eleazar. Perhaps he could cure your illness too. Zandik was, in fact, excited.

Zandik continued to visit you every single day to check on you. It wasn’t like the staff cared much at this point. It was then he started keeping dedicated notes on your condition. He wasn’t much of a doctor nor was he experienced in the medical field, but the Akademiya’s library had proven to be more useful than he thought.

He took your vitals. Your heart rate. Temperature. Everything. Everyday. This time he injected you with what he hoped would cure and wake you up. Nothing. There was zero reaction internally and externally. It was a failure. It was frustrating.

Zandik, as a child, was used to being rejected. He never got what he wanted. Which was why as an adult, he made sure he acquired everything he wanted. Regardless of what, why, or how, nothing would stop him. And now that he was hitting that same block again, no matter how hard he tried, he was starting to seriously get irritated. Not at you, but at himself. This happened before, but this time there was also the fact he didn’t have your inquisitive mind or soothing presence to make him feel better.

Not to mention there was also Sohreh. Initially, he managed to tolerate her thanks to your coaching, but now that he had so many things to deal it, he found it harder and harder to deal with the Amurta. She was also the only one who had the decency to send condolences for your current situation, though he brushed her off before she could even get the words out. Yet by some annoying twist of fate, the girl kept popping up randomly around him, whether that was expeditions or group projects together.

When Zandik found his hands around her neck, he wasn’t surprised at himself. He didn’t feel anything at all, actually. On the same day, he went to visit your sleeping body and traced your veins with the same hands that killed your classmate. He wondered if you would feel any different to him if you knew what he’d done. If you would perhaps leave him. From how deeply you were sleeping, it seemed like he would never receive that answer though.

The days that followed were nothing noteworthy unless Zandik’s further spiral into madness and experimentation for both your sake and his innate desire were to be described in-depthly. Soon enough, he was banished from the Akademiya and into the desert. Despite his dislike for that place, it was a hindrance as he still needed somewhere to conduct research… and your body was still in a Sumerian hospital. But no matter, he’d make do.

It was then he met a gray-haired Khaenri’ahn man who offered him something that was too good to pass up and bestowed a name upon him.

Doctor? He was obviously no doctor. At least not one that helps people. Quite the opposite. If you were here, surely you would be laughing and cackling along with him at the irony of that name. But Zandik liked the ring of it.

And so Il Dottore was born. He just wished you were here to see it.

—

“Many, many centuries went by, and the raven progressed with his research in all areas and became akin to a God himself. However, his sparrow remained in a deep sleep and he could only watch as he failed to help his slumbering beloved.”

Dottore was now a man of many feats. To list them all would take a large amount of time, and the only person who would be willing to sit and listen was you. And you kind of did in a way, because for centuries, your sleeping body would be the first one to know about anything. Dottore would tell you of his accomplishments, his failures and successes, his useless co-workers, and how no one could ever compare to the assistant you were to him. And how despite the fact there was no doubt that his research and progress were entirely fulfilling, there was still a distinct emptiness and boredom in his life that only a certain someone could satisfy.

He wasn’t the only one who felt that way. The same conversation was exchanged between him and a segment every day:

“Are there any updates on [Name]’s condition?”

“No, nothing to report, Prime.”

The segments too would bemoan about the situation and wonder when you would wake up. Yet there was nothing that could be done. Countless resources and time had been exhausted on you, yet he had nothing to show for it. The only solution was to wait for you to open your eyes on your own, however long that may take. Dottore would undoubtedly wait though, what was a few more centuries, after all?

—

“But one day, a miracle happened. The bird woke up from their eternal rest, utterly confused and lost.”

Nahida rubbed her eyes and stretched out her body. To think that was only the beginning part of the fairytale! It was truly a long tale, yes, the one of Zandik and [Name]. Yet every part of it was intriguing and left her on the edge of her seat. And what better storytelling was it than to leave it on a cliffhanger?

[insomniac4000]

The Great YouTube Bake Off-ChrisMD

2864 Words

Chris Dixon was no stranger to challenges. From football tricks to wild challenges with his friends, he had tackled just about everything on his YouTube channel. But today, things were a little different. Today, Chris was venturing into a world he had only ventured into a few times and it wasn't his strong point, baking.

It had all started as a joke during one of their dates. Y/N and Chris had been together for seven months, she was a professional baker she had worked in kitchen restaurants before as a pastry chef but recently set up her own bakery and cake making business. While they were out y/n ordered a fantastic dessert but Chris was unimpressed with his complaining how hard was it to get a cheesecake right. Y/N scoffed at Chris's arrogance and thus was born the idea for a bake-off.

"How hard can it be?" Chris had confidently said while scrolling through pictures of extravagant cakes on Instagram. "I mean, it’s just mixing ingredients and throwing them in the oven, right?"

Y/N had raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on her lips. "Sure, Chris. Whatever you say."

And that’s how they found themselves in the bright, spacious kitchen in a studio which had been used for Youtuber's cooking challenges, cameras set up and ready to film for Chris's second channel. The stakes were high bragging rights were on the line, and maybe a little something extra for the winner, as Chris had hinted at the possibility of the loser doing the winner's chores for a week. The kitchen counter was lined with ingredients, utensils, and an assortment of decorative toppings. Each of them had a cake recipe of their choice, and they would have two hours to complete their creations.

"You ready for this?" Chris asked, grinning as he adjusted the angle of the camera, making sure it captured both of them perfectly.

"Ready as I’ll ever be," Y/N replied with a twinkle in her eye, tying up her hair in a neat ponytail.

"May the best baker win!" Chris declared, striking a pose.

"Or the one who doesn’t burn the kitchen down," Y/N replied, causing Chris to laugh.

The judge was none other than long time friend of Chris, ArthurTV. Everyone was introduced on camera, y/n giving a small nervous smile. She hadn't appeared on the channel yet and she was grateful she was doing something she knew about so she could hopefully provide some content.

The clock started, and both contestants dove into their tasks. Chris, with his trusty iPad displaying a recipe began gathering his ingredients. He had chosen a classic chocolate cake—simple enough, but with a lot of room for error if one wasn’t careful.

Y/N, on the other hand, was as calm as ever now she was in the zone. She moved with the ease of someone who had done this a thousand times, expertly measuring out her ingredients without even glancing at the recipe. She had chosen a rainbow cake, one of her personal favourites, a common order in the shop and something she was well used to making.

As Chris cracked eggs into his mixing bowl, he glanced over at Y/N's workstation. She was working at a speed that was slightly unnerving, her hands moving in a blur as she sifted flour into a bowl. He suddenly felt a pang of doubt—maybe this wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought. But Chris wasn’t one to back down. He turned his attention back to his own cake and began mixing the batter with more vigour than necessary. Unfortunately, this resulted in a small cloud of flour puffing out of the bowl and landing all over his shirt.

"Smooth," y/n commented, not even looking up from her batter.

Chris glanced down at the mess, then at his girlfriends pristine workspace. A mischievous idea formed in his mind. If he couldn’t beat her fair and square, maybe a little sabotage was in order.

"Whoops," Chris said loudly, deliberately knocking a small bag of flour off the counter. The bag burst open as it hit the floor, sending a plume of white powder everywhere. "Guess I’m just clumsy today."

Y/N paused, looking up from her cake. "Really, Chris? Sabotage this early?"

Chris grinned innocently, wiping flour from his shirt. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."

Y/N shook her head, laughing. "You do realize this just makes it more obvious that I’m going to win, right?"

"We’ll see about that," Chris said, turning back to his bowl. But as he resumed mixing, he couldn’t help but notice how easily the girl had brushed off his attempt to throw her off her game. If anything, she seemed even more focused.

As the bake-off continued, Chris began to realize that y/n was not only a natural in the kitchen, but she was also completely unflappable. She whisked, folded, and poured with a precision that made Chris feel like an amateur. But he wasn’t about to give up, if anything, her calm demeanor just made him more determined to win, by any means necessary.

He subtly tried to disrupt her progress, hoping to shake her confidence. First, he "accidentally" bumped into her while reaching for a measuring cup, causing her to spill a little bit of sugar on the counter. She just shot him an amused look and cleaned it up without missing a beat.

Then, Chris tried adjusting the oven temperature while she wasn’t looking, but Y/N caught him in the act. "Chris!" she scolded, a mock-serious expression on her face. "Are you trying to sabotage my cake?"

"Who, me?" Chris replied, feigning innocence. "I would never."

"You do realize this is all on camera, right?" She reminded him, pointing to the lens that had been capturing every moment.

Chris froze, momentarily forgetting about the cameras. He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh, right. Well, I guess I’m busted then."

Y/N shook her head, unable to hide her smile. "You’re hopeless." She then decided her own course of action and when Chris was seriously measuring out some more ingredients y/n saw her opportunity and swiped the cocoa powder quickly, placing it on a high shelf where she knew Chris wouldn't be able to reach properly by himself. It was a big joke that y/n was an inch or so taller than Chris, she didn't mind but of course his friends ripped him for it.

"Where..." Chris said out loud looking around his workbench, spotting a very sly smile on his girlfriend's face. "Have you seen my cocoa powder?" Chris asked walking over to his girlfriends bench, she shook her head but the smile on her face gave the whole thing away. Chris sighed and looked behind her, seeing the packaging on a shelf next to a colander, he sighed and had to nicely ask Arthur to fetch it for him.

"That was uncalled for," Chris mumbled, y/n giggled to herself as she continued to pour her mixture in to the many cake tins she was using.

Despite their antics, both parties managed to get their cake batter into the oven without any major disasters. As he closed the oven door, he turned to y/n and asked, "So, what kind of decorations are you going with?"

"Buttercream," y/n said, as she started mixing softened butter and powdered sugar together. "Simple, but delicious."

Chris nodded, making a mental note. He hadn’t thought much about frosting, but now that she mentioned it, he realized that it was probably just as important as the cake itself. He decided to go with chocolate ganache—a little fancy, but hopefully, it would impress Arthur, and his girlfriend who's opinion meant everything.

Arthur had agreed to be the impartial judge for the bake-off, though Chris knew there was a good chance Arthur might side with y/n if the cakes were too close to call. The two of them had become fast friends since Chris and y/n started dating, and Chris couldn’t help but wonder if Arthur was secretly rooting for her. Chris knew he could be a bit of a handful sometimes too and it could come across he had a bit of an ego but it was all in jest, if nothing else he always tried his best.

With their cakes baking, Chris and y/n began preparing their frostings. Chris’s ganache, despite his lack of experience, was coming together nicely. He had managed to avoid burning the chocolate and was now carefully stirring in the cream. He felt a surge of confidence—maybe he could actually pull this off.

Y/N, meanwhile, had already finished her buttercream and was now focusing on making some unicorn decorations to top the cake. She moved with such efficiency that Chris couldn’t help but be impressed, even as he plotted his next move.

As y/n stepped away to check on her cake in the oven, Chris saw his opportunity. He quickly grabbed a small spoonful of salt and mixed it into her buttercream, hoping it would be enough to throw off the taste without being too obvious. He barely managed to return to his own station before y/n came back.

"How’s your cake looking?" Chris asked, trying to sound casual.

"Perfect," y/n replied with a satisfied smile. "And yours?"

"Uh, still baking," Chris said, glancing nervously at the oven. He hoped his cake would turn out as well as hers seemed to be. If not, he might have to rely on his sabotages more than he’d planned.

After what felt like an eternity, the oven timer dinged, and they both pulled out their cakes. Chris’s cake was a little uneven, but nothing a bit of frosting couldn’t fix. Y/N's cakes, of course, looked flawless—golden brown and perfectly risen.

They let their cakes cool before moving on to the final stage: decorating. Chris spread his ganache over the cake, trying to make it as smooth as possible. Y/N, meanwhile tasted her buttercream and shot Chris a look before starting again. As soon as her new buttercream was finished she was piping intricate patterns onto her cake with her buttercream.

As they worked, Chris couldn’t resist one last attempt at sabotage. He "accidentally" knocked a small jar of sprinkles off the counter, sending them scattering across the floor. Y/n just sighed and shook her head, clearly used to his antics by now.

"Chris, you do realize that if you spent as much time focusing on your cake as you did on trying to mess with mine, you might actually have a chance," she said, her tone more teasing than anything else.

"Hey, I’m just trying to keep things interesting," Chris replied with a grin.

The timer was ticking down faster than Chris would have liked, he still had chocolate sprinkles to add on and was going to put some sliced strawberry's to add too. He looked at his strawberry's and his face fell when he saw they were squished, like someone had put their fist on them like the hulk.

"Right madam, you're going to pay for that!" Chris scolded, he walked over to the fridge and luckily there was still a handful of fruit in there.

With their cakes finally completed, Chris and y/n stepped back to admire their work. Chris’s chocolate cake, while a bit rough around the edges, looked pretty decent, especially with the shiny ganache covering its imperfections. Y/n's unicorn cake however, was a work of art, with delicate piping, a face painted on the side and a unicorn horn placed on top wrapped in gold.

"Not bad," Y/N admitted, giving Chris’s cake an appraising look. "You might actually have a shot."

"You think so?" Chris asked, trying to hide his surprise.

"No I'm just being polite, but let’s see what Arthur thinks."

Arthur arrived back in frame. He greeted them both with a grin, clearly excited to see what they had come up with.

"Alright, guys, let’s see what you’ve made," Arthur said, He walked over to Y/N's cake first, examining it closely. "Wow, this looks amazing, Y/N. Very professional, but I'm going to have to have a look in the middle." Y/N then cut a slice out revealing perfect layers in her cakes.

"That's actually really impressive." Chris uttered, he was truly proud of his girl, she was obviously talented.

Arthur then turned his attention to Chris’s cake. He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by how decent it looked. "Not bad, Chris. I was expecting something a bit more… chaotic."

Chris chuckled, scratching his head. "Yeah, well, I had to make sure I wasn’t completely embarrassed on my own channel."

Arthur nodded, clearly amused. "Alright, let’s give these a taste."

He started with Y/N's cake, cutting a small slice and taking a bite. His eyes widened as he chewed, clearly impressed. "This is really good," he said after swallowing. "The flavours are spot on, and the buttercream is perfect. Chris I don't know how you don't weigh twice as much being with her." Arthur joked.

"It's hard," the curly haired man replied.

Y/N beamed, and Chris felt a twinge of nerves. He watched as Arthur moved on to his cake, cutting a slice and taking a bite. There was a long pause as Arthur chewed, his expression unreadable.

"Well?" Chris asked, unable to take the suspense any longer.

Arthur finally swallowed and nodded. "You know, Chris, this is actually pretty good. The ganache is rich and smooth, and the cake is moist. I’m impressed."

"Let me have a bite," y/n asked and thanked Arthur when he gave her a fork, she took a bite of the confection, it was maybe a little too heavy on the sugar but overall the cake was moist, spongey, the chocolate was rich and the ganache was smooth, for an amateur Chris has done a thoroughly decent job. "I'm actually impressed!" Chris smiled at his girlfriends comments, although Arthur was the judge she was the one he was really trying to impress and knowing he had done that made his heart swell a little.

Arthur stepped back, holding up his hands in a gesture of finality. "Alright, guys, this is a tough one. Both cakes are really good, but I have to choose one winner." Chris and y/n exchanged glances, both trying to read Arthur’s expression.

Arthur took a deep breath and said, "The winner of this bake-off is… Y/N!!!"

Her face lit up with a smile as Chris groaned in defeat. "Of course she won," he muttered, though there was no real bitterness in his voice he knew it would make good content if he protested a little bit.

"Thanks, Arthur," Y/N said, giving Chris a playful nudge. "Guess I’ll be picking out your chores for the week."

Chris laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah, you deserve it. But you have to admit, I gave you a run for your money."

"You definitely did," Y/N agreed, though there was a hint of mischief in her eyes. "But next time, maybe try to sabotage a little less and bake a little more."

Arthur, still recording, chimed in, "And there you have it, folks. Y/N takes the win, but Chris put up a good fight. Make sure to like and subscribe if you want to see more challenges like this one!"

"But next time, it's going to be a free kick challenge and I’m going to crush you." Chris warned, y/n shook her head laughing.

"I’m looking forward to it."

"This is where she admits she is secretly the best free kick taker in the UK and has been playing for years," Arthur joked a little, y/n gave a smile to him and Chris which was so innocent it looked like a halo could appear above her head at any moment.

"I've got my eye on you," Chris winked pulling his girlfriend in for a side hug, her placing her hand on his chest with his around her waist.

As they started cleaning up the kitchen together, Chris couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction despite his loss. The challenge had been fun, and he’d learned a lot—mostly that he should never underestimate y/n. And who knew? Maybe baking would become a new hobby for him.

But for now, he had a week of chores to look forward to, courtesy of the best baker he knew. And as much as he hated losing, he had to admit that it was worth it.

[illuminatedquill]

Story Summary: Ursa is met with fierce opposition from Sabine over her plan. The Rite of Hearts challenge is revealed to the suitors. Ezra realizes how much danger he is in and begins to doubt himself.

Part 2 of 4

(Part 1 here)

Ursa Wren: She's a child. Kanan Jarrus: I believe you're underestimating the woman she's become. - Star Wars Rebels, Legacy of Mandalore

If you are a lover, you have to be a fighter. - Keanu Reeves

~ the call, part two ~

Hera Syndulla let out a huff of annoyance as she finished re-wiring a section of the Ghost's main control console. She had been noticing a certain amount of lag in the freighter's responsiveness to her steering in their last hit-and-run on an Imperial convoy. To a less capable pilot the delay would seem negligible, but Hera was no rookie - even a microscopic nanosecond's worth of lag could mean the difference between certain escape or being turned into floating scrap metal.

Rolling out from under the console, she paused to remove her safety googles and wipe the sweat from her brow. "Alright, Chop," she said. "Try the sequence again."

The astromech droid let out a surly beep of acknowledgment but did as he was told, his servo-arm slotting into one of the console's open ports to run a diagnostic. She couldn't blame him - they had been at it for hours now, performing maintenance all over the venerable freighter. It wasn't strictly necessary, but there were enough unknown variables that could spring up during combat against the Empire.

Ensuring that the Ghost stayed fully maintained at all times was a variable she could control, which is why she insisted upon performing it during any down time they could get.

"Chop?" asked Hera, wearily clambering onto the pilot seat to rest for a moment. "Can I get a diagnostic now?"

The astromech droid buzzed out some information. Hera frowned.

"I meant for the Ghost. I know you're tired. You've been complaining non-stop for the past several hours."

Chopper gave an annoyed squeal and then rattled off the correct information. She clicked on the main console's computer screen, confirming with her own eyes but as usual, Chopper's information was accurate. The lag had been fixed, and the Ghost was ready for action.

The veteran pilot slumped into her seat, wincing at tired muscles and aching joints that were making their presence known after hours stuck in the cramped workspace. At least, she could get some -

The main console chimed softly. A call was coming through on a private channel.

Hera stared at the beeping communicator and groaned. "Perfect timing," she muttered. "Sure, I'm already up."

Chopper queried a question at her in a series of beeps.

She growled at him. "Yes, you can leave to recharge now. Thanks for all the help."

The astromech droid wheeled himself out of the cockpit with an annoyingly cheerful buzz, leaving her to answer the message. Hera rubbed at her temples, trying to head off an impending headache.

Finally, she reached out with an exasperated sigh and let the call through.

"Hera," came a familiar voice. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

She straightened in her seat, surprise jolting through her. Flicking a few more switches, the holo-communicator flared to life revealing the hazy, blue tinged image of Ursa Wren, the matriarch of Clan Wren. The formidable woman was sitting upright in a chair, dressed in what appeared to be casual sleepwear.

Her headache instantly vanished. "Ursa," greeted Hera cautiously. The matriarch kept her affairs private, only reaching out to give updates on the Mandalorian war effort or exchanging intel with the Rebellion. But those conversations were always scheduled well-ahead of time since Ursa liked to keep to a strict schedule. Hera suspected the woman disliked surprises.

"What brings you at this late hour? I don't think we had any scheduled conferences for today."

Ursa shook her head. "We did not. I bring news regarding my daughter."

Hera's eyebrows shot up in concern. "Sabine? What's going on?"

There was the noise of rapidly approaching footsteps towards the cockpit -

Ezra burst inside, almost falling flat on his face, still dressed in his pajamas, hair slightly ruffled from sleep. "Sabine? Hera, did I hear that right?"

She snorted. Like a moth to a flame, Hera thought. The kid couldn't help himself when it came to the Mandalorian girl.

Then again, who was she to throw stones? Kanan was the exact same way with her. He just hid it better.

Ursa seemed unruffled by the young man's sudden appearance. In fact, Hera suspiciously noted via the subtle smile flitting across her face, the Wren matriarch seemed pleased at Ezra's intrusion.

It was as if Ursa wanted Ezra to be there.

Hera felt a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"That is correct, Jedi Bridger," Ursa continued calmly.

Hera watched Ezra's brows furrow together in worry. "Is she in trouble?" he asked Ursa.

"Of sorts."

"I'll go," he said immediately. Hera felt her mouth go slack at the speed in which Ezra made this decision. No hesitation, whatsoever.

He glanced at Hera, as if noticing her presence for the first time. "Hera, is the Phantom fueled up?"

"Yes," she said. "Hang on, Ezra - let's talk about this."

"No," he said firmly. "I'm going. Have the Countess patch into the Phantom's private channel and she can fill me in on the way to Krownest."

Hera raised an eyebrow at him. "You're giving me orders?"

That gave him pause, finally. "Hera . . . look, I'm sorry, but it's Sabine."

She just looked at him, dread and anxiety mixing into a heady concoction inside her chest. The boy had grown up on her.

When did that happen, she wondered. How much longer can I protect him from this galaxy?

Had that time already passed?

She reached out and gently gripped his wrist. "Ezra. You don't know what you're walking into."

The young Jedi gave her a small smile. "True. But I know who's in the middle of whatever mess this is. And she'll be needing me."

Hera huffed out a laugh. And, against her better judgment, she released her grip.

"Go save our girl," she said.

He nodded at her and walked out.

"Come back, safe" she said quietly to the empty cockpit.

"You have my word," came Ursa's voice, "that he will be returned to you, safe and sound. The boy will be under my protection."

Hera turned around to stare at the holo-image of the Wren matriarch. "I'll hold you to that, Countess," she replied softly. "Because that's two of my children that are now under your watch."

Ursa bristled at her words but said nothing. The woman owed the Ghost crew a debt for returning Sabine to her and she knew it. Sabine was back with her blood family, it was true, but both women knew where her heart truly belonged.

"If anything were to happen to either of them . . . " Hera did not finish the sentence.

The Countess cocked her head at the veteran pilot, her eyes intense. Hera held the intimidating gaze with her own.

After a few tense moments, Ursa let loose a grim smile. "From one mother to another," she replied. "You have my solemn vow. Both of them will be safe."

Hera held her stare for another second and then acknowledged with a nod. "Good. I'm assuming you have a plan to get Sabine and Ezra out of whatever mess is brewing for them."

"I do."

She leaned forward. "Tell me."

~ happy to see you ~

Three days later

Ezra had experienced plenty of bad days during his time travelling onboard the Ghost but being choked out by your best friend surely had to break into the top three or five if he could be bothered to make a list.

Thankfully, it wasn't the last day he would ever experience courtesy of the Krownest guards sent to wrangle Sabine off him. The latter now stood well outside of arm's reach of him, her hands placed in durasteel binders, flanked closely on either side by the same armed guards. The glare she was throwing his direction made Ezra feel unsteady and, not for the first time since he had arrived, he wondered if him being here was the correct move.

He risked a glance in her direction, silently pleading through his look: Please tell me that I'm doing the right thing here, Sabine. Please.

Alas, the only thing he could read off Sabine's glare was a silent promise intending to do more bodily harm to him. He sighed, running a nervous hand through his short-cropped hair.

Great job, Ezra, he thought miserably. Your only friend here is pissed at you.

"Forgive my daughter's unseemly outburst," said Ursa, her tone indicating no sign of surprise at Sabine's actions. "Our newest candidate is someone she is intimately familiar with."

Sabine's eyes popped open at Ursa's words, her head snapping towards her mother. Ezra felt his cheeks about to burst into flame, and he immediately raised his hand out of an instinctive need to correct the matriarch's statement.

He felt the stares of the other candidates fall upon him, along with Ursa's. Raising an imperious eyebrow, she said in an amused tone, "There is no need to raise your hand here to say something, Jedi Bridger. This is not an Academy classroom."

There was a ripple of muted laughter from the clan heads. The suitors, notably, did not join in that laughter. Ezra didn't know if that was a good or bad sign that they were not laughing at him.

He shoved that observation aside for the moment. "Uh, yes. Sorry. Thank you. I just want to clarify that our relationship was - is - very much platonic."

Ursa leaned forward on her chair, resting her chin on clasped hands. "You did not live together for a number of years before she returned home to us?" she asked.

Ezra blinked. "Uh. Yes, that's - that's true. We did."

"Dine together? Fight alongside together?"

His cheeks were warming up again. Sabine's lips tightened into a thin white line, her own cheeks turning rosy. "Well, yes, but - "

"You did not sleep together?"

"In separate rooms!" Ezra blurted out. "We slept in separate rooms, on the same ship. Not the same thing. Plenty of space on the Ghost, no need to share bunks. Although there were a couple times when we got space mite infestations and I did have to share a room with Sabine - "

He let out a hysterical giggle, realizing what he was suddenly saying after those last words clicked. Thankfully, Sabine stepped in.

"Mother!" hissed Sabine. "Stop this, now."

Ursa acquiesced, leaning back into her throne, eyes shining with mirth and amusement. "I jest, of course. Something to break the tension," she said apologetically.

She waved at the other candidates. "If the other suitors are ready, you all may present yourselves now to my daughter."

Ezra braced himself. Right - the reason he was here. The other suitors, fellow challengers for Sabine's hand in marriage.

He didn't know how this would go. Or what he would do to protect Sabine. But he was also a Jedi - and Jedi only acted to defend, not to attack.

Mandalorians were very different from Jedi, as he knew. The preferred to shoot first, ask questions later.

I might not have a choice, he thought. There was too much riding on his actions in the next few days. Ursa was depending on him.

More importantly, Sabine was depending on him. Even if she didn't appreciate it at the moment.

And he refused to let her down.

But he was still a Jedi. He would avoid all harm to the other challengers, within the best of his ability to do so.

He was protecting someone he cared about. But he would also do whatever he could to protect these others, even if they meant him harm.

Do or do not. There is no try.

Ezra pursed his lips, fighting down a sense of unease boiling up within him. He felt out of depth once again, amongst all these Mandalorians and their complicated politics.

There was only one glowing mote of clarity for him throughout this mess. He turned to Sabine, his eyes finding hers.

"Sabine," he called out.

She just looked at him, the anger still glowing hotly like fresh embers in her brown eyes.

Ezra just gave her a small smile. "Happy to see you again," he said.

Sabine's eyes softened. And, for a brief moment, the ghost of a familiar smile appeared on her face.

(Pictured above: Despite the tense situation, Sabine cannot help but give a gentle, affectionate smile to her friend, Ezra, as thanks for showing up when she needed him.)

"Me too, goober," she replied affectionately.

Feeling emboldened by that smile, Ezra turned to face the other suitors with a cheerful expression - aware that most, if not all of them, were plotting how to kill him within the next few days.

~ the debut ~

Sabine tore her eyes away from Ezra's earnest smile and focused on the first clan to present themselves. Stepping forward, the clan head and their chosen candidate shed their fine shimmer-silk cloaks with heads held high.

Clan Eagan, she remembered. The current head was Markus Eagan, a towering, gaunt faced man with storm gray hair that matched the color of his eyes. His beskar armor was dyed in the traditional colors of his clan, an intimidating mix of slate gray and white. It was unnervingly close to Imperial coloring, Sabine observed, but she had heard that it was unwise to point that out near any Eagan present - they detested the Empire with a passion matched only by Clan Wren, often volunteering for missions deemed suicidal that presented any opportunity to hurt the Imperials.

Their daughter, the heiress to Clan Eagan, was a depressingly familiar face from her early days in Mandalorian training: Anessa, the heiress to her clan.

(Pictured above: Anessa Eagan, a rival to Sabine during her early years of Mandalorian training. She was the first suitor to declare herself a challenger for Sabine's hand in marriage.)

The young woman had grown even more beautiful since Sabine's younger days: the sharp edges of her features inherited from her father's genes being smoothed over with youth. But the most striking feature were Anessa's eyes; Sabine was still unnerved by the sight of them after all these years - they were like dark pools of water with only the occasional predatory gleam surfacing to let you know the direction of her thoughts.

Anessa caught Sabine's look and gave a mischievous wink. "You look good in binders, Wren," she called out.

Sabine smirked at her. "Come closer and say that, Anessa."

Despite her bravado, Sabine felt a pit of cold dread well up inside her stomach. Anessa was vicious and brutal, raised in the style of her clan's tradition. She would not hesitate to find a weakness to exploit in an enemy's defense and use it to ensure complete victory - which, by Eagan standards of victory, would result in their utter annihilation. Clan Eagan was competent, ruthless, and dedicated to the art of warfare in a way that gave even the mighty Ursa Wren pause.

Anessa was a step beyond her clan, which made this situation all the worse: she enjoyed her conquests, relishing her victories with a zeal bordering on bloodlust. Sabine had seen it in the little competitions she held during the early Mandalorian trials. Even then, she was always pushing to see how far she could go before someone stopped her.

She stared hard at the Eagan heiress. I was always the one who stood against you, Anessa.

And now, it wasn't her standing against Anessa.

It was Ezra. Her best friend was the only one standing between Sabine and a potential marriage to the cruel Anessa Eagan.

Sabine's hands tightened inside her binders. Ezra . . .

The Eagan heiress just laughed at Sabine's remark, a melodic sound that seemed incapable of being issued from someone with Anessa's personality. Her father, standing behind, frowned and nudged the young woman.

Anessa shot her father an annoyed look, but she let the laughter die as acknowledgment. She bowed deferentially towards Ursa, waiting on her throne.

"Countess, I hereby declare my challenge for the right to marry your daughter."

Ursa nodded in return. "I accept your challenge, Anessa of Clan Eagan."

Anessa went to resume her spot standing in front of her father, Markus. But as she did so, she gave Ezra a flat stare, her gray eyes flashing with a hungry gleam.

Ezra seemed unperturbed by Anessa's look, only giving a cheerful wave in response. The hungry gleam only increased in Anessa's eyes.

Fenn Rau squeezed Sabine's arm as a warning. "Easy now," he murmured into her ear. "This is not the time."

Sabine blinked, suddenly aware that she had taken a step forward as if about to launch herself at the Eagan heiress. She took a deep breath, relaxing herself and pushing the feeling of protectiveness towards Ezra down into a deep hole . . . for now.

Ursa sat back into her throne, utterly relaxed. "The next clan will present themselves, if they please: Clan Reghabi."

(Pictured above: Jorge Reghabi, the heir to Clan Reghabi and second candidate to challenge for Sabine. He shares a deep-seated admiration and love towards Sabine for an incident during their early childhood when she stood up for him against a crowd of bullies.)

Instilling herself a sense of calm, she focused on the next candidate. A stocky, broad-shouldered figure, only dwarfed by the even more mountainous one standing behind them. The former took a decisive step forward, shrugging off their fine cloak, revealing a handsome, chiseled face that could have been featured on holo-dramas during the Old Republic days. His dark skin glowed with vitality, and he flashed a vibrant smile at Sabine.

Sabine let loose a gasp, her eyes widening in shocked recognition. "Jorge?" she blurted out, forgetting all sense of decorum. The image of a scrawny child, frail as a leaf, barely fitting into their first set of armor did not compute with this new updated image of the Jorge Reghabi she remembered.

The smile grew wider and with a whoop of excitement Jorge rushed forward to grapple Sabine into a huge bear hug. "Starbird!" he yelled. "It is so good to see you again, my friend!"

From the corner of her eye, Sabine caught her mother attempting to hide a bemused smile. "Stand down," she said softly to the guards who were alarmed at the sudden movement. They relaxed their stances to a more neutral position in response to the command.

Wheezing from the strength of Jorge's hug, Sabine gasped, "It's good to see you, too. Can you - ack - let me go before my ribs break?"

He let go immediately, his cheeks coloring with embarrassment. "Of course, of course," he said. "My apologies."

"No worries," she replied, wincing at her aching sides. She studied Jorge, taking in the sizeable growth in his frame. "You've grown."

"Yes," he said proudly. "Turns out I was a late bloomer. Now I am big and strong - and, more importantly, I can return the favor from when we were young."

Sabine frowned at him. "What favor?"

He leaned in close. "Now I can protect you, Starbird."

A memory returned her at Jorge's words: a crowd of young Mandalorians, jeering at a bruised youngling, Jorge, sprawled on the ground. In her mind's eye, she saw the younger version of her push her way through the mob, standing against them with nothing more than a sparring stick as a means of defense.

Smiling faintly, she merely said, "It wasn't a business transaction, Jorge. You needed help."

He winked at her. "And now you need help. I must save your clan."

From her throne, Ursa coughed loudly. "The challenger from Clan Reghabi. Please make your declaration, so we may move on?"

"Jorge!" barked the Clan Reghabi head. The matriarch of Jorge's clan, Asan Reghabi, slipped the cloak off her shoulders, her dark eyes sparkling with anger at her son. She was the spitting image of her child - or, rather, it was vice versa. Her hair was cut short in a military style, peppered through with gray throughout the long years of battle for dominance. The beskar armor she wore was in the colors of her clan, matching the vivid evergreen of a thriving forest.

"Jorge, by the founders, will you get your ass in line? Stop being affectionate with the girl, there will be time for that later when you win, you love-sick moron!"

The young man wilted from his mother's shouting but still managed to give Sabine a cheeky smile. He skipped back to his position and gave Ursa an extra deep, reverential bow by way of apology. "Countess, the candidate for Clan Reghabi hereby declares his challenge for the right to your daughter's hand in marriage."

The Wren matriarch looked down from her throne, a small smile forming from the Reghabi heir's antics. "I accept your challenge, Jorge Reghabi."

The Reghabi heir straightened himself and went back to his mother's side. The matriarch prodded her son sharply in the forehead, letting loose an exasperated hiss at his behavior. Sabine grinned for a moment but then sobered as she thought about the increasingly dire reality for Ezra who was watching the situation with a calm expression of polite interest.

Clan Reghabi was another clan of notable ambition but where Eagan could be seen more as a laser scalpel like approach to their enemies, Reghabi tended to be more like a battering ram. They were not known for their subtlety and the tactics they chose in battle were aimed to overwhelm and bludgeon their opponents into submission. For better or worse, Reghabi never surrendered and always ensured their enemies paid for any victory with no small amount of blood.

The pit of dread inside her grew even more but Sabine was determined to not let it show on her face. Ezra was smart, capable, adaptable to any situation and, more importantly, he was acting in accordance with a plan devised from Ursa.

It would have to be enough. It had to be enough.

"Final candidate, please present yourself," said Ursa briskly.

(Pictured above: Tal Cobel, the heir to Clan Cobel and final challenger for Sabine's hand in marriage. They grew attached to Sabine during their early years in Mandalorian training and fell in love with her when she encouraged them to embrace their true identity.)

The last candidate stepped forward, a tiny figure that was enveloped by the fine cloak bestowed upon them. With a subtle shift of their shoulders, the cloak fell to the ground revealing the heir to Clan Cobel, Tal Cobel. Their auburn hair was tied up in a loose bun with a face that could be mistaken for cute were it not for the determined, calculating expression that shined from their hazel eyes.

Tal caught Sabine's eyes and gave an awkward bow. Sabine acknowledged it with one of her own, saying, "Hello, Tal. It's been a while."

"Hello, Sabine," replied Tal softly. "I've missed you."

The Cobel heir paused before saying, even more softly: "You never wrote back to me."

Sabine froze, the guilt spreading through her. She caught Ezra's eyes, who watched the conversation with a frown.

"I know," replied Sabine. "I'm sorry, for what it's worth. I never forgot about you. My life just got . . . busy. I didn't want to involve you in that."

Tal nodded, their expression not giving anything away. "It's alright. We will have plenty of time to catch up when we're married."

"Tal," chided their mother, standing close behind. Mariza Cobel, barely taller than her child, wore the traditional colors of her clan: glacial blues and silvers. The Cobel matriarch's face was creased from the years of wear and tear and could be described as gentle, but the reputation of her clan preceded her: Clan Cobel preferred to have their victories be assured before the battle was waged, focusing on gathering enough crucial information to subdue their enemies without firing a single shot.

They were the spearhead of a new train of thought in Mandalorian warfare: spying, misinformation, and subterfuge. No less dangerous than the other two clans being represented; what they lacked in pure offensive capability, they more than made up for in superior tactical thinking and planning.

Tal blinked, cheeks turning rosy, and then turned towards Ursa. "My apologies, Countess. I hereby declare my challenge for the right to Sabine's hand in matrimony."

"Granted," replied Ursa. Tal nodded at Sabine again before returning to their spot next to Mariza.

With a clap of her hands, Ursa rose from her throne to survey the four candidates: Anessa Eagan, Jorge Reghabi, Tal Cobel, and last but certainly not least, Ezra Bridger.

"Challengers, I thank you for your warm greetings to this sacred event." she announced, sounding sincere. "Your journeys have been long. I invite you to partake of our hospitality and rest tonight under our protection here in Krownest. Fenn Rau will show you all to your rooms and supply you with supper later in the evening."

Ursa's eyes flashed in warning, voice rising to make her next point clear. "I expect a quiet evening tonight. The Rite of Hearts will prove arduous in the day to come, and I will have you all compete on an even playing field. Fenn Rau will be watching closely to ensure no foul play occurs."

Markus Eagan stepped forward, his gaunt face twisting in annoyance. "What is the question will you be posing for the challenge, Ursa?"

Ursa favored the man with a look of grim amusement. "You don't wish to wait, Markus? The anticipation makes things so exciting."

The Eagan patriarch's expression turned sour. "No. You know I despise waiting, Ursa."

She smiled at him, in a way that showed off her sharp canines. "I know. That's why I'm doing it."

The man's face suffused darkly with anger but he somehow managed to keep from retorting. Sabine sensed there was an ugly history between her mother and Markus, one that was better kept under wraps for now.

Ezra raised his hand.

"Yes, Jedi Bridger?" asked Ursa exasperatedly. "I will remind you, once again, that this is not an Academy classroom. You need not raise your hand."

"Um, I would like to know. If that's alright. Something to think about over dinner later, at least," he said quietly.

Ursa regarded him for a few moments. Then, sighing, she asked, "Very well. The question I pose is this: What does Sabine need?"

Ezra raised his eyebrows in a questioning matter, his expression mirrored by the other candidates and their parents.

"I require clarification," Mariza Cobel said. Beside her, Tal studied Sabine as if searching for an answer. Sabine shrugged, unsure of what her mother meant by the question.

Ursa gestured at her daughter. "It's simple enough. The galaxy spins itself further into chaos with each passing day. If any of you are worthy enough to stand by Sabine's side as a partner, you must show me that you know her heart. What does she need to live in this galaxy? What will you provide her that the others cannot?"

"Well . . ." Ezra ventured. "I mean, she needs food."

Sabine stared at him.

Tal frowned at him; Jorge's face erupted into a broad smile; and Anessa glowered at the young Jedi. Their parents shared similar disapproving looks at Ezra's candor.

Ursa rolled her eyes. "Does she now?" she asked, her tone practically begging him to discontinue this train of thought.

Unfortunately, Ezra did not catch on.

"Well, yeah," Ezra continued, not reading the room's atmosphere. "She eats like a baby rancor. I've seen it."

Sabine wanted to melt into the ground and disappear forever. "Ezra!" she hissed. "Stop. Talking."

He looked at her and immediately deflated. "Uh, forget what I said. Sabine eats delicately. Totally healthy and normal for someone of her size."

Ignoring Ezra entirely, Markus Eagan asked, "And how are the candidates expected to present this answer? I assume that's where the challenge will come in. Or are we starting the galaxy's first Mandalorian poetry contest?"

There was a ripple of laughter from the assorted guests. Sabine shrugged and muttered, "That doesn't sound too bad to me."

"No, Markus," replied Ursa in a clipped tone. "The suitors will venture into the Krownest mines at early dawn tomorrow. There they will make their way through the caverns, find the rich vein of beskar that lies there, and mine what they need to create their answer to my question. It will be a journey that will last most of the day, from my estimates."

There was a shocked silence that settled among the guests in light of Ursa's statement.

"Krownest . . . you mean to tell me," Asan Reghabi said slowly, "has its own mines of beskar?"

"Why were we not told this?" demanded Markus.

Ursa stared coldly at the Eagan patriarch. "Because it is a Krownest secret. Mine to keep. And it will stay that way, or I will have you all shot on sight."

No one said a word. Sabine surveyed the group: the Eagans were stony faced, the Cobels looked thoughtful, and the Reghabis seemed impatient to move on.

Only Ezra seemed to be focused on something else other than Ursa: her. She caught his look and gave a casual shrug, pretending that the information was not shocking news to her also.

The Wren matriarch clapped her hands once. "Now, it is time for food and then rest. You all have much to think about."

As Fenn Rau began to shepherd them all out, Ezra made to move closer towards Sabine. She shook her head vigorously. "I'll talk to you later, Ezra," she said, inwardly regretful at how curt her statement sounded.

He stopped in his tracks, giving her a sad look before allowing Fenn Rau to lead him away with the group of people who intended to kill him tomorrow.

And then she was alone in the throne room with her mother.

~ the duel ~

Fenn Rau returned to the throne room after seeing the guests off to their rooms and ensuring their security. Sabine stood across from her mother, newly unshackled, arms crossed against her chest. The younger Wren's expression was alarmingly placid given the stressful events she had just experienced. In Rau's time here, it was an indicator that a bigger storm was brewing inside Sabine, and he braced himself for the eventual break in her facade.

Ursa still sat on her throne, chin resting on clasped hands. For the first time that day, the Wren matriarch looked exhausted. He wondered if it was because of gathering of hostile clans under her roof . . .

" - were you going to tell me about Ezra's involvement, mother? I deserved to know in advance that you blackmailed my best friend into this mess!"

. . . or if this was just a normal reaction to arguing with Sabine.

He edged closer to the conversation with a high degree of caution, keeping track of the guards standing watch around the room. They didn't seem perturbed by the escalating situation - yet.

"The Jedi volunteered, Sabine," answered Ursa. Rau knew she was being honest here, having listened in on that conversation. The Countess had barely said two words before Bridger's agreement to help. "There was no blackmail involved."

"I don't believe you," retorted Sabine. "He would never involve himself in something as asinine as this."

Ursa's eyes flashed sharply, cutting through her exhaustion. "Watch your words, daughter. Your freedom is not an asinine matter to me - and to him, as well. On that matter, we are in agreement."

Sabine gritted her teeth, her eyes darkening with fury that was now freely boiling over. "You've put him into a deliberately precarious position! I won't have it."

"Or what?" challenged Ursa. "You're afraid he's going to get himself hurt?"

Sabine stomped her foot. "Yes! And I'm also afraid he's going to hurt the others! On my behalf! Which goes against everything he believes in as a Jedi!"

Ursa cocked her head at Sabine, curious. "Jedi - especially in this day and age - are no strangers to violence, child."

"They're not trained as weapons like we are, mother," Sabine pointed out. "The Jedi are meant to be a shield. A means of defense. They never act, unless it is to defend."

"He is defending something," Ursa replied quietly. "The boy is defending you."

Rau watched Sabine freeze at that statement, her face twisting at some unknown emotion. Ursa observed this and remarked, "That's what vexes you, isn't it? That Bridger is putting more than just his life on the line - his code, the mantle of being a Jedi, is also what's at stake."

She leaned forward, eyes flashing with interest. "He's willing to compromise himself for you. And you cannot stand it - the feeling of be so helpless while a loved one risks it all to defend something as intangible as your heart and your freedom."

Sabine just looked at her - and Fau heard an alarm bell start tolling away. It looked like something vital, some deeply held personal belief, had broken inside the younger Wren at her mother's words.

(Pictured above: A defiant Sabine confronts Ursa regarding Ezra's involvement in the Rite of Hearts.)

There was an angry snap-hiss that crackled like lightning into the silence filling the room.

All the guards inside the room snapped their heads towards Sabine as she held the newly ignited Darksaber aloft over her head.

Ursa stared at her, rising slowly from her throne into a standing position. Rau shivered at the sight of such raw, naked fury emanating from the matriarch's face. It was only matched by the same emotion coming from her daughter, facing her mother with weapon drawn.

"That weapon," Ursa said, her voice eerily calm, "gives you authority over all of Mandalore."

"That's right," challenged Sabine. "So, mother - you will yield."

Ursa stepped down from her throne, walking slowly towards her daughter. The younger Wren tracked her mother's movement, shifting her footing cautiously.

"You forget where you stand, Sabine. This is not Mandalore," said Ursa.

She snapped her fingers. The guard nearest to her, standing against the wall, turned and threw his spear towards the Countess. She caught it deftly, slamming the end onto the stone floor.

It rang with the tone of a clear bell, indicating the strength of its beskar. Pure beskar, thought Fenn Rau. Strong enough to withstand a lightsaber.

"Your other Jedi friend, Kanan Jarrus, told me that I had underestimated you. That you are no longer a child," said Ursa.

Sabine didn't answer, except to just narrow her eyes. The Darksaber hummed angrily in her grasp.

"But he does not know you as I do, daughter. You still have much to learn."

"I won't let you use Ezra in this game of yours," replied Sabine through gritted strength. "It ends here, mother."

Ursa studied her daughter. "You're afraid. Afraid that he'll break himself to save you. And - then what? You won't be able to love him anymore? He'll be too damaged to be loved - like you?"

They were circling each other enough, close enough for a strike from either one of them but the battle was already being waged. Not through action but through words. And Ursa was winning, judging from the storm of emotions crossing through her daughter's face.

"Stop talking," whispered Sabine. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"You do know. You're scared of the truth. And that fear blinds you. Makes you question him. And perhaps I should, too. If you have that little faith that your precious Jedi cannot overcome the challenge ahead then, when I'm finished with you here, I will go to his quarters and plunge this spear into his chest to spare him - "

Fenn Rau closed his eyes, feeling sympathy for Sabine. Ursa knew where her daughter's weakness was . . . and exploited it ruthlessly to her advantage.

Sabine let loose a primal, furious scream.

Ursa snapped the spear into a guard just in time as the black-white blade collided against the pure beskar in an explosion of sparks.

And the duel between mother and daughter began.

~ kanan ~

The rest of the day did not fare much better for Ezra.

Despite his best efforts, the other challengers - Anessa, Jorge, and Tal - kept mostly to themselves, along with their parents. Ezra had been met with either polite conversation that amounted to nothing or outright hostility (mainly from Clan Eagan). After several hours trying to get more information from anyone he could, Ezra felt frustrated with all the dead ends.

And he couldn't locate Fenn Rau, Sabine, or Ursa, either.

I'm way out of my depth on this one, he thought miserably. What have I gotten myself into?

With nothing else to go on and the hour growing later, Ezra decided to retire into his quarters for a while.

They were reasonably good accommodations - sparse on decoration but still comfortable with all the touches necessary for a good night's rest. It was certainly much nicer than the room he shared with Zeb back on the Ghost, not that he would ever complain to Hera about that.

He laid back on the bed, letting his body sink into the comfy plush, and closed his eyes. All he could think about was Sabine - namely, how upset she was that he had showed up. Yes, he had managed to get a smile out of her later on, but only just.

Ezra grimaced. As a Jedi, he was supposed to have the clarity of thought to see through any situation. But, as usual, when things came to Sabine and Mandalorians in general, that clarity was rarely present.

Sabine.

He had missed her greatly these past few months. And, admittedly, he was hoping that her reaction to his presence would have been . . . less angry at the very least.

Had he been wrong to come here? But if things weren't so dire, why did Ursa request his help? And what was he supposed to do, anyway? She hadn't been entirely forthcoming in their conversation as he made the trip to Krownest.

"I just need you to be yourself," Ursa had assured him. "I will handle the rest."

"Whatever that means," Ezra muttered. He rolled onto his side - and saw the holo-communicator built into the small desk that came with the room.

Sitting up, he reached over and keyed in a communications code. A call went out - and someone answered a few seconds later.

"Hey, kid," came the voice of Kanan Jarrus, his master. "I was wondering when I would get this call."

"Kanan," said Ezra, feeling relief pour through him. "Thanks for picking up."

"Of course. Everything going well over there? You and Sabine get hitched yet?"

Ezra felt his cheeks heat up. "That's not why I came here!"

"Really?" asked Kanan, his tone droll. "Because the way Hera explained it to me is that your plan is to marry Sabine . . . so that she won't have to get married at all. Or something like that."

"Well. When you put it like that - look, Ursa says Sabine doesn't want to be married. But she doesn't have a choice in this because of clan politics. So, if I marry her, Sabine won't have to marry anyone else."

"Uh-huh," replied Kanan. "And then - what? You two just pretend to be married until things settle down and get the marriage annulled?"

"Right," said Ezra. "We just . . . you know, put on an act, and when the time is right, Sabine can find a suitable partner for herself. On her own terms."

"And you're okay with that?"

Ezra ignored the pang of . . . he couldn't find the word to describe it. Loss? But that would imply that he thought Sabine was his to begin with. And the marriage wouldn't be real . . .

"This isn't about me," he answered back. "This is all for Sabine."

"If you say so, kid," said Kanan. "But I'm sensing there's more to talk about here."

"Yeah," said Ezra, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I, uh, am not so sure I thought all - well, any of this, through."

Laughter came through the call. Ezra grimaced. "Oh, you think?" asked his master. "Do tell."

"Pretty sure the other challengers are planning to kill me in tomorrow's contest," growled Ezra. "Really could use some advice here."

"Did you try talking to them?"

"First thing I did after we all introduced ourselves."

"Well," said Kanan, "that might be why they want to kill you. So don't do that anymore."

Ezra rolled his eyes. "Sound advice, master. Thanks."

"You're worried about losing," prompted Kanan suddenly.

He paused. After a few moments, he whispered back, "Yeah. I am."

"There's so much riding on this, Kanan. I'm still not sure what I'm doing here - you should have seen Sabine's expression; she was not happy. I think she hates me now."

Kanan chuckled. "No, she doesn't. I know her, and I know you. Don't listen to your doubts. They'll eat away at you. Listen to what your heart is saying."

Sabine.

"Are you listening to it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am," said Ezra quietly.

"Focus on that and why you're there. Make it simple. Don't stray from it, and you'll find your way through this mess. Reach out to the Force for guidance."

He closed his eyes, letting his master's words sink into him. "Okay. Thank you, Kanan."

"Still worried about losing?"

"A little," Ezra admitted.

Another chuckle from Kanan. "If I were a betting man, I'd wager all my credits on you, kid."

Ezra frowned. "Why?"

"Because Sabine will be watching, I assume. You won't fail in front of her."

The young Jedi smiled faintly. "You're right," he said, feeling confidence bloom inside his chest. "I won't."

"May the Force be with you, Ezra. And keep our girl safe from the scary suitors," said Kanan.

Ezra laughed. "Same to you, master. Tell the others 'hi' for me."

"Will do."

He cut the call. Standing up, Ezra stretched tired muscles - and heard his stomach growl.

Well, might as well see if dinner's ready, he thought. Maybe the other suitors will feel more talkative with food in their bellies.

Ezra made for the door -

It hissed open before he reached it. Sensing a new presence, he reached for the lightsaber hanging off his belt -

And then recognized it a second later.

It was Sabine. One of her arms was, alarmingly, clearly broken encased in a thick cast held across her chest in a makeshift sling to prevent movement.

"Sabine?" asked Ezra, concern overriding all other thought. "What the hell happened - "

With her remaining good arm, she shoved him further inside the room before he could finish his sentence.

"I need you to do me a favor, Ezra," she said softly. Her eyes were scary wide, like a desperate animal cornered.

Regaining his balance, Ezra looked at her. "What is it?" he asked, bracing himself.

Sabine just continued to stare at him, breathing heavily. He couldn't make out the hurricane of emotions fighting for control of her face, but he could feel it through the Force: anger, despair, regret - and, impossibly, some small seed of what felt like hope.

"Kill them," Sabine whispered. "I want you to kill them all."

TO BE CONTINUED

[xtra7s]

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐒 ★ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

pairing: Renee Rapp x Reader

Synopsis: Y/N comes to Renee's house to write more lyrics, having more fun than she thought she would.

content: literally just fluff.

word count: 2000+

masterlist | previous part

Sunlight, unwelcome and insistent, lanced through the blinds, dragging Renee from the depths of a dream filled with unfinished melodies and Y/N's sharp, enigmatic smile. Groaning, she swatted at the offending light before surrendering to wakefulness. The events of yesterday, the tense collaboration with Y/N, flickered back to life. Their creative sparks flew, but so did their barbs, leaving an uneasy truce instead of the harmonious flow Renee had hoped for.

Yet, a melody hummed beneath the surface of her mind, insistent and tantalizing. It was unfinished, a single verse born from their clash, and it held a raw honesty that resonated with Renee. She couldn't shake the feeling that Y/N, despite her aloofness, held the key to unlocking its full potential.

Sitting up, Renee grabbed her phone and sent Y/N a message. It was a gamble, a tentative olive branch extended across the chasm of their differing personalities.

Renee: Coffee and unfinished business at my place? Noon sharp? ☕️

Blinking away the remnants of sleep, she sat up, the unfinished song from yesterday humming beneath her skin. Excitement warred with apprehension; Y/N, notorious for her cool indifference, was coming over to write again.

Pushing back the covers, Renee stretched, the morning chill sending goosebumps erupting across her skin. A quick glance at the clock sent a jolt of urgency through her. Time to ditch the dreamland and embrace reality.

The bathroom buzzed with the energy of her determination. Toothpaste frothed into a minty cloud, the rhythmic whirring of her electric toothbrush chasing away the last cobwebs of sleep. As she splashed cool water on her face, a nervous tremor ran through her hands. What should she wear?

Clothes flew like colorful birds from her closet, landing in a haphazard pile on the bed. Each outfit felt wrong, too casual, too loud, and not good enough for the enigmatic Y/N. Finally, her eyes landed on a simple black and white striped sweater, paired with comfortable sweatpants.

Her phone remained silent for an agonizing hour. Just as doubt began to creep in, Renee's phone pinged.

Y/N: Fine. But the coffee better be good. ☕️

A small smile curved Renee's lips. Challenge accepted.

Makeup was kept minimal, a touch of concealer to chase away dark circles, a swipe of mascara to open her eyes. Her hair, usually cascading down her shoulders, was instead pulled into a messy bun. She looked in the mirror, not the polished star, but the artist ready to create, vulnerability mingling with defiance.

By noon, her apartment buzzed with nervous energy. She had brewed her secret coffee blend, the one guaranteed to jolt even the sleepiest soul, and laid out their notebooks and instruments like offerings on an altar of creativity.

The doorbell rang, and Renee braced herself. Y/N stood on the doorstep, looking as effortlessly cool as ever in ripped jeans and a leather jacket, a scowl permanently etched on her face. Yet, there was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes as they swept over the prepared workspace.

"Nice digs," Y/N muttered, stepping inside. Renee detected a slight softening in her voice like the sun trying to peek through storm clouds.

"Thanks," Renee replied, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in her stomach. "Coffee?"

Y/N nodded, accepting the mug with a surprised grunt at the first sip. "Damn, you weren't kidding about the good coffee."

A small laugh escaped Renee, and for the first time, the air felt less charged, a sliver of tension dissipating. They settled onto the couch, guitars in hand, facing the unfinished melody like adversaries about to engage in a duel.

But instead of clashing, their instruments intertwined, weaving a tapestry of sound that surprised them both. Renee took the lead, her voice raw and emotional, pouring the frustration and vulnerability of their collaboration into the lyrics. Y/N responded with sharp counterpoints, her melody echoing the defiance in Renee's words.

Taking a deep breath, Renee picked up her guitar, the wood familiar and comforting in her hands. Today wasn't about impressing; it was about the music, the shared journey into unknown territory. she met her reflection with a determined smile, let the melody begin, imperfections and all.

 Renee's fingers danced across the guitar strings, the melody from yesterday echoing in the room. The air crackled with creative energy as she and Y/N exchanged ideas, tossing lyrical darts at the metaphorical board of their song.

"This conversation's classic," Renee sang, her voice laced with a mix of amusement and frustration. "I can predict this shit, line by line."

Y/N nodded, her brow furrowed in concentration, nodding as a smile grew on her face.

Renee strummed a chord, a wry smile playing on her lips. "I like a straight jacket," she sang, "comfortable but confining. Keeps us safe, but suffocates the soul."

Y/N's eyes lit up. "Exactly! That shit for real!"

Renee's fingers flew across the strings, weaving a new melody around the existing chords. "But it feels like it's a little tight," she sang, her voice gaining an edge of finding. "Oh yeah, you're boyfriend's cute"

Y/N raises an eyebrow, hopping in as Renee makes faces of concentration.

"Oh, shit, yeah, he can come too"

"You'll be his in the morning anyway" Renee responds as she smiles at Y/N, placing down her guitar with a sigh.

As they continued their collaboration, the song evolved, fueled by their shared desire to break free from the confines of expectations and societal norms. The lyrics became a tapestry of raw emotions, vulnerability woven with defiance, a declaration of their artistic freedom.

The room was filled with the soft strains of a melancholic song as Renee and Y/N lounged on the couch, sharing a quiet moment. The lyrics, rich with emotion, hung in the air, prompting a thoughtful silence between them.

Renee turned to Y/N, her eyes reflecting a depth of understanding. "Do you understand the lyrics?" she asked, her voice carrying a sense of reflection as she tilted her head.

Y/N, trying to suppress the subtle flutter in their chest, nodded. "Yeah, it's quite powerful. Each word seems to tell a story, you know?"

Renee's gaze lingered on Y/N, a quiet acknowledgment passing between them. "It's funny how music can capture feelings that are sometimes hard to put into words. Like, it's easier to express things through song lyrics than in a regular conversation."

Y/N took a moment before responding, "True. Music can be a way to say what we might be afraid to say out loud."

Renee, her eyes searching Y/N's face, detected a hint of something unspoken. "Yeah exactly. The constraints of that shit are crazy."

Caught off guard, Y/N hesitated for a moment, then decided to open up a bit. "Well, you know, sometimes lyrics resonate with you more when they mirror your own experiences. It's like the songwriter reached into your soul and put your feelings into words."

Renee nodded knowingly. "I get that. It's like finding solace in someone else's pain or joy because you can relate."

As the conversation continued, Renee subtly steered it towards a more personal topic. "Speaking of relationships, do you ever feel like societal expectations put constraints on who you can be with?"

Y/N, suddenly aware of the weight of the conversation, chose their words carefully. "Yeah, definitely. It's like there are these invisible rules that dictate who we're supposed to love, and it can be suffocating."

Renee sighed, her eyes reflecting a mixture of frustration and understanding. "I feel that too. Being a lesbian, it's like society has this script they want us to follow. But love shouldn't have rules, you know?"

Y/N's heart echoed Renee's sentiment, resonating with the struggle of hiding one's true self. "I get that, I think. Sometimes it's harder for some people to break free from those expectations."

Renee, sensing a shared understanding, placed a comforting hand on Y/N's shoulder. "There are people who understand and accept you for who you are, I think. They're the shit."

Y/N met Renee's gaze, silently grateful for her empathy. At that moment, the lyrics of the song took on a new meaning, weaving a connection between them that transcended the spoken words.

Both Renee and Y/N sat back, chests heaving with creative exertion and smiles mirroring each other's.

A comfortable silence settled between them, the kind that comes after shared creation and vulnerability. An idea sparked in Renee's mind. "You know, writing is thirsty work," she suggested, glancing at the clock. "How about we refuel and keep the good vibes going?"

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a hint of a mischievous grin playing on her lips. "Pizza? It's practically mandatory for songwriters."

Renee laughed. "Nah, something less predictable. What about Chinese?"

Y/N considered it for a moment, then shrugged. "Why not? As long as there's General Tso's."

A quick scan of delivery apps later, they were sprawled on the couch, plates overflowing with spicy goodness. "Game of Thrones?" Renee suggested, grabbing the remote.

"Only if you promise not to spoil anything," Y/N warned, eyes already glued to the screen.

Laughter filled the room as they navigated the treacherous world of Westeros, their easy banter punctuated by groans at character deaths and cheers for unlikely heroes. The initial tension between them had completely dissolved, replaced by a newfound understanding and respect.

The soft glow of the TV bathed the room in a cozy ambiance as Renee and Y/N settled onto the couch to catch up on their favorite show. Y/N couldn't help but sense an unusual tension in the air. Renee, typically confident and self-assured, seemed oddly nervous.

Y/N glanced sideways at Renee, an impish smile playing on their lips. "Is there something you're not telling me, Renee?" they teased, raising an eyebrow.

Renee's eyes widened slightly, and she attempted to play it off. "What? No, nothing. Just enjoying the show," she replied, feigning innocence.

Y/N scooted a bit closer, the teasing glint in their eyes undeterred. "Hmm, spill the beans, Renee."

Renee let out a nervous laugh, realizing she couldn't escape Y/N's playful interrogation. "Okay, fine. Maybe I'm a little nervous," she admitted, looking down, keeping eye contact with Y/N and smiling with her teeth.

Y/N's grin widened. "Nervous? Around me? What are you really, hiding Renee?"

Rolling her eyes, Renee playfully nudged Y/N. "It's not like that! I just... I didn't want to mess things up or say something weird."

Y/N chuckled, enjoying Renee's flustered state. "Mess things up? With me? Come on, Renee, I'm obligated to be here."

Renee couldn't help but laugh at Y/N's playful banter. "I guess you have a point."

Y/N shrugged dramatically. "It's a gift, really. But seriously, no need to be nervous. We're just bitches watching a show."

Renee laughed, grateful for Y/N's lighthearted approach. "You're right. Thanks for putting up with my nerves."

Y/N grinned, nudging Renee back. "Yeah, yeah, Renee. Now, let's focus on the show before I start making fun of you some more."

As they settled into the episode, the playful banter lingered, turning an ordinary TV night into a delightful exchange of teasing and laughter between two friends.

Between bites of kung pao chicken and tense dragon battles, they talked. Not just about music, but about their fears, their dreams, and the things that kept them up at night. They discovered shared passions for obscure documentaries and a mutual hatred of airport security lines.

As the credits rolled after watching too many episodes, a comfortable silence descended. It wasn't the awkward quiet of strangers, but the companionable stillness of two people who had just discovered a connection they hadn't expected.

"Thanks for today," Renee said, a genuine smile on her face. "It wasn't what I expected, but it was way better."

Y/N smirked. "Neither was it for me. But who knows, maybe this collaboration's the start of something."

With a shared understanding that stretched beyond the song they were writing, they cleaned up the remnants of their feast, the melody of their unexpected alliance humming in the air. The unfinished song waited, a blank canvas ready to be filled with the story of two artists who had found common ground in the most unexpected place: over takeout and dragons.

[voxconcordia]

"I'm not hungry" for the food prompts??

I immediately knew what I wanted to write for the prompt "I'm not hungry." I think Marko read my mind a little bit by suggesting this! :3 For anyone who didn't catch it, go check out @food-as-a-metaphor-for-love's Fanfic Bingo! The scene I wrote for this challenge is a little extra scene from my Jayvik fic, Of Our Own Making. This is a scene I had outlined, but I didn't end up actually writing at the time, for pacing purposes. A deleted scene of sorts! It was fun to have such a perfect excuse to write it anyway! This scene takes place sometime between Chapter 16 and Chapter 17 of Of Our Own Making. Here's a link to the full scene on AO3: I'm Not Hungry You don't need to have read the full fanfic to enjoy this scene, imo! But I would really love for you all to check out Of Our Own Making along with this scene, if you haven't already 🫶🏻 And thanks for the suggestion, Marko <3 And here is just a small snippet of the scene:

He shouldn’t have snapped. Why did he keep doing this?

Jayce had been trying, more than Viktor dreamed he ever would. He didn’t deserve to be pushed away for it. But Viktor’s chest was a raw, exposed wound these days—everything felt too close, like open nerve endings, the lightest touch, deceptively agonizing. And now he’d, again, ruined what little peace they’d had.

He stayed like that for a while, breathing in the faint scent of copper and solvents, the regret and fatigue feeling thick in his throat.

He was only pulled back into the moment by the crinkling sound of a paper bag being set on the table in front of him. Viktor started, looking up to find Jayce laying out take-out containers onto their workspace. 

“I brought lunch,” Jayce announced casually.

Viktor sat up, surprised to see him opening brown paper bags and a pair of bottled drinks tucked under one arm. “Jayce—”

“I know,” Jayce interrupted before Viktor could launch a protest. “You said that you weren't hungry. I knew you wouldn’t leave, so I brought lunch to you instead. You can ignore it. Or throw it away. Or just glare at it. But I figured I’d take my chances.”

Jayce set the container he’d just fished out of the bag in front of Viktor and began unpacking his own, pushing some small machinery parts a little off to the side, clearing room for his food. Viktor stared at the bag for a long moment, speechless from the easy kindness that Jayce was showing him.

“We—we shouldn’t be eating in the lab,” Viktor said, though the argument lacked any real fire.

Jayce shrugged. “If anyone gets upset, I’ll tell them it was my idea.”

“Because it was your idea.”

Jayce grinned, unwrapping his sandwich. “Exactly.”

Viktor hesitated a moment longer, all the arguments he could level at Jayce’s insistence, now exhausted. His mind turned, hoping to find something to say, but was stopped short by Jayce’s hand being laid over top of one of his own. 

“Please, V. Eat.”

[secondbeatsongs]

how to make neon signs in inkscape!

I lost my mind and spent a large amount of hours yesterday perfecting my methods and figuring out how to do this, so if you're interested in making something like this:

here's how to do that!

step 1: cover your workspace in a dark grey rectangle, and lock that layer down.

I've been using 80% or 90% grey - you want this so you can see your neon effect, but you don't want it entirely black at this stage, or you won't be able to see your shadow layer.

step 2: create some text!

pro tip: rounder sans-serif fonts look the best for this, because think about what a neon sign is made of - it's tubes, bent into shapes! so if your font or design looks too sharp and pointy, it'll feel unrealistic when you make it neon.

(this is, of course, a perfectionism thing on my end, so feel free to ignore any and all rules in order to make the thing that you want to make. as with all art, you can do whatever you want forever!)

bonus pro tip: if you, like me, have over 1400 fonts installed and programs tend to lag when you browse through all of them, nexusfont is a great free software that lets you sort your fonts into categories, search them, and preview what any text looks like in different fonts! I love it. it is my best friend

now I'm going to do this with a few different fonts, so that you can see how it works with them. so today, I'm picking Futura Round, Harlow Solid Italic, and then to challenge myself, Beauty School Dropout and Block

make the text white, and also select the text and go to Paths -> Object to Path, because some things don't work right if they're not paths.

let's start off easy with Futura Round!

Step 3: duplicate your text layer

now bear with me here. but you need to take the text you're working with, and either right-click duplicate or copy/paste the layer until you have seven total copies of the text you're working with.

arrange them like this, making sure the top one is the first layer on the list (and so on), and then in the layers tab, label them like so:

pro tip: if you don't have the layers tab open, go to Objects -> Objects and Layers, and that'll pop it right up

Step 4: blur time!

switch to the Fill and Stroke tab, and make these changes to the paths:

glow small: 15% blur, 100% opacity

glow medium: 20% blur, 90% opacity

glow large: 50% blur, 70% opacity

glow xlarge: 70% blur, 70% opacity

your workspace should now look like this:

this is good!

pro tip: these numbers are just loose guidelines! at the end, mess around with everything to make sure that the glow looks right to you! nothing is an exact science

Step 5: shadow and outline

for the shadow layer, make it solid black, and then change the opacity to 50%

for the outline layer, we're doing something fun and weird. so right now it's a fill object, but we want it to be an outline instead! so let's hit the X in the lower left to make it empty, and then shift-click on...for the sake of this, let's say blue. to make our nice blue outline.

now's the weird part

now. use the align tool (Objects -> Align and Distribute), select the outline layer and the main layer, and align them so the outline text is exactly centered on the main one.

then go to Paths -> Path Effects, and when the tab opens, select just the outline layer, then click the drop-down arrow in the Path Effects tab and select Offset

here's our goal right now:

we want to offset the outline until it fits inside the text underneath it, and also mess with the stroke layer settings until you have a nice thick outline that doesn't overlap itself.

mess around with the plus and minus buttons. there are no exact numbers here; you just have to know when it looks good! but for me, the settings were a -0.34mm offset, with a stroke width of 0.700mm

this is roughly what you want it to look like:

now, with the outline layer still selected, blur it out just a bit until it looks fuzzy, and like the white center is a highlight rather than a separate layer. for me, the right number was about 8.3% of blur, to get a result like this:

Step 6: layering and changing colors

okay! at this point your work should look something like this:

you now want to select every layer except the shadow layer, and use Align to center them all on top of each other.

pro tip: make sure to untoggle "move/align selection as a group", otherwise this will not work.

you should now have something that looks like this, with the shadow layer sitting all by itself somewhere off to the side

now's the fun part: colors!

since we've decided that this neon light is going to be blue, it's time to change the glow to reflect that!

here's what it looks like when you change all of the glow layers to be that same, #0000FF blue as the outline layer

and here's what it looks like when you take the glow small layer and make it just a bit lighter (#4343FF) using the stroke and fill tab

in general, mess around with the layer colors until you like how they look! I find that it generally looks better if the glow small layer is a bit lighter, and the glow medium layer is as dark as the original color. everything else is fair game.

also the main layer can stay white (if you want it to seem very bright), or you can make it a very very light blue if you want it to be a bit more subdued.

Step 7: final steps

take your sad, neglected shadow layer, and move it slightly up and to the right of your main layer, so that it works...well, basically like a drop shadow.

then take your original rectangle, and switch it to 100% black.

now. gaze upon your masterpiece

that's a good neon sign if I've ever seen one.

but now. now's when we lose our minds

Steps 8-??: perfectionism and nonsense

so let's move the Futura one aside (and hide it! inkscape lags if there are too many blurry layers visible at once, so hide anything you're not using!), set the rectangle back to grey, and move on to Harlow Solid Italic.

I've sped through a few of the steps here (out of order) so you can see what I'm doing. I've added outlines to the large glow and xlarge glow, and bumped them up a bit so they'll have a larger glow area in general

this time I've made the large glow a little bit lighter than the xlarge glow and medium glow, and made the main layer a very pale pink instead of just white. I also blurred the outline layer just a bit more, because this font needed a bit more fuzz to make it look good.

hell yeah. this rocks.

now, one detail for perfectionism: in neon signs IRL, if you look closely, there are wires attaching them in the back, often connecting each letter to the next. so...let's do that!

get your pen tool, set it to spiro path, and then make little droopy lines connecting each letter.

make these thin, 100% opacity, and a very light (almost white) grey color. then group all of them together, and move this group under the small glow layer

pro tip: some of the cords might go mostly through the shadow layer. if this is the case, just put the cord group one layer above the shadow layer instead, and then it'll be fine. but you might make the cord color a pale-greyish pink to make it look like there's glow hitting it.

ultra advanced technique: duplicate the cord group, make it black and 50% opacity, position it slightly up and to the right of the original, and then move it one layer below it. you've got cord shadows babey!

lookit that. stare at that beautiful perfection. I love it. this brings me joy.

and now: the one that will be the most work

let's gooo Beauty School Dropout!

this one I'm using as an example for what to do with a font that's a bit too pointy to look realistic

this font is really fun and bendy, but the ends of the letters are flat instead of rounded, and the corners are a bit too sharp. so...let's fix that!

now, there are several ways we can do this (after doing Object to Path ofc).

one way is to edit the path yourself, going slowly, and making sure everything is perfect, editing the nodes individually.

or, you could select the text layer using the node tool, then click the button in the top bar labeled Add Corners LPE, and then drag the little circles and triangles around to smooth out the corners

I've decided to do the LPE method, but the problem here is that if you apply the LPE effect before making sure all of the corners look good nodes-wise, it's hell to try and fix it. so before LPE-ing, look at all the spots that you're going to apply the effect, and make sure each has one point at each sharp corner, with no weird overlapping bits. okay? okay.

also for the line beneath the text, it looks like it's made up of a bunch of different segments

and since I want to keep this line because I think it looks cool, we're going to have to deal with that, and make sure that it's all one solid piece, otherwise the outlining won't work. so I've gotta delete all the extra segments, and then move the points on just one of those segments until it's the full original line width, before rounding those corners as well.

basically I've got my work cut out for me here, this will all take a bit.

...aaand an episode and a half of Supernatural later, here's this!

look at how nice and round that is! perfect for the rest of the neon process

and with cords, shadows, layering, etc

hell yeah.

more things: it's block font time

let's make an outline-style neon sign!

my seven layers:

for all but the last two, I've not used the fill option with them at all - I have simply used the stroke outline.

now don't be worried! the stroke-to-path still works just the same way even using an outline to begin with! so it's easy to get an outline of an outline, and do the offset thing just like you did before

however, because this font is more complex-looking, there will probably be some errors when you offset it

for example, it didn't fully outline the second half of the Os, so I just copied the left halves, mirrored them, and replaced the right half with the complete left half

pro tip: keep in mind that you have to re-apply the offset to any bits that you add to the outline layer!

doing the same steps as last time, editing the glow blurs as I see fit, once again we end up with beauty and perfection.

another thing you can do: turn off the lights!

I'm going to use Beauty School Dropout and Harlow for this, but after making your beautiful neon signs, here's how to make it look like a turned-off sign, for if you want to make...idk, a gif of a light turning on and off, or a burned-out sign, or something like that.

so start with (ideally, duplicated copies of) your neon signs:

and then simply delete every glow layer, change the outline layer to 90% grey and your main layer to 70% grey, change the cords' color to a darker shade of grey than whatever it already is, and lower the opacity of the shadows by about 10-15%.

doing that, you end up with this

bam! lights turned off!

last thing: logos and other stuff

you can make neon signs with images as well as with text! the steps are essentially the same, though you may have to do more editing to make it look good, and use simplify on the path if it's too detailed.

and if you're using anything besides an .svg, you first go to Paths -> Trace Bitmap to turn your image into a vector! but unfortunately I've already used 29 images in this post, so here, just look at this Keith Haring thing I made as an example:

is it messier than the text? yeah for sure. does it have some pointy bits I could smooth out more? definitely. but, I've watched three episodes of Supernatural today, and that is more than enough time spent on this. so this is what you get.

but yeah, that's how I make neon signs in inkscape! I used to do it in GIMP, but this works much better, and looks so nice and clean! <3

(man, graphic design really is my passion)

[uniquexusposts]

Her || Charles Leclerc

Main characters: Charles Leclerc x OC Genre: fanfiction, fluff  Story type: novel  Part: 46/45 Word count: 2969 Co writer: @mistrose23

Story summary: Matilde Jørgensen, the new Scuderia Ferrari team principal, faced the nerve-wracking challenge of reviving the team's fortunes and aiming for a championship. Leading a historic team as a 'newbie' and separating her work and personal opinions posed a significant challenge. The big question: is she capable to do so?

Previous chapter

Bonus chapter

Matilde clicked send and watched the email disappear from her screen. It was nearly noon, and she had granted herself a break once the financial update was out of her hands. Luckily, she had an entire team who could handle the details, but they still needed her final word (even though she still had no idea what was going on. No, only joking). She leaned back in her chair, stretched her arms overhead until her spine popped, then stood and walked away.

The Ferrari HQ was quiet, the usual hum of keyboards and half-muted meetings fading as she passed the open-plan desks. Outside, the sun was warm, something she was finally getting used to. She squinted against the light as she crossed the parking lot toward the bike rack. Her bicycle was one of seven parked there. The light green city bike she had bought nearly fifteen years ago as a student in Copenhagen, was still delivering excellent service. Except today, the chain had slipped off, again, and was hanging awkwardly from the gear.

She unlocked the bike, placed her right foot on the pedal, and pushed off with her left, gliding forward like she was stepping through water. At the side entrance of the garage, she manoeuvred inside and found a free workspace to claim. What a luxury, having something like this available at work, and being allowed to use it. She grabbed her phone, opened YouTube, and searched for a tutorial on fixing a slipped chain. It wasn't her first time doing it, but it had been a while. Sure, there were plenty of people around who could fix it in seconds, but that wasn't the point.

She was avoiding work. And fixing her bike felt like a perfectly justifiable excuse.

She tied her hair up into a messy bun, flipped the bike upside down with a small grunt, and began collecting a few scattered tools while watching the video.

"Matilde," said a familiar voice.

She glanced over her shoulder. Galileo was lowering himself into one of the metal chairs nearby. His expression shifted as he took in the scene before him. "Galileo," she replied, casually.

"You do know we have actual mechanics who also could do that?"

"I'm aware."

"You also know they're literally right down the hall."

"Yup."

He crossed his arms, like he was about to launch into a lecture, but instead paused, eyeing the way she was crouched beside the bike, carefully inspecting the chain. "I will never understand the love people have for bicycles."

"Trust me, it's a love-hate relationship," she muttered. "I grew up with this thing. Cycling's just... part of life. And when I bike to work, I don't have to force myself to work out later. Win-win."

He rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Even after five years, you still manage to surprise me."

"Glad I'm keeping things interesting."

Silence settled between them, interrupted only by the clink of metal tools and the occasional Danish voice from the YouTube tutorial. Galileo watched her, the usual quick confidence in his chest giving way to a creeping wave of guilt. He had thought this through. Rehearsed it. But now, sitting here, he wasn't sure anymore. What if he was wrong? What if this was a mistake?

He didn't want to disappoint her. Not her. He respected Matilde too much for that, more than she probably knew.

"Ow," she hissed suddenly, pulling her hand back. "Fucking hell. Just when my nails were perfect, this fucking bullcrap happens." She sighed, examining the smudge of grease and broken nail. "Whatever."

The way she still biked to work, the fact she was down here trying to fix the damn thing herself... Galileo swallowed the tightness in his throat. He would never meet another boss like her. Not even close. Matilde was... special. One of one. If someone asked him to explain why, he wouldn't even know where to start.

"I, uh..." he finally said, his voice uneven. Matilde looked up, focused on him now. He took a breath. "I really need to tell you something. And it's getting very hard not to just blurt it out." He tried to smile, but failed. "Can we move our dinner to lunch instead?"

She smiled at him. "Yeah, sure."

"Perfect," he said, nodding a little too eagerly.

But she didn't look away. Her eyes narrowed, studying him. Something was off. He was avoiding eye contact, his fingers fidgeting against the chair. She looked around her to see if anyone was there and tilted her head.

"What?" he asked, trying to sound neutral.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" Her voice was quiet, gentle, even, but carried that unmistakable edge of clarity she always had when she had already figured it out.

His heart dropped. He looked around instinctively, like someone might have overheard them. "I..." He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."

He braced for her reaction... but it didn't come. Not how he expected.

She didn't look angry, or disappointed. She just... froze. Her expression went neutral, cold even. And yet, her eyes shimmered, tears starting to gather. That contradiction startled him. For five years, he had seen her face crises, failures, brutal headlines, and back-to-back race weekends. Never like this.

"No," he said slowly, blinking, when the realisation hit him. "Wait. Are you leaving too?"

She didn't answer. Not right away.

Tears welled in his eyes now, uninvited. "Matilde..."

But then she smiled. Not a big one, not a triumphant one, just something soft, and oddly peaceful. She gave him a little nod. "Surprise," she whispered.

He stared at her, dumbfounded.

"God," she breathed out, rubbing her hands over her face, "shit," she mumbled when she realised she was probably smearing the grease all over her face. She looked at him again. "I didn't want to say it, thank you for saying it first. I've been having the worst anxiety about how to bring it up."

Galileo let out a laugh, wet with relief and disbelief all at once. "I thought I was going to ruin everything."

Matilde shook her head. "You're not ruining anything. We're just... both done."

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Wow."

"Yeah."

They sat in the quiet hum of the garage, surrounded by half-finished projects, motors, and oil-stained tools, two people on the edge of big change, still grounded by a broken bike and an overdue conversation.

"Why and when?" Galileo then curiously asked. "I swear, I don't know how you did this, but you hid everything really well."

She shook her head. "Trust me, it was not. But I handed in my letter this morning." Matilde nodded when she saw his questionable face. She licked her lips. "Because I bought a house. In Denmark. My dream house since I was a kid and... I just had to buy it when it was for sale. It was literally now or never. And I just want to start a family."

"With whom?"

Her face straightened. "I don't care. I just want to be available for that. I want to have children, with or without a donor. I mean, I always need a donor to get pregnant, but you get the point. And if I'm lucky to birth one myself, obviously."

He smirked at her babble. "I get it, I get it."

"And because I'm done here, I've done what I wanted to do and I'm ready for someone else to take it over."

He nodded. She explained it so simply, but he noticed the imperfections Matilde had for this job since this year. She was still the very best and on top of her game, but the sparkle wasn't always there anymore. Not like it used to be. "Congratulations," he smiled.

"Thanks. And you?"

He shrugged. "Felt it was the right time to leave. I'm done with F1 and I'm moving to Australia because why not?"

"Yeah, why not?" A laugh rolled over her face, which made him smile as well. "No, honestly, Galileo, go for it. You deserve it."

"Thank you, I really appreciate it," he gratefully smiled. "Anyway, should I book a meeting for tomorrow, or do you want to wait?"

"Mate, that is something for later. First, I need to hear everything from you. Once I'm done fixing this bike, we will go out for lunch. I need to tell the boys first about our departure, then I will book a general meeting myself. No worries." Matilde took a deep breath. "Holy shit," she mumbled.

His heart fluttered. This is why she was the best boss. "Sure." He looked around, still no one in sight. "But what will you do for this year's title?"

"I don't care. Charles has two titles, Max has two titles with Ferrari, I have four titles with Ferrari, and we are running for two titles this year. We are not even halfway through yet. I don't care who wins, as long as no one dies and gets injured. We just need to enjoy the last half, and that's it. Unless, when are you leaving?"

"Finishing this season."

They locked each other's gaze, taking a moment to embrace the calm before the storm.

–

Max gave Charles a brief wave to let him know he had seen him, then cruised slowly down the street in search of a parking spot. He found one quickly, slid into it, and headed toward the building. Charles was just about to go in, but paused when he noticed Max approaching. He was holding a bouquet of flowers.

"Nice bouquet," Max said, eyeing it as he joined him. It had been Charles's turn to buy one.

"It screamed her name," Charles smirked, glancing down at the wild arrangement. As the main characters, two red roses nestled among the chaos, because why not? "After five years, I never would have thought that we would have our monthly work dinner at her house after all." It made him think of the offer she made this afternoon:

"Are you in for dinner tonight?"

Charles raised an eyebrow at his boss, who entered the sim office, a slow grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He straightened up, arms folding across his chest like a man preparing for a challenge he had been waiting for years.

"Are you asking me out on a date, Matilde?" he asked, his voice laced with mischief. "Should I let you pick the place, or do I have to come up with something classy?"

She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "In your dreams, Charles."

The thing was... he had. For five years. Five years of dreaming about someone who felt just out of reach, even when she was standing right in front of him. Strong. Untouchable. Unavailable. And yet, there she was.

"Seven o'clock. My place," she added casually, turning to leave.

Dangerous place. Too familiar. Too personal. Too close to everything he had spent five years pretending not to want.

"Do you know where Max is?" she asked, glancing back over her shoulder.

Oh. Right. That was more on brand. Dinner wasn't a date. It was logistics. And why would anything change now, after all this time? Charles cleared his throat, forcing his thoughts back into order. "He's over at aero, last I saw."

She gave a short nod, that easy, unreadable smile on her face. "Perfect. I'll cover dinner." And just like that, she was gone. Still close. Still untouchable. And Charles was left exactly where he had always been; with a grin, a stupid flicker of hope, and absolutely no idea what seven o'clock was going to mean.

"We got promoted, apparently," Max said dryly. Still, he thought, if anyone had gotten close to Matilde, it was Charles. Literally inside her. Not that it mattered. "You ever been here?" he asked.

"Nope. Just dropped her off once," Charles replied, though the answer was already obvious.

"I have. Not often."

As they made their way to the entrance, they passed a pizza delivery guy scanning the nameplates. He held up the boxes in question. "Matilde?" he asked.

Max stepped forward. "Yeah, we'll take those."

The guy blinked, shrugged, and handed them over. Max handed him two euros; everything he and Charles had in cash.

They carried the pizzas upstairs. When they reached her floor, the door was slightly ajar.

Max tapped his knuckles against it, then nudged it open with his elbow. "Special delivery!" he called.

Soft music played somewhere inside. A moment later, Matilde appeared in the hallway, curls thrown up in a messy twist and a few euros in hand. Her eyes flicked between them and the pizzas, then she smiled. "Oh. Hello. You stole those off the delivery guy?"

"Technically, we intercepted," Max said, placing the boxes on the counter. "Proactive hospitality."

"Very nice. Please tell me you tipped him?"

"Two euros," Max grinned. "All we had."

She leaned in to greet him with a quick kiss on the cheek. Charles held up the bouquet.

"These are for you."

Matilde's expression softened. Wildflowers. And two red roses. Charles and Max. Was that symbolic, or just Charles being dramatic? "They're beautiful," she said, voice quiet, almost cautious. She kissed his cheek too, and the scent of his cologne lingered a little too long. Dangerous.

He followed her into the living room, where Max had already claimed a spot on the couch. Charles glanced around and couldn't help but feel... charmed. The table was modest, white, wooden, with few colourful details. Not showy. No Ferrari-branded nonsense. Just Matilde. She had set this herself. "Nice setup," he said, genuinely.

"Thanks," she replied, gesturing for them to sit.

They ate quietly at first, hunger making conversation unnecessary. Charles took in the apartment. Clean lines, warm tones; a quiet blend of Italian soul and Scandinavian restraint. Nothing screamed racing or management, or status. Just like how she was.

He exhaled slowly. He didn't know why she had chosen to host the dinner at her place, but he was glad she had. It felt like the right place to say it; quiet, private. No eyes or ears but theirs.

"I need to get something off my chest," he said suddenly, then before he could second-guess it, he blurted, "I'm taking a sabbatical year next season."

Max and Matilde both froze.

"There," Charles added with a nervous laugh. "Finally said it. Been holding it in for weeks."

Max's eyes flicked from him to Matilde, waiting for her reaction. Her expression tightened; not angry, just stunned. And then it sank in. She was losing both her drivers. Max had announced his retirement at the start of the season: one last year, and then done. And now Charles. Sabbatical. No guarantees.

"I want to travel," Charles continued, filling the silence. "Backpack, maybe. I don't know yet. But I need a break. Just life, without racing. Then I'll see what happens." He looked at her, heart pounding. Still, she didn't say anything. She just nodded slightly and kept eating. Was that... passive-aggressive?

A long silence followed.

"What are you thinking?" Max finally asked, voice low. "Mattie... don't leave him hanging."

Matilde blinked, swallowed her bite, and straightened up. "Sorry," she said quickly, then turned to Charles. "I think it's a great decision. Go see the world while you can." Her smile was warm, but a little too careful. "I-"

Charles cut in. "What's your real reaction?"

He didn't want diplomacy. He wanted honesty.

She bit her lip. Then sighed. There were so many thoughts going through her mind. Her lips parted, and she looked at Charles. "I am out of words, I am so, so, so, sorry," she whispered. She really meant it. As team principal, this was her worst-case scenario. Two fantastic drivers were not racing for Ferrari next season, voluntarily. GP had resigned last week. This morning, Galileo had too. And now Charles. The pillars of her team were crumbling.

And then... her.

She covered her mouth with her hand and dropped her gaze.

But on the other hand, the team principal was resigning at the same time as her drivers and assistant. So technically, this wouldn't be the problem of the team principal anymore.

She had also resigned.

The irony wasn't lost on her.

And personally? She meant it, she thought Charles was doing something brave and admirable. She was even jealous. Backpacking the world? Freeing himself from everything? It sounded like something she had never allowed herself to do.

But what could she say now?

She cleared her throat and straightened up again. "Okay," she began. "Sorry for the awkward pause. Don't take it personally." Her voice steadied. "As team principal, I would like to thank you for the amazing years you have brought to Ferrari. There were ups and downs, moments we all learned from, we laughed, we had fun, we raced, we won, we lost, we grew. And you should be proud of it. I am proud of you. And it sounds so heavy, sabbatical year, I mean, you could be back the next season. Or not. You will see how it goes, right? Go with the flow." She took a sip of wine. "And personally, I am very happy for you, you should absolutely do it." And then she took another sip. "And personally, I'm really happy for you. You should absolutely do it."

Charles tilted his head. "But?"

Her eyes met his. He looked confused, disappointed. "I- fuck. I fucked that up," she muttered. "This wasn't how I wanted to react. Honestly, I don't even know how I should've reacted." She removed the hairclip from her hair and ran both her hands through it, frustrated. "I've been thinking about how to explain this to the board. Max is leaving, that's public. This morning I got Galileo's resignation. GP quit last week. Now you. And..." she paused for a breath, "...I handed in my resignation this morning too."

And just like that, the room shifted.

Max raised his brows, looking between the two of them. Charles turned to him, wide-eyed. Matilde exhaled, cheeks puffed, then took another sip of her wine.

"Well," Max said, grinning slowly. "How are you going to explain that to the board? Or the press? People are gonna think we staged some kind of protest." Then his grin widened. "But hey, that also means no more contracts after this season." He leaned in, playful. "And no contracts means..." He wiggled his eyebrows.

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria @maryvibess @ironmaiden1313 @sltwins @heart-trees @npcmia @llando4norris @i-survived-a-shark-attack