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bucketgetter535 · 9 days ago

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No Margin for Error: Chapter Eight

CW: Drinking (ish)

WC: 7k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paige.

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

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

She looked good. That was the problem.

Azzi looked away before her stare could become obvious.

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

Azzi nodded, lips pressed together.

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

Dirk.

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

She didn’t return it.

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

But it still gnawed at her.

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

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

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

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

And maybe that was the thing that bothered her most.

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Azzi didn’t like that.

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

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

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

And then it was Paige’s turn.

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

“How’s your head?”

“Fine,” Paige said, without hesitation.

“Any nausea? Sensitivity to light?”

“No.”

“Sleep disruptions?”

“No.”

“Memory issues?”

“No.”

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

Azzi did her best not to roll her eyes.

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

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

And it pissed her off. Just a little.

But she stayed quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

They ended up not bothering with the restaurant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Azzi set her fork down.

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

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

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

Azzi watched her. “And the light stuff?”

Paige hesitated. “Still happens sometimes.”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. That one lingers.”

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

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

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

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

Azzi looked over.

“What?”

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

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

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

Paige tapped the caption. “Read it.”

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

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

Azzi didn’t laugh, but she smiled too.

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

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

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

–

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

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

Paige finished fourth. Azzi, fifth.

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

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

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

22 total for Ferrari. Solid haul.

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

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

Fred cleared his throat.

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

The weight of that hung for a second.

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

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

One.

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

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

He paused. “And second.”

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

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

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

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

Fred looked at them both now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Azzi raised an eyebrow.

“Fourth place,” she said.

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

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

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

The thing was — Azzi knew she was right.

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

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

–

The air in Monza buzzed different.

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

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

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

She handled it. She always did.

So did Paige.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ferrari was fast.

Shockingly fast.

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

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

But qualifying was a different beast.

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

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

Then came Q3.

The big show.

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

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

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

Purple, purple, purple.

For now.

Then Paige went out.

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

Then the board lit up.

Purple, purple, purple.

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

Pole position: Paige Bueckers.

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

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

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

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

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

Confidence was dangerous.

Paige had it in spades.

And tomorrow, they’d both have clean air.

Front row, Ferrari one-two.

Monza.

Game on.

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They went with the one-stop.

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

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

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

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

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

Azzi came out behind again. Just behind.

And then the race became something else.

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

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

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

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

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

The last lap came fast. Too fast.

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

She lined it up. Wide entry. Early throttle.

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

Azzi crossed the finish line three-tenths behind her.

Three-tenths.

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

Still, the fans loved it.

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

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

Mateo came over the radio.

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

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

Then: “She’s the leader now, yeah?”

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

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

–

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

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

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

“Yes, I think we can bounce back.”

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

And then finally, they were done.

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

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

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

Azzi met Paige’s eyes across the table.

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

A party, then.

Jew a few points between them.

One week off.

And a long season left to go.

–

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

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

Paige was close. As she always was lately.

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

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

So she stayed close.

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

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

Azzi knew what that meant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get me out of here.

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

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

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

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

Dirk blinked. “I could—”

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

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

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

Azzi laughed softly. “No, he sucks.”

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

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

“So was Napoleon.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“Exactly.”

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

Paige raised her brows.

Azzi nodded once.

Time to go.

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

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

“What?” Paige asked.

Azzi turned the screen so Paige could see.

A photo.

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

Paige blinked. “Already?”

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

They stared at it for a second longer.

Then Azzi hit the side button, locking her phone.

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

And Azzi, without realizing, smiled back.

–

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

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

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

She unlocked her phone without thinking. Scrolled to TikTok.

And immediately choked on a laugh.

“Oh my God.”

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

“We have ship edits.”

That got her attention.

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

The caption read:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Azzi raised a brow. “Endgame?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paige didn’t respond right away.

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

Azzi paused.

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

But it didn’t feel bad.

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

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

Azzi laughed. “Because?”

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

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

Only it wasn’t really a joke.

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

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

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

Azzi closed the app.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that mattered more than anything the internet could say.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi #uconn wbb #uconnwbb #pazzi fics #dallas wings

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witchingwithscissors · 2 months ago

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Agathario AU | Agatha just needed a baseball coach for her kid. She didn’t plan on catching feelings.

Agatha studied the young woman who strolled onto her manicured lawn, looking more rebel than structured coach. Her hair was tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail and she exuded an easy confidence that clashed with Agatha’s buttoned-up demeanor.

“Coach Vidal?” Agatha asked, crossing her arms.

“That’s me,” Rio replied, shifting a duffel bag on her shoulder. “You must be Nicky’s mom.”

“Agatha,” she corrected, extending a handshake.

Nicky poked his head out from behind Agatha’s legs. “Are you really a pro ballplayer?”

Rio’s grin softened, and she switched briefly to Spanish. “Claro, pequeñín. Ready to become una estrella?”

Nicky’s eyes lit up. “You speak Spanish?”

“Grew up with it,” Rio said proudly, then winked at Agatha. “We can do lessons in both languages if you want.”

Agatha felt a tug in her chest at the easy way Rio included her son. Maybe hiring this woman had been the right call after all.

The first few weeks followed a steady pattern. Rio arrived twice a week to teach Nicky batting, pitching, and fielding. She teased him gently, guided him with a firm but patient hand, and didn’t seem to mind if he talked non-stop about cartoon superheroes in between drills.

Agatha hovered at a polite distance, watching. There was a careful neutrality to their exchanges; after all, she had hired Rio for a service, nothing more. Still, she couldn’t help warming to the girl’s enthusiasm and the way Nicky’s eyes danced whenever Rio praised him.

One evening, after Nicky sprawled out on the couch, exhausted from practice, Rio lingered to chat with Agatha in the kitchen. Soft conversation about baseball turned into more personal confessions like how Rio’s childhood had been turbulent, how she moved around too much to keep friends, or how Agatha had been a single mom since Nicky was a toddler.

A small hush settled as they each realized: They were sharing more than just small talk. And neither seemed ready to stop.

Agatha prided herself on being composed, but she found her thoughts drifting to Rio’s half-smile or her easy laugh at odd moments—during work meetings or while sorting laundry. Sometimes she’d recall the way Rio guided Nicky’s hands on the bat, so patient and earnest.

For Rio, the feeling was mutual. She’d arrive at the Harkness home and feel inexplicable relief like walking into a place she was actually wanted. She found herself joking in Spanish with Nicky, then translating for Agatha, who watched it all with a soft, guarded smile.

Over dinner one night—Agatha had insisted Rio stay, “since you’re already here”—Rio set down her fork and looked up. “I’m not… good at being part of people’s lives. I usually move on quick.”

Agatha poured more water for both of them. “I understand. I’m not great at letting people in, either.”

A flicker of vulnerability passed between them. Rio forced a grin, diffusing the heaviness. “We’re quite a pair, huh?”

Agatha merely smiled in that quiet, knowing way. “Maybe we are.”

A few weeks later, after a particularly great practice session, Rio turned to Agatha with a spark in her eye. “Let me take you somewhere fun tonight. A date, if you’re up for it.”

Agatha arched an eyebrow, intrigued. She’d half-expected a swanky bar or a chic restaurant. Instead, when they pulled up to an old-school batting cage on the edge of town, she let out a surprised laugh. “Seriously? This is your idea of a first date?”

Rio shrugged, pulling out two bats from her trunk. “Hey, I promised it’d be fun.”

Agatha rolled her eyes, but a hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “Alright. Impress me.”

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, illuminating the row of cages. The muffled clang of metal on baseball echoed around them. Rio slid a token into the machine, stepped up to the plate, and cracked a ball dead center on her first swing. She launched several more in quick succession, her body relaxed and confident.

Watching from behind the chain-link, Agatha tried not to stare too blatantly at Rio’s toned arms, the flash of delicate skin as her shirt lifted with each swing. Still, a flutter in her stomach reminded her she wasn’t immune to the quiet lure of this woman.

When it was Agatha’s turn, Rio insisted on helping her form. “Loosen your grip,” Rio murmured, stepping behind her. Her hands slid over Agatha’s, guiding the bat. Their bodies almost touched, heat radiating between them.

Agatha swallowed hard, inhaling the faint scent of Rio’s shampoo. “You’re making this… distracting,” she teased breathlessly.

Rio’s lips curved near Agatha’s ear. “Maybe that’s on purpose.”

Agatha half-laughed, half-sighed. “You’re a lot of talk, you know that?”

Rio chuckled. “You can handle it.”

Agatha swung the bat… and missed by a mile. Both dissolved into laughter. But as the humor subsided, an underlying tension remained, heavier and more significant than simple flirtation.

After a few awkward misses, Rio hit pause on the machine. Agatha lowered the bat, feeling her heart pound. The realization struck her: She wanted this closeness with Rio. And not just tonight, but something real. Something a single mother like her had to be cautious about.

Rio noticed her pensive expression. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Agatha set the bat aside. “If we keep going,” she began softly, “it can’t just be a fling. I can’t do casual, Rio. I have a son to think about.”

Rio’s eyes flickered with understanding. “You think I’d do all this just to walk away?”

Agatha shrugged, vulnerability creeping into her posture. “I’m not sure...”

Rio nodded, stepping closer, voice steady but gentle. “I’m not walking away from this.”

Relief flooded Agatha’s features. She inhaled slowly, processing the weight of it. And then, they shared a look—both terrified and thrilled—before Rio tugged her in for a slow, tender kiss, their first real acknowledgment that this went beyond attraction.

When they finally pulled apart, Agatha rested her forehead against Rio’s shoulder. “A batting cage,” she murmured, a hint of humor in her tone. “You took me to a batting cage.”

Rio laughed softly, arms circling Agatha’s waist. “Next time let’s bring Nicky.”

In the following weeks, the lines between friend, coach, and potential partner blurred in a warmer, more open way. Nicky didn’t know the full extent of their new relationship, but he picked up on the extra smiles, the gentle touches when Rio and Agatha thought he wasn’t looking.

They continued their usual practices where Nicky’s batting form improved and Rio’s Spanish lessons made him giggle. Afterward, though, the three of them had dinner together, or occasionally went out for ice cream. On quieter nights, Agatha and Rio curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine, talking until midnight and a half.

Still, doubts crept in. Agatha worried about letting Rio into Nicky’s life too deeply, in case it all fell apart. Rio wrestled with her own history of drifting away whenever things got intense. Yet each time doubt rose, they found reasons to stay.

When Nicky asked Rio for help on a school project, it felt natural for Rio to spend a Saturday afternoon scattered with glue sticks and cardboard cutouts. Agatha watched from the kitchen doorway, heart swelling at the sight of her son beaming whenever Rio gave praise.

Agatha set down the dish she was washing and joined them at the table, silently thinking: Is this it? Is this how family forms—not in one grand moment, but in a series of small ones?

Rio caught her eye, smiling softly. Agatha felt a rush of gratitude for this messy, wonderful reality. That night, as they lay side by side on Agatha’s couch, exhaustion weighing on both, Rio confessed in a murmur, “I want this. You. Him. Even if it means settling down more than I ever have before.”

Agatha’s response was a gentle kiss and the whispered promise, “I’m scared, too. But I’m in.”

Eventually, Rio moved into the spare room “temporarily,” but no one bought that label for long. Nicky clung to her at bedtime, asking for Spanish lullabies or quick pep talks before important Little League games. She fit into their routine so seamlessly, it felt like she’d always been there.

One Sunday morning, Nicky bounded into the kitchen, hair disheveled, wearing his tiny baseball pajama set. Rio was frying eggs while Agatha skimmed the newspaper. She was old-fashioned that way. Without pausing, Nicky tugged on Rio’s shirt, blurting out, “Mami, can I have mine scrambled?”

Rio’s hand froze on the spatula. Agatha’s eyes shot up, breath caught in her throat. For a moment, Nicky didn’t realize the significance and he just thought he’d asked a question. But when Rio turned, her expression conflicted and tender all at once, he flushed.

“I—I mean, Rio,” he stammered, as if afraid he’d done something wrong.

Rio breathed out, heart hammering. “No, it’s okay.” She crouched down, meeting Nicky’s gaze. “If that’s what you want to call me… I’d be honored.”

Nicky’s shoulders eased, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Okay, Mami.”

Agatha stood by, tears pricking her eyes. She reached over, resting a hand on Rio’s back, silently conveying that she was on board. This wasn’t a trivial word; it was a quiet vow that their family bond had become something real, something they all wanted to keep.

A little more here.

#agatha harkness #rio vidal #modern domestic agathario makes me asdfghjkl #agathario au #agathario fic #agatha all along

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zeroseuniverse · 3 months ago

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Customer Service

Word Count: 721 Summary: "Flirting on the job? Really?" Pairing: Diner workers Riki X Fem Reader

Navigation

The diner buzzed with chaos on a typical Friday night. The sound of sizzling grills, clinking dishes, and the hum of conversation filled the air. She weaved expertly between tables, balancing a tray of burgers and fries while delivering her signature snark to a table of frat boys who were trying—unsuccessfully—to flirt with her.

"Hey, sweetheart," one of them said with a smirk, "how about you serve me a smile with that burger?"

Without missing a beat, she plunked the plate down in front of him. "Sure thing, here’s a smile," she said, flashing him a sarcastic grin. "It’s $5.99 extra. Want me to put it on your tab?"

The table erupted in laughter, though the frat boy looked like he wanted to crawl under the table. She turned and caught Riki watching her from behind the counter, trying to stifle a laugh. He leaned casually against the milkshake machine, his messy hair flopping into his eyes, and his grin as bright as the diner’s neon sign.

"Need help out there, babe?" he called, flipping a towel over his shoulder.

She shot him a mock glare. "What I need is for you to stop standing there looking pretty and start bussing tables before I strangle you with that towel."

"Yikes, you sound scary," Riki teased, grabbing a tray of empty dishes from the counter. He breezed past her, planting a quick kiss on her cheek as he went.

"Flirting on the job? Really?" she said, but there was no hiding the smile tugging at her lips.

It wasn’t easy working together. The diner was a pressure cooker of rude customers, understaffed shifts, and an ever-demanding manager. But somehow, she and Riki made it work—or at least, they tried.

Riki had endless energy, bouncing from one task to the next with an enthusiasm that could’ve been annoying if it weren’t so endearing. He charmed customers effortlessly, especially the older regulars, who loved his boyish grin and sunny demeanor.

On the other hand, she was the glue holding everything together. She had a knack for diffusing tense situations and keeping the kitchen staff from losing their minds. But she was also quick to call people out when they stepped out of line—whether it was a customer snapping their fingers at her or the manager cutting her break short.

The two of them had their rhythm: She kept things efficient and under control, while Riki brought the lightheartedness that made even the worst shifts bearable.

One night, after a particularly grueling dinner rush, the two of them collapsed into a booth at the back of the diner. It was nearly midnight, and the place had finally quieted down.

Riki slumped against the seat, his apron streaked with ketchup and grease. "I swear, if I have to smile at one more customer tonight, my face is gonna fall off."

She snorted, sliding a plate of leftover pie toward him. "You mean your charm has limits? Shocking."

Riki grabbed a fork and took a bite of the pie, grinning. "I’ll have you know I’m charming 24/7. That’s why you’re dating me, isn’t it?"

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. "Please, I’m dating you because I lost a bet."

"Ouch," Riki said, clutching his chest in mock pain. "That’s cold, Babe. Real cold."

They laughed together, the kind of laughter that came from knowing you were both in the same boat, rowing through the chaos side by side.

As the clock neared 1 a.m., they cleaned up the last of the tables and locked up the diner. Outside, the neon sign flickered, casting a pinkish glow on the empty parking lot.

Riki grabbed Y/N’s hand as they walked to her beat-up old car. "Hey," he said, his voice softer now, "thanks for putting up with me tonight. I know I probably drive you crazy sometimes."

She looked at him, her sarcastic edge softening. "You do drive me crazy," she admitted. "But you also make this place a little less miserable. So... thanks for that."

He grinned, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her forehead. "Anytime, babe."

As they climbed into the car and drove off into the night, the diner faded into the background, but their laughter echoed, carrying them forward into whatever chaos tomorrow’s shift would bring.

#enhypen au #enhypen scenarios #enhypen imagines #enhypen x reader #enhypen fluff #enha scenarios #enha x reader #enha imagines #enha fluff #nishimura riki x reader #riki fluff #riki imagines #riki x reader #niki fluff #niki scenarios #niki enhypen #niki x reader

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baddywronglegs · 1 year ago

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I don't think I ever used to get "uncanny valley", like things looked either right or wrong and I didn't think there was anything between the two. Things that had that effect on others just looked off enough to me to evoke more disappointment than anything.

Is that an autism thing? It feels like one.

Anyway, that was before AI image generators came along.

You might've seen the post where @galadriel1010 showed how I came to be here, including a screenshot of me using Bing's image creator to show how badly a machine can misunderstand the concept of "centaur". I've toyed with image generation AI since it went public, and had it been done differently, it could have been an amazing tool in an artist's kit. Reference images on demand, content-aware fill so you never have to draw every individual hair or brick again.

That's not the direction they took.

Instead they tried to be art. But they didn't stop to ask what art is. They just shoved as much stolen art as they could in a black box and hoped if they boiled it long enough they could condense art from the vapours.

And now I get uncanny valley.

Because I've never seen a Midjourney or Stable Diffusion output or whatever out on the wider internet and not been struck by the jarring feeling that something is wrong.

I draw things on the line between comedy and body horror. My ideal reaction to anyone looking at my art is for someone to laugh "No!"; I can appreciate Slightly Off done well, and that's not what this is.

It's like playing Where's Wally but Wally is an extra finger, or a strand of hair which at some point becomes the furniture, or the fact that all of their teeth are incisors. The friendliest tooth, for the friendliest smile from a face which doesn't know what either friendliness or a smile is.

You can't get a pose reference from a computer that doesn't understand what your spine is for.

I'm grateful to the Willy Wonka experience for its part in the death spiral of generative AI as "art". Thank you for doing so little to mask the inadequacies and shortcomings of mechanised plagiarism.

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kk095 · 8 days ago

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Shay’s Sudden Arrest

The automatic doors hissed open, letting in a pair of paramedics. Between them rolled a stretcher bearing a young woman with sun-kissed skin, tangled blonde hair matted slightly to one side, and piercing blue eyes that blinked against the bright hospital lighting. She looked more like someone headed to a weigh-in than someone checking into an emergency room.

“Name’s Shay Strong, twenty-six year old female.” one of the medics called out as they proceeded towards Trauma Bay One. “Passed out cold during light sparring- she’s a pro MMA fighter. Trainer said she looked a little off just before she hit the mat. Tachycardic on scene, BP’s a little soft. No trauma. No drugs or alcohol on board as far as we can tell.” The second medic rattled off.

Dr Lindsay approached and glanced up from the chart she’d been reviewing and nodded for them to bring her in. She was already tugging on gloves as she stepped into the bay, with Dr Jen the resident trailing behind her and Nurse Heather circling around.

“Hey Shay, I’m Dr Lindsay. I heard you fainted today?” she said as the stretcher clicked into place beside the trauma room table. Shay nodded, her voice low and a little hoarse as they transferred her over to the table. “Yeah. Just felt… weird, ya know? Like, a little dizzy I guess.”

She didn’t look like the type to go down easy. Even lying flat, she carried herself like someone used to getting hit and getting back up. Her toned arms were a canvas of bold, dark ink- coiled serpents on one bicep, a geometric tiger on the other, the edges of color disappearing under the bands of muscle. A glint caught the light where a nose ring curved through her right nostril, and as Heather snipped her sports bra to attach monitor leads, Lindsay caught the flash of a piercing through her nipples. Some cursive ink framed the sides of her ribs and curved along her right thigh was a floral tattoo, all intricate.

Heather worked quickly, pressing leads to Shay’s chest and murmuring quietly. “HR’s 132. BP’s 92 over 58.”

“Got PVCs on the monitor. Could be nothing. Could be something.” Dr Jen chimed in, already pulling up a blank EKG strip.

Lindsay leaned over to meet Shay’s eyes. “Any chest pain? Shortness of breath? Dizziness before you went down?” the doctor asked. “Not really. Just… I don’t know. I’ve been feeling off the last couple days. Figured it was overtraining or something.” Answered Shay. She didn’t look panicked. Just slightly dazed, maybe a little too quiet for someone her age in that kind of shape. That in itself was a red flag.

Lindsay exchanged a glance with Heather. “Let’s get labs, full cardiac panel. EKG, portable chest X-ray. And let’s call cardiology early- I don’t want to wait on this one.” Ordered Lindsay. Jen scribbled notes while Heather gently guided Shay’s arm to insert an IV. The tattoo of a phoenix flared up from her forearm, its wings half swallowed by gauze and tape. Shay looked up at the ceiling, blinking slowly. “This is probably nothing, right?” Shay asked. Lindsay hesitated before answering. “We’ll know soon. But your heart’s throwing out some signals we don’t want to ignore.” Answered Lindsay, her tone neutral and calm.

By the time the EKG machine spat out its second strip, Dr Jen was already frowning. “Frequent PVCs.” she muttered, holding the paper up toward the overhead light. “This isn’t just stress or dehydration. Something’s messing with her conduction.” Added the resident. Lindsay leaned in, scanning the sharp, jagged rhythms marching across the strip. “It’s diffuse. Not localized. And look- ST depressions in the lateral leads.” Dr Lindsay pointed out. Heather appeared from the hallway with a tray of labeled tubes. “Cardiac panel’s off to the lab. I rushed it- told them we’d owe them coffee.” Nurse Heather informed them.

Jen was already pulling up the portable chest X-ray on the trauma room computer. It took a moment for the image to load, but when it did, Lindsay narrowed her eyes at the screen. “Mild cardiomegaly. You see it?” Dr Lindsay noticed. “Yep.” Jen answered. “Heart’s too big for someone her age, especially with this kind of conditioning.” The resident continued.

Shay, still lying flat on the table with a light sheen of sweat forming on her collarbone, blinked over at them. “I take it this isn’t just a pulled muscle?” Shay chimed in, sensing something was off. Lindsay offered a tight smile. “We’re just being thorough. Something’s irritating your heart- could be an infection, could be something else. We’re running some tests to find out exactly what’s going on.” Explained Lindsay. Shay gave a small nod, unfazed. “Good. I’ve got a fight scheduled in eight weeks.”

Heather shot Lindsay a glance over the top of the monitor. Troponin’s already popped in the system: elevated significantly. “Alright. Let’s get a stat echo. I want to see her heart up close.” Lindsay said, tone shifting. Jen paused. “Should we call cardio back? We haven’t heard anything.” asked the resident. Lindsay nodded. “And book her a CT angio chest just in case. If this is myocarditis or worse, we don’t want to wait. Something’s going on here.” Responded Lindsay.

Heather slipped a BP cuff around Shay’s arm again. “Still tachy. 140s. BP 91/56.” Updated Nurse Heather.

Shay looked at all of them, calm but now visibly more alert. “You guys keep looking at each other like something’s wrong.” Shay chimed in. Lindsay didn’t sugarcoat it. “We’re seeing some strain on your heart. The kind we don’t normally see in healthy twenty-somethings.” Lindsay told Shay, succinct and to the point.

There was a beat of silence. Shay’s eyes dropped to the edge of the table. Her shoulders stayed still, but something in her expression flickered. Heather raised her brows slightly, exchanging a quiet glance with Jen behind her. Lindsay didn’t press it yet. “Let’s get that echo first. We’ll talk more when we’ve got a clearer picture.” Lindsay told the two of them.

Lindsay turned and stepped out towards the hallway just as the cardiologist on call, Dr Weiss, arrived with a rolling echo cart and a resting skepticism in her tone. “You called me for a young athlete with some PVCs?”

Lindsay crossed her arms. “Elevated troponin. PVCs, mild cardiomegaly on X-ray. And a gut feeling.”

“Alright, I need to work with a little more than a gut feeling, Dr Lindsay.” Dr Weiss responded, pushing the echo machine into the trauma bay. Dr Lindsay rolled her eyes “yeah, what do I know.” She thought to herself.

Shay remained still as cold gel was spread across her chest, the ultrasound probe tracing between tattoos and muscle. On the screen, her heart came into view, beating fast. The walls thickened. Movement reduced. Echoes of fibrosis scattered like shadows across the septum. Dr Weiss’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I hoped to see.” She thought out loud. “Alright, make sure she gets a CT angio of the chest. Call me back when you get the results.” Dr Weiss stated, before getting the echo equipment and leaving the room.

Jen and Heather worked quickly and got Shay over to radiology. The radiology wing was quiet, insulated from the steady buzz of the ER. The fluorescent lights shined faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow across the white floors. A lone CT tech tapped at the console as Dr Jen walked alongside the stretcher, Shay lying supine. Nurse Heather hovered nearby, keeping an eye on the monitor attached to the portable stand.

Shay hadn’t said much on the way over, just muttered something about her chest feeling “weird.” Still calm. Still out of it.

“Alright, Shay, We’re gonna get a scan of your chest. You’ll hear some mechanical noises. Just stay still for us, okay?” the tech explained softly. Shay nodded.

With practiced efficiency, Heather and Jen helped guide Shay off the stretcher and onto the scanner table. She moved like someone weighed down by lead. Her arms were positioned overhead, palms relaxed, fingers curled slightly. Her blonde hair spilled behind her head like a golden halo, the tattoos on her arms displayed on her skin like stories written in ink. Something coiled and dark sat on her ribcage, rising and falling with each slow breath. The tech returned to the control booth. The scanner whirred to life.

Jen folded her arms, watching through the glass of the observation room. The lights within the CT room glowed around Shay’s still form. It was almost peaceful.

Then, without warning, Shay’s body twitched. Her chest rose awkwardly- then fell flat. Her fingers curled into loose fists. Alarms erupted. One sharp, continuous tone. Inside the control booth, the tech’s eyes went wide. “She’s coding!”

Heather was already moving. “She’s in v-tach!” Heather eyed the monitor. Jen burst through the door, grabbing the crash cart parked just outside the suite. Shay’s body was still on the scanner table, her arms still overhead, eyes wide open now, staring at nothing. Her lips parted slightly, unmoving. “Pads on!” Heather shouted. Her hands moved quickly. “Charging to 200!” Jen shouted. Heather climbed halfway onto the CT table, hovering over Shay’s torso. “Ready!” Heather nodded.

“CLEAR!”

Shay’s body jumped. Her shoulders shrugged forward. Her head lolled slightly to the side, eyes wide and unblinking. No change. “Still pulseless.” Jen shook her head, eyes locked on the monitor. “Charging again to 300!”

The second shock caused the young MMA fighter’s body to jolt sharply. And then, the monitor beeped. One beat. Then another. “She’s got a rhythm!” Heather shouted. A carotid pulse returned beneath Jen’s gloved fingers. Weak. Thready. But there. The silence that followed was no longer peaceful. It was hollow.

Shay remained unconscious, still laid out on the CT table, chest rising and falling with ghostlike shallowness. Her nose ring glinted beneath the fluorescent light. A single drop of sweat slid down her temple.

Jen swallowed hard, voice low. “Sinus tach. Let’s get her back to the trauma bay, now. Let’s keep Dr Lindsay in the loop.”

Back in trauma room one, Dr Lindsay was gloving up as Dr Jen and Nurse Heather wheeled the young fighter in, the monitors above her head still blinking erratically. Shay was conscious (barely) but she looked far worse than she had thirty minutes ago. Sweat clung to her skin in a thin sheen, her breathing fast and shallow, chest rising and falling like she’d just run ten miles.

“She coded in the CT scanner- pulseless v-tach. We got her back after two shocks, but she was down for about a minute.” Dr Jen rattled off quickly. “Jeez…” Dr Lindsay muttered under her breath, moving beside the gurney. “Get her back on the table. Full workup. Get cardio back down here just in case.” Ordered Dr Lindsay.

Heather worked fast, placing leads back onto Shay’s bare chest. The pro fight laid there, barefoot, down to just her compression shorts. Patches of electrode adhesive still stuck to her sweat-damp skin. Her ribcage rose and fell quickly, tattoos stretching and shifting, black and gray roses climbing her right side, inked vines curling around her hips. Her arms, marked with fierce script, coiled dragons, and edgy ink, lay still at her sides, fingers curling slightly with each shallow breath.

“Shay? Can you hear me?” Dr Lindsay leaned over her. Shay’s eyes fluttered open, barely focused. “Mm… yeah. What… happened?” she mumbled. “You passed out during your scan, but you’re back. You’re okay.” Lindsay answered gently.

But she wasn’t. The heart monitor beeped rapidly- perhaps too rapidly. Nurse Heather glanced at it, then turned toward the others. “Guys, she’s running hot again. 160 and climbing.” Heather shook her head. “Let’s push some mag and prep for another round of epi if needed.” Dr Lindsay barked. Then the monitor’s tone changed. Heather’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “V-tach. Pulseless.”

Alarms began to blare again. “She’s coding!” Jen shouted. “Start compressions!” Dr Lindsay ordered. Heather jumped onto the stool and began rhythmic chest compressions. Shay’s body jolted with each one, her bare chest rising and falling unnaturally. Her tattoos danced under Heather’s gloved hands- one hand pressing just over the roses coiling across her ribs, where her heart was supposed to be working. Her chest caved in, recoiling hard, her toned belly with abs rippling out.

“Charging to 200 joules, everyone CLEAR!” Lindsay called out, taking charge. Shay’s body flopped hard on the gurney when the shock hit, pierced nipples twitching slightly, her arms limp at her sides.

“Still v-tach. No carotid pulse.” Heather called after a glance at the screen. “Back on compressions, Heather. Push one of epi and one of amio.” Dr Lindsay ordered. Jen moved fast, syringes sliding into the IV line. Shay’s skin was growing cool under their hands. Her breathing had stopped altogether. Her jaw slackened.

“I’ll take over for a cycle or two” Lindsay said, moving in to relieve Heather on compressions. Lindsay’s long arms pumped with sharp, trained force. “Come on, Shay. Come on.” Lindsay said under her breath, pumping away at Shay’s chest. “meds in!” Dr Jen called out.

After a cycle of compressions and a little time for the meds to kick in, the next defib shock was administered. Another shock. Another jolt. Shay’s body twitched sharply in response to the dose of electricity. Still no pulse afterwards. Heather rechecked the monitor. “Now it’s v-fib.”

“Keep going, charge again. Let’s hit her at 300.” Dr. Lindsay said, panting now from compressions. The next shock caused Shay’s feet to kick up above the table and drop back with a thud, showing off the deep, wavy wrinkles in the soles of her size 8 feet. “Still no change.” Jen eyed the monitor, checking the rhythm. Dr Lindsay shook her head. “Keep going.”

The room stayed locked in resuscitation mode. Every move crisp, controlled, coordinated. But behind the monitors and meds, a silent current was beginning to build. 26 year old Shay Strong- healthy, undefeated in the ring, fierce as hell, was slipping further away with each failed shock. Now, she lay sprawled across the trauma bay table, her blonde hair a total mess, her arms limp at her sides. The chaotic beeps of the monitors gave way to chaos in an instant.

“She’s still in v-fib, no pulse!” Jen called out, eyes locked on the EKG rhythm twisting across the screen like a coiled snake.

“Alright, let’s run through a cycle or two of compressions and go from there.” Dr Lindsay barked. “Heather, swap with me and start compressions.” Lindsay directed. Heather launched into CPR, pressing hard and fast into Shay’s chest, her tattooed ribcage rising and falling unnaturally with each deep compression. The motion caused her small perky breasts to jiggle slightly.

“Charging to 200!” Lindsay called after the cycle of compressions were finished, the machine emitting a rising, high pitched whir. Everyone stepped back when the shock was delivered. KA-THUNK! The MMA fighter’s toned, athletic body was tossed around effortlessly on the table by the defib’s electricity. Unfortunately, there was no change.

At the head of the bed, Jen kept an eye on the ambu bag and airway, squeezing rhythmically, watching the monitors like a hawk. Her gloved hands trembled just slightly. “Still no pulse.” the young resident murmured. “Next epi’s in.” Nurse Heather confirmed between cycles of CPR, her arms visibly tiring but steady. The flat, wet thud of her palms against Shay’s bare chest punctuated the room like a grim metronome.

“Let’s go again, charge to 300. Everyone… CLEAR.” Lindsay’s voice was firm, her blue eyes scanning around the room. Shay’s toes scrunched up involuntarily in response to the shock, wrinkling the soles of her feet once more, showing off the black nail polish on her toes. A high pitched tone screamed through the room. “Come on…” Jen whispered under her breath. Still no change.

“Push another 150 of amiodarone. Let’s tube her. 7.0 ET.” Lindsay signaled to Jen, who was already sliding the laryngoscope in. Shay’s mouth hung slack, jaw open, eyes half lidded. Despite everything- the tattoos, the muscle tone, the toughness- her body looked terribly vulnerable now.

The resident quickly slid the tube in place, securing it with some tape. “Tube’s in. Still no rhythm change.” Jen confirmed, voice tight. Heather didn’t stop. Her hands pounded against Shay’s sternum repeatedly, sending ripples through the inked skin of her torso. The nose ring caught a glint of light with each compression. Her chest looked raw and bruised. “Hold compressions. Charge to 360. Everyone CLEAR.” Lindsay ordered. Shay’s body tensed up hard, almost shivering for a second or two. Still v-fib.

The room was quieter than before. The thud of compressions, the hiss of oxygen through the ambu bag, the alarms on the heart monitor silenced. A minute passed. Then another. Dr Lindsay’s hand slowly came up. “That’s twenty-five minutes down.” she informed the team sternly. Her gaze moved across the room, catching Heather’s tired face, Jen’s white knuckled grip on the ambu bag. “She’s not coming back, is she?” Jen thought to herself. Her eyes flicked to the monitor one more time. Still v-fib. Dr Lindsay gave it a moment longer. Then softly, “Heather, hold compressions. Time of death… 13:42.” Announced Lindsay. Nurse Heather stopped compressions. The room seemed to exhale all at once. The monitor, now silent, showed the jagged, erratic waveforms of refractory v-fib.

No one moved right away. Shay lay motionless on the table, her chest rising faintly from the final puffs from the ambu bag, her body glistening under the harsh, bright overhead light. For someone so strong, she looked impossibly fragile now. Lindsay peeled off her latex gloves slowly. “Let’s clean her up.” she said softly, more to the room than to anyone in particular. No one spoke. They just moved. Careful, efficient, and quiet. The fighter had gone down, and not even the best resuscitation could bring her back.

Trauma Room One was quiet now. Shay laid motionless on the trauma bay table, her athletic frame still positioned how they’d left her- flat on her back, arms at her sides, a faint sheen of sweat clinging to her skin. The harsh rhythm of CPR had ended moments ago. What remained was eerie stillness.

Dr Lindsay stood at the foot of the bed, her eyes fixed on Shay’s pale face. Her mouth was slightly parted, her chest unmoving. The bruising from the chest compressions was already starting to show- deep purples and dark reds spreading across the middle of her chest. The endotracheal tube remained in place, protruding from her pale lips. Nurse Heather stepped to Shay’s side and gently detached the ambu bag from the ET tube, setting it on the nearby cart. The heart monitor, still showing v-fib, let out a soft, continuous tone that filled the room with a hollow kind of finality. Dr Jen reached over and silenced it with a tap of her gloved finger.

Heather leaned in again, her hands methodical and respectful as she disconnected the EKG leads from Shay’s chest. One by one, the stickers peeled away, leaving behind faint impressions on her pale, clammy skin. Dr Jen removed the IV lines from her arms and coiled the tubing neatly before tossing it into the biohazard bin.

Lindsay took a toe tag from the tray and filled it out in quiet pen strokes. She looped the string gently around Shay’s left big toe, the tag dangling against the wrinkled soles of her foot. Dr Jen found a clean white sheet at the end of the gurney and pulled it up slowly, covering Shay’s legs, her torso, then finally her face.

Dr Lindsay stepped closer, gently placing her fingertips beneath Shay’s chin and tilting her head just enough to shut her half-lidded eyes. One last glimpse of life, now gone. The faint line of a nose ring caught the light again.

The room was still. The chaos from earlier felt like a distant memory, something that had happened in another place, to another person. Now, there was only the quiet presence of the three clinicians standing beside a body that had, just a little while ago, been fighting to stay alive.

Dr Lindsay gave a single nod, then turned and stepped toward the door. Heather and Jen remained a moment longer, hands at their sides, saying nothing, each taking one last look at Shay’s covered, toe tagged form before exiting the room.

#resus community #resus writing #resus #cpr #cpr female #cpr resus #dark cardiophilia #medfet #defib #defibs #defibrillator

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astrogre · 1 year ago

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What gifts to buy for each Venus sign

Christmas is among us, my favourite season and time of the year. Venus is the planet of love, by nature it can display what we like to receive from others but if you don’t know their Venus or the house it’s in you can try to look at the persons Sun sign instead but Venus is ideal.

A gift based on their:

Sun sign will make them feel seen and like you know them well, it will be a gift they may appreciate

Venus sign is all they’ve ever desired it’s the pinnacle of their ideal gift. Especially as Venus represents how we like to receive and experience love

Aries/ 1H Venus

Gym membership, running shoes, thrill seeking experiences like tickets to bungee jumping, rock climbing, a skydiving event, gym outfit, tickets to their favourite artist, tickets to festival, cool lighter, archery classes, tickets to sports games, a shirt with their teams logo or merch from their favourite artists, scissors set, cooking tools, hair styling products like hairspray, hair dye, Fitbit/apple watch, knives set, sports gear, heavy bass headphones, tickets for those room smashing experiences, take them clay pigeon shooting, family destroying board games like Risk or Catan, diy tattoo kit, diy piercing kit, theme park tickets.

Aries Venus are by nature thrill seekers, Aries is ruled by the head and has 1st house influences, they can certainly appreciate something that ignites passion, they are impulsive and quick by nature to pursue what they desire. They need gifts that match their decisive nature and to let out that pent up energy they have in them, I honestly think experiences are the best for them. Or a box of hair dye for their impulsive moments

Taurus/ 2H Venus

Hire a chef or take them to a really good restaurant for a 5 course meal that serves orgasmic food and has impeccable visuals/atmosphere OR you can even arrange a 7 course homemade meal with the finest of recipes! , fine jewellery adorned with a gemstone, culinary experiences, cooking classes, kitchenware, go to fragrantica.com and find a high quality perfume to give, premium home decor, art, antique items, antique furniture, comfortable cosy clothing, hot water bottle, gardening tools, plants, selection of seeds for their garden, diffuser, essential oils, desserts like baklava/ferro rocher, luxury goods, wellness retreat subscription, day at the spa, tea set, comfy velvet winter pillows and bed sheets

Oh my Taurus natives, they know how to break a bank for Christmas and if not they can enjoy luxury on a budget! They enjoy the finer things of life of course Venus ruled, they know how to induge in pleasures and satisfaction. Due to the earthy influence they have a green finger and a natural affinity with plants and gardening, they may love flowers or want to grow plants themselves. Taurus venuses are rather easy to gift, if you know them they usually have a vice, it may be sleep, food or pure laziness, get them something according to their vice and they will treasure it.

Gemini/ 3H Venus

Really cool stationary, Spotify subscription, comedy show tickets, books from their favourite genre, a notebook, Grammarly subscription, cards against humanity board game, Duolingo subscription, multiplayer games, home kit recording studio, language learning stuff, calligraphy classes, kindle, portable car charger, Bluetooth speaker, karaoke machine, suitcase, travel accessories, a musical instrument, sealing wax kit, creative hobby supplies, microphone, podcasting equipment, audio editing software, a car, vr headset, Nintendo online subscription, Netflix/HBO/youtube/crunchyroll subscription

Gemini rules communication, short journeys and social engagement. Blessing these natives with tools to enhance their pleasant hobbies will make them swoon in gratitude, if you want to get them something make it engaging and whimsical. These natives are ruled by mercury and always welcome something that requires the mind.

Cancer/ 4H Venus

A cooking set, baking set, comfort food, commission artwork of the family, family photos, some really nice home decor, a keepsake/musical box adorned with velvets and soft materials that will store sentimental objects, a locket necklace, family recipe book make a recipe book of all their favourite foods and some foods you know they’d like, soft fluffy blanket, the family heirloom, hand crafted quilt, hand painted ceramic mug, animal crossing game, sims 4 game, games relating to the home, bring and fly in family that are far away as a surprise and cook their favourite meal together, household utilities, lush bath products, a personal chef for a day, a personal butler for a day, custom family tree art, ancestry DNA kit (please be careful though once you use them they keep your data and if they get hacked your information is out there), home movie night, comfy slippers and pyjamas, family board games, this christmas make them Christmas dinner this time.

Cancer rules the home and there’s nothing more appreciated by a cancer Venus than things that remind them of this. They are by nature expressive and nurturing, this time let them be pampered!

Leo/ 5H Venus

Hair care products, gift card for their favorite store, make them an edit no joke like a TikTok edit that makes them look really cool, one of those light up mirrors or a pretty handheld one if they don’t have one already, book them a photoshoot together if they don’t like the camera maybe post them on your social media and show affection for these bold natives, theatre tickets, bold sunglasses, luxury watch, good jewellery, VIP experiences like backstage passes or reservation to exclusive invite only restaurants, designer clothing that is a prestigious brand they love, commission style artwork, make them a playlist of songs that reminds you of them, fine wine, personalised fragrance creation that allows them to create their own signature fragrance, personalised makeup makeover, hire a stylist for them

A perfect gift for Leo’s need to have an element of self expression, luxury and incorporate their personality that garners attention from peers. They need a gift that makes them feel special, something tailored specifically for them that cannot be gifted to anyone else. Personalised gifts do well either this placement too. When I think of these natives I just think of that Meghan Trainor music video “Me Too” watch that and you’ll get their vibe.

Virgo/ 6H Venus

Skincare products, a blender for smoothies, lots of cleaning products, multi purpose aesthetic storage containers, Quora or chat gpt subscription (these guys like to be well informed), give them scientifically researched bath products that have all that vitamin breakdown qualities, make them a notion template to help them plan, quality office supplies like a desk organiser or chair, practical fitness gear like a yoga mat, a fitness tracker, get them a personal nutritionist, tailored meal prep services, bookshelf organiser system, a stylish briefcase, home office makeover (BUT PLEASE GET THEIR PERMISSION FIRST), online course subscription, digital subscription to news feed, you can never go wrong with practical things, an ikea haul, Costco membership, minimalist decor, multi vitamins, a precision watch, set of labelling and sorting tools, a neat tidy chess board, get them a nice little pet, honestly for some reason whenever I think of Virgos I think of matcha. Get them something matcha based.

Virgo Venus natives need gifts that resemble their routine and organisation, they can be rather difficult to purchase for since they have such a specific taste in mind. Gift cards are practical for them but they really need something that allows them to be more prepared. Take them out for comparison price shopping like say if you want to get them a sofa tell them you’ll take them out to Costco, Amazon, ikea, and compare the best ones. They are also very clean and efficient.

Libra Venus/ 7H Venus

Trending Make up like the fenty hot chocolit heat lip gloss, Korean skincare products, beautiful piece of art, a wedding ring 😏, bouquet of flowers, take them to a beautiful botanical garden, fashionable accessories like a silk scarf, books and courses on design, take them to a couples romantic date, a couples workshop, write them a love letter, museum date, tickets to an art exhibition, fine dining, an astrology synastry reading, if they’re single set up a blind date with someone who you KNOW they would like (make sure they’re handsome/pretty), couples retreat, love coach Patreon subscription, pottery/painting classes, relationship podcast subscription, relationship psychology books, fine fragrance/cologne

Libra is ruled by Venus and 7th house, all things related to love beauty and pleasure align with this native, even if they are single they have a natural gift for delving into relationships. Make sure that whatever gift you give them it is pleasing and sensual

Scorpio/ 8H Venus

Intimate gifts, a psychological crime documentary playlist like Epstein island documentary or YouTubers who speak of renowned cult leaders, personalised astrology reading, a dark seductive fragrance, dark artwork, dominance and submission guide book, shadow work journal with a lock on it, dark poetry and literature, escape room adventure tickets, monopoly game, dungeons and dragons game equipment, bdsm accessories, personalised erotic art, leather/latex clothing, bonding activities, empowering books like 48 Laws of Power, martial arts training, taxidermy, personal development workshops, intense workout equipment like a punching bag, chess, daggers, locks on their door or for their belongings like installing a lock for their drawers, buy them a ring camera and subscription, wine tasting experience

Give them something sultry and deep, it has to be psychological and empowering. They are not impressed by superficial gifts that mean nothing to them. They really like gifts that allow them to explore their nature and the darker aspects of existence.

Sagittarius/ 9H Venus

A scratch off map that allows you to scratch off countries you’ve been to, a surprise holiday where you take them abroad, Duolingo subscription, a wanderlust journal for them to document their experiences, passport accessories, an electric guitar, drums, take them to a fireworks display or do one at home for them, a telescope, a drone, binoculars, philosophical books or religious books based on their own beliefs and religion, running shoes, horse riding in the sunset experience, musical instruments, motivational and positive affirmations book or make some for them yourself, a book collection of all their motivational and positive messages they have said, a compass, pay for their tuition for a course they’ve always wanted, traveling stuff like suitcases, pillow for travelling, a portable flask, a disposable camera, a Polaroid camera, a tent, tickets to a cultural festival, hiking gear, skiing gear, camping gear, sketchbook, a donation in their name

Sagittarius Venus and 9H venuses love the concept of exploration whether it be in the mind or physically, the best gift you could give them is one that allows them to take in so much culture, information and experiences.

Capricorn/ 10H Venus

Customisable credit card (CUCU is a good site for this), a nice power suit like business attire, vintage pocket calculator, cufflinks or a tie, formal shoes, pay for their CV to be analysed by professionals in their industry, elegant timeless clothing and jewellery, make them business cards, get them a corporate slave (an assistant will do), pay for business class flights for their next trip abroad, project management courses, tickets to Ted Talk event, take them to and big them up at networking and entrepreneurial opportunities, a sleek desk, submit their work for trophies and awards, quality furniture, Starbucks or their fave coffee place gift cards, a fountain pen, personalised desk name plate, professional photoshoot, designer accessories like a Swiss watch, leather wallet, cheque book, pay for a professional calligrapher to design their signature, time management software

Our sweet cap Venuses and 10Hers need their professional acknowledgment, give them anything timeless and a way for them to better themselves. They love being the best of the best so give them things that support their ambitions.

Aquarius/ 11H Venus

A 3D printer, high tech phone, a gamer console, smart home device like Alexa, chat gpt subscription, AI art pieces of them, rubix cube, VR headset, bespoke one of a kind art piece, tickets to a science technology conference or musem, networking events, phone case, futuristic home decor, membership to an niche club their interested in, mini indoor garden like a plant terrarium, pay for an astronomy stargazing experience for them, alt clothing, goal setting journal, a camaraderie for their friendships can be a bracelet for an example, tickets to a unique workshop according to their niche interests, video editing software, a unique invention prototype for the industry their interested in say if it were cars then a mini Tesla or something, volunteer together, design software, film festival tickets, social cause merchandise, unique fashion piece, astronomy kit, an AI boyfriend or girlfriend, take them a Ted talk.

Always remember the specific niche interests of these natives they like things that are very niche and so sometimes asking them is actually the best thing to do. But make sure it’s something they’re passionate about not all of these natives live tech but they certainly are innovative.

Pisces/ 12H Venus

Seashell necklace, watercolour paints, fantasy book collection, their favourite mangas, handmade artwork, stained glass window art, dream interpretation book, flowerpedia book, vinyls, yoga mat, contact lenses, tickets to their favourite artist like mitski or the sort, create a playlist for them that’s about fantasy and imagination, they might like Disney consider taking them to Disneyland, windchime, subscription to mindfulness app, astrology book, go to the aquarium together, windchimes, art supplies, a dream journal, sound healing instruments, pay for their spiritual retreat, zen garden decor, a mystical music box, water fountain, take them to a mesmerising body of water, prayer mats, diary, write them a heartfelt letter of how amazing they are, take them to a nature retreat, wearable art

Dreamy imaginative gifts would be perfect for these people, they need gifts that allow them to appreciate their escape world where they have a reality that’s just better than here. Give them things that are as beautiful as their inner world.

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f0rlorn · 1 month ago

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falling for ya!

yuji itadori x fem!reader, (one sided) nobara kugisaki x reader, teen beach movie au

follows the plot of teen beach movie, some characters have been mischaracterized for the sake of plot.

warnings: implied misogyny like in the movie (i'm aware they wouldn't actually act like this, but it's an au), sort of one sided crush, reader acts like she's lobotomized, and weird pacing tbh!!

word count: 4.4k- that's a personal record

Life was simple. You liked biking, big hair, leather boots, and boys, things every other biker girl enjoyed. Life was perfect. You didn't have to make decisions or do anything complicated- with a flutter of your glittery eyes, boys lined up to do it all for you. The only thing that got in the way of your perfect little life was the band of surfers that loved to hang around the same joint your brother and his friends did, Big Momma's.

In the midst of summer, the rival surfer and biker gangs spewed fiery hot hatred, blood boiling from the mere sight of the other. Each wanted the spot for their own, willing to go to bizarre lengths, all for a fish fry and a soda. You didn't mind the surfers, they didn't bother you in your pristine, pretty bubble as you twirled through life in a girlish daze. But your brother, Aoi, was territorial. He wanted the surfers out.

Your brother and his friends made a big spectacle out of their entrance, revving their engines obnoxiously as a warning to Big Momma's patrons, much to her dismay. She had reprimanded him time and time again about scaring away customers, but it always fell on deaf ears. Besides, they were trying to scare those pesky Surfers away all the time.

Pulling up your thigh-high, pastel pink boots, you rolled your eyes dismissively as your brother dramatically swung the chipped wooden doors to Big Momma's wide open. The sun shone brightly behind him, casting a menacing shadow on his face. The upbeat, harmony-intensive music that had been playing died down as the room full of surfers looked threatened by your mere presence there.

"Surfers. Thought I smelled somethin' fishy," Todo remarked, crossing his arms. A girl in a black swimsuit pushed through the crowd, standing face to face with your brother. More accurately, face to chest, as Aoi had a decent amount of height on her. Though, that didn't seem to intimidate her in the slightest.

"Rodents. I knew I should have laid some traps," she seethed, eyes squinted behind a pair of glasses. "Thought you all were exterminated."

"And I thought you surfers were all washed up," Noritoshi retorted from over Todo's shoulder.

"'Yea. You should make like the ocean and wave goodbye," Nishimiya giggled, making a wave motion with her hand. Deadpanning suddenly, she continued. "'Cause we want this place to ourselves!" You nodded from Todo's side, mindlessly encouraging their childish antics with a pop of your bubblegum.

"The girls don't lie, Maki." Maki was beginning to object, growing dangerously close to Todo's face with a pointed finger, ready to snap, before a boy in an unbuttoned shirt and messy, pink hair, pushed his way through.

"I'm sorry, is there a problem? You guys don't own this restaurant."

"Yeah, I'll show you the problem, punk-" Before the encounter could grow violent, you scurried over to the jukebox, making a show of slotting a coin in and bumping the machine with your hip to start up the music. Both Todo and the surfer boy stared dumbfounded at your attempt to diffuse the situation, but settled nonetheless, giving each other one last mutual glare before settling on opposite sides of the joint.

You smiled, clapping your hands together in satisfaction. You were the self-proclaimed queen of peace and de-escalation. "Let's just get our lunch and go, Aoi, it's not worth all the fuss. C'mon, we'll be back later," You reassured him with a smile. Who was he to say no to you?

That night, Big Momma was letting you and the girls put on a little performance to entertain her Friday night rush crowd. Your red, polka dot dress looked absolutely darling on you. Beaming, you indulged yourself in a little spin, adoring the girly way the dress twirled. Not to mention, your hair looked great. You had gotten your friend Miwa to tease it for you, a shiny headband accentuating the meticulous hairstyle.

Settling into the comfy corner booth, you took a swig of a fruity soda, attempting to soothe your vocal cords before you had to sing in just a few minutes. "Hey sis, those surfers weren't bothering you earlier, were they? Saw 'em eyeballing Mai over here," Todo questioned, gaining an affirmative nod from Mai as she was mentioned.

"No, of course not!" You assured. "You know, they're not so bad."

"All surfers are bad!" Nishimiya protested, causing the rest of the table to chime in in agreement. You rolled your eyes with a breathy laugh at their extreme loathing of the other breed.

"Okay, well, we gotta go. It's almost time, come on!" You urged, coaxing Miwa, Mai, and Nishimiya from their seats to come on the stage with you.

The set was going great, your friends were dancing and having a good time. You even got some of the surfers to dance as well. It wasn't until you twirled, heel catching on the edge of the stage, that you felt any sort of dismay that night. You held your breath, preparing yourself for the painful, embarrassing fall that surprisingly never came. When you opened your eyes, you were met with the handsome face of the surfer who was arguing with your brother earlier.

Yuji was a stereotypical surfer boy, a smile plastered on his face for the entirety of the summer. He always said his first love was the water, the splashing of the waves a sweet siren song pulling him in. What was sweeter than that siren song, though, was your melodic voice that night. It was only because you lured him closer to the stage that he was able to be there as you tripped, arms reaching out on instinct to scoop you up from midair.

"Nice of you to drop in," he mused.

"You saved my life," you beamed, eyes lighting up. The boy laughed, suddenly nervous as you spoke to him. "You're my hero!"

"Not really. I mean, the stage is only two feet up," Yuji nodded his head in the direction of the stage, "the worst you would have done is break a nail," he awkwardly joked, careful to set you down on your two feet, making sure you were steady before removing his hands from your hips.

"I guess I literally fell for you, huh? I'm Y/N."

"Yuji. Your knight in shining board shorts," He playfully continued.

"That's a long last name you have, Mister Knight in Shining Board Shorts," you giggled, causing him to let out a breathy laugh along with you. Your awkward banter was quickly interrupted when a black-haired recluse stole him away with urgency and an apology.

"It was really nice falling into you, Yuji! I hope we can do it again sometime," you bid farewell with a small wave, rather disappointed to see him go. But the disappointment did nothing to quell the butterflies you felt from the wholesome interaction.

You were so enamored with Yuji that you didn't even realize the set was over, your friends waiting to the side for you expectantly.

"What was that all about?" Pried Miwa, clasping your hands excitedly.

"I don't know- I just fell and he caught me!"

"Yeah, and then you guys giggled with each other for like five minutes!" Nishimiya chimed in, the girls surrounding you curiously.

"It just happened! Do you think he likes me?" You queried, asking your friends in earnest for their opinion.

"Well with the way he was looking at you, I think he might love you," Mai teased.

"Plus, did you see his hand placement?! He was holding you bridal style. I think it's a sign," Nishimiya quipped with a poke to your arm. "Anyway, you're lucky Aoi didn't see. C'mon, they're outside by the fire." She tugged you along, the other girls following close by. The boys in question were clustered together on the moonlit beach, warming their hands by the flames contained within a metal barrel.

"Ladies," Noritoshi acknowledged as the four of you approached. You greeted them warmly, each settling into separate spots by the bonfire. Miwa cuddled close to Mechamaru, unsurprisingly. She had denied her feelings for him for a while now, but you knew that if he ever asked her out, she would agree with zero hesitation. You smiled at their subtle intimacy. It made you think of Yuji, and how you wished you could be that close to him again.

Yuji was an exceptional catch on your part. Or rather, he caught you. Seriously, the boy had very minimal flaws, if any. On top of being drop-dead gorgeous with perfectly sized biceps, he was gentlemanly, caring, and loyal to a fault. The only problem was that he was a surfer. It was practically forbidden to hang out with surfers, let alone date one. You knew your brother would whoop you upside the head if he found out that you had any plans to fraternize with the so-called enemy.

It was possible, though, that Yuji might not even ask you out. The mere prospect made you clammy with dread and disappointment. But that would be impossible! He referred to himself as your knight, he caught you, a biker girl, his supposed opposition, and handled you with much care, nonetheless. Asking you out was not outside of the realm of possibilities, just like your friends assured you. The overwhelming amount of thinking you were doing forced an exacerbated sigh out of you, sinking into the silky sand.

Later in the night, you caught sight of Yuji again. You couldn't decipher who he was with- possibly the boy from earlier- but it didn't make any difference. You knew you wanted to talk to him and get to know him further, and you typically got what you wanted from boys.

"Oh!" You exclaimed as the charming surfer who had saved you earlier grew closer. Pressing your manicured hands to his chest and leaning in close, you sang his praises once more. "Thanks again, Yuji, for catching me!" You were just about to introduce him to your brother and his friends, turning your head around, only to be met with the expectant stare of the gorgeous brunette he was with. You let out a little squeak, realizing that you might have been taking Yuji's banter the wrong way.

"Oh, bonkers. Are you two together? I would never take another girl's boy, I mean, that would be stealing," you explained apologetically, "and probably very hard to return." The girl cocked her head, struck with confusion at the outlandish assumption and near nonsensical ramblings. Realizing your claim, her eyes widened in distaste.

"Eh?! Me.. with him? No, of course not." She reeled back in disgust. "No, we were just walking." The girl explained, causing you to sigh in relief, a weight dropping off of your shoulders. If she was with him, you wouldn't dare lay a finger on Yuji. Sure, you enjoyed the male attention you received, but you would never seek it from a boy in a relationship. You always stayed true to "sisters before misters," no matter how cute the boy was.

"This is Nobara." Yuji looked rather offended at her extreme objection, grabbing your wrist to steal your attention once more. You looked at Nobara, smiling sweetly.

"So you wouldn't mind if Yuji and I went for a walk on the beach?" You asked, still wanting her permission despite her obvious friendship- and nothing more- with him. Once she gave you her blessing, you thanked her generously and wrapped your arm around Yuji's bicep.

The stars illuminated the two of you, walking along the secluded shoreline and learning that you had more in common than you had previously believed. "Y'know, I like you a lot. You're different from those other girls you hang out with- you're sweet." Yuji admitted, hands sheepishly resting in his pockets while you still clung to his arm.

"They're not as tough as they seem, really. Mai and Momo are like my older sisters, I grew up with them around. And Miwa's super sweet too, she's my closest friend," You explained, defending their honor. Sure, the Rodents wore a lot of black, leather, and chains, but that didn't reflect their complete character. While you knew your friends could be tough and independent, you had also seen them be vulnerable, gentle, and kind-hearted people.

"You're really courageous, by the way. Swooping in to save me like that? You truly are my hero," You gushed, leaning your head on his shoulder. He tensed at your forwardness, words coming out in a stutter.

"Courageous? Nah, I mean-" Upon noticing the kittenish glint in your eye, Yuji couldn't help but lean into your every word. "Maybe, I guess. I'm sure anyone would have done the same!"

"Well, not a surfer. We're not supposed to get along, y'know," you reminded him, shyly tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Of course a surfer. Who would ever want a smokin' girl like you to fall?" His words slipped out of his mouth before he had a chance to think of the implications- he had just called you hot. You were undeniably breathtaking, it was a fact. Your graciousness and amiability did nothing but add to your charm. In honesty, Yuji didn't mind that you were a surfer. He would take a chance with any girl, be it surfer, biker, bookworm, you name it. He only asked that they be pure of heart, kind, and thoughtful. All qualities that he admired in you.

A blush rose to his face as he heard you giggle at his blunt words. "C'mon Yuu- do you mind if I call you that? It's a cute nickname. Anyway, do you dance?" You asked, leading him to the field near Big Momma's, colorful lights strung up from palm trees, shiny cars intentionally parked there for people to see, displayed by their proud owners.

You took initiative, placing your hand on his shoulder and lacing your other hand with his. His hand soon found its resting spot on your hips, and you swayed to the upbeat music playing on a radio. Every once and a while, Yuji grew bold, spinning you around or lifting you by your hips. It was fun. You enjoyed spending time with him, and you couldn't think of a better way to spend it.

Though, it was growing quite late. Your brother would soon notice your prolonged absence and start looking for you, the girls would be waiting to kick off the slumber party you decided to host. Yuji noticed too, it seemed, as once the song came to an end, he stopped your swaying, holding you in place with a firm grasp on your hips. "Y'know, it's about time I returned you to your brother. He'll start to worry. Hold on, on second thought, maybe I just walk you to the door. It might be worse if he sees you've been with me all night." He bashfully acknowledged.

He did walk you back, his hand emboldened enough to hold your own on the way over, regardless of who saw the two of you. But even though Yuji claimed he didn't care that you were a biker, he was scared to run into your brother and even let out an involuntary sigh of relief when he managed to go the whole way without him spotting the two of you. He walked you over to his friends, Megumi and Nobara, leaning on a light blue convertible that you didn't think belonged to them.

"So, how'd it go?" Nobara queried, peering up at the two of you from her hunched position. You grinned in reply, leaning your head on Yuji's shoulder as a silent answer to her question. She nodded with a hum in return. An idea came to you suddenly. That didn't happen too often, so when you thought of it, you knew you had to act on it.

"Hey, Nobara! You should come to my pajama party!" You exclaimed, inviting her with amicable enthusiasm. You heard Megumi repeat your words, tone amused and somewhat taunting. You paid him no mind, though. "We have them all the time. I'm sure the other girls would love to meet you."

"Sure, Y/N," she agreed with a warm smile.

"Perfect! Just show up to my house around ten." You slipped her your address and bid farewell to the trio, leaving Yuji with a tender kiss on the cheek which left his friends snickering at his awkward, scrunched-up face.

When Nobara did show up, shuffling her feet at your doorstep, Mai, Miwa, Nishimiya, and yourself were already in your ruffly pajamas, poofy layers of chiffon hiding your figures and covering the tiny matching shorts. You felt guilty for not telling her that the four of you were matching already, as she appeared in a little pink satin set, a far contrast to what the rest of you were wearing. She ended up in another pair you had, the pastel yellow mixing quite nicely with the color palate that you all were already dressed in.

Nishimiya sat at your vanity, Mai behind her intensely teasing her hair. It was never quite big enough for Nishimiya's liking, though, and you heard her whine something about making it even while you were digging through your closet for something special. Miwa was sprawled over your bed on her stomach, legs bent at the knee so her feet could rest in the air. She was filing her nails, quite focused on sharpening them to a fine tip. That left Nobara sitting on the edge of your bed by her lonesome.

It's not that she felt out of place because you were too girly for her, she loved embracing her femininity- going shopping, wearing cute makeup and frilly dresses, the whole gist. It's just that she had been around Yuji and Megumi for so long, almost too long. She felt like she needed to spend some time around other girls. She wanted to get to know you better, too. You were so kind to her, so effortlessly pretty all of the time. It made her warm inside whenever you acknowledged her. It also made her quite bitter to see you so lovey-dovey with her annoyingly male friend. She wanted your attention for herself.

You squealed suddenly, pulling the most perfect pink dress out of your closet with a wide smile. "What do you think?" You held it up to your body, turning to face your friends who all gasped in delight, all except Nobara. "I want to wear this when I hang out with Yuji. His hair is pink, and this dress is pink, so whenever he looks in the mirror, he'll think of me!" You giggled, amused at your own genius.

"Why should a boy influence what you wear.. or anything you do? You should dress for yourself. You look good in everything you wear, really." You cocked your head at Nobara's sudden fuss. "Boys don't deserve it, especially Yuji. I don't think that dummy would notice the extra effort, he's too oblivious." You frowned, disappointed with her claim until Nishimiya spoke up.

"I mean, it's simple. A girl will only look at the dress. A boy will look at how she looks in her dress."

"Why not just ask him out yourself? If you want him, why wait?" Nobara wondered.

"I'm not sure how they do things where you're from, but here we ask a boy out without actually asking a boy out. Like with your eyes," You explained, covering the bottom half of your face to let your doe eyes do the work for you, serving as an example as you batted them. Nobara grew flustered as you did so, a blush rising on her face. "Besides, I've never had trouble in the boy department before."

"Sure. Whatever you say." She responded quietly. Well, if it worked on her, it would surely work on Yuji.

"You know him better than I do, Nobara. Do you think he would like it if I baked him a pie?" She agreed half-heartedly, still distracted by your glamour. "Hey, you should let us give you a makeover, biker style! I know you're used to those cute bikinis, but you would look great in leather."

The five of you made a fashion show out of it- each picking out a piece of their own to wear. For Nobara, you lent her a pair of tight leather pants and a white blouse, a red bandanna tied around her neck. You were right, she looked fantastic in leather. Her red bandanna complimented the form-fitting dress that you had slipped on, red lipstick to match. While Miwa worked on Nobara's makeup, perfecting the precise eyeliner, you and Mai teased her hair, making it poof up like Nishimiya's.

A fit of giggles erupted at the sight of the finished product. Nobara looked stunning, obviously, but she stood mightily uncomfortable in the high pumps and tight pants. She couldn't recall the last time she wasn't in beachwear or something summery. The dark clothing was a stark contrast to her normal aesthetic. As a final touch, you tucked a comically large red flower behind her ear and turned her around to face the mirror, letting her see herself. Her eyebrows raised in surprise, not expecting to like it as much as she did.

"I don't look half bad. You girls need a new addition to your biker gang anytime soon?" She joked, facing you with a smile.

"The more the merrier."

By morning, all the other girls had parted ways, leaving you and Nobara alone in your room. She was forced to endure your boy troubles. "It's like my heart's telling me one thing, but I feel like I have to do something else. I'm scared I'll disappoint everybody if I pursue things with Yuji. And I don't know what he thinks about the whole thing either."

"Well, half the time a guy won't tell you what he's thinking, just because it would involve more thinking." She teased, sneering at the prospect.

"But they make up for it by being cute. And boys!" You sang. Nobara chuckled tepidly, wary of your quick defense on their part. "Y'know, I feel like I could tell you anything," you changed the subject, piquing Nobara's interest. "There's this secret that I've never told anyone. Not ever!"

"I'll be the first to know?" She asked.

"Duh!" You interlocked your pinkie with hers. "Friends forever. Just promise not to tell."

"Friends forever," she repeated, tightening her grip slightly.

Dragging her over to your bed, you sighed before speaking. "I want to surf," you admitted, looking rather hesitant. Her eyes widened with slight surprise.

"Really? I wasn't expecting that. Thought it would be something a little more drastic."

"It's totally insane, I know," you chirped, ignoring her last comment for the sake of being dramatic. "If my brother ever found out, he would freak. He doesn't even go near the water. I think he's scared of the lighthouse," you spoke your immediate thoughts, causing Nobara to laugh a little through her nose.

"You shouldn't let your brother stop you from doing what you want to do. If you want to surf, try it. If you want to date Yuji, for some odd, odd reason, go for it!" She encouraged, with a genuine interest for your happiness. "Look, I could even get Yuji to teach you if you want," Nobara suggested, prompting a beaming grin from you.

You weren't sure you were even dressed appropriately for the day of. Nobara had lent you a cute swimsuit of hers since you had very limited options yourself. Your hair was done up all nice, and you arrived with a full face of makeup. You wanted to impress Yuji, but you soon realized that your appearance would not matter if it impaired you from effectively surfing with him. When he arrived, you were sat on a beach towel with a pout.

"What's up, buttercup?" Yuji greeted, setting his board down and taking a seat next to you. You then remembered that you wanted to ask him to go out with you, inspired by Nobara's eccentric outlook about doing anything that boys could do. Still, it was a frightening prospect. You went back and forth between asking him and remaining faithful to your traditional ways. But you managed to convince yourself to try something new for once.

"Yuji. Would you ever want to go steady?" You boldly asked, turning towards him with crossed arms. A blush rose to his face as he sputtered out a string of random words.

"I really like you, Y/N. I've told you this." Were the first coherent words he could come up with. "Of course I'd wanna." Your eyes lit up, overjoyed with his answer. Your hands clung to his forearm, body springing forward excitedly. You gave a silent thanks to Nobara for helping you gain the courage to ask him.

"Really? My brother doesn't scare you or anything?"

"I mean, he's a little spooky. But I could beat him if I had to. Besides, you're totally worth the fight," he proudly announced, causing you to lean into him further.

The two of you didn't get much surfing done that day. You unfortunately realized that in order to surf, you first had to learn how to swim, and you weren't exactly in the mood to drown today. So, you opted for a picnic on your beach towel with the little snacks you had brought just in case, as well as the pie you had baked just for him. He continued the conversation, mouth half full of food.

"So if I'm your knight, does that make you my princess?" He proposed, nudging your shoulder playfully.

"I guess so. And that also means that Aoi is the fire-breathing dragon guarding the castle." Yuji shivered jokingly. "Better yet, we're Romeo and Juliet!" You exclaimed. "How romantic."

"Without the death and tragedy stuff though, right?" He asked, concerned.

"Of course, silly," you smiled. "We'll live happily ever after."

Yuji was a Surfer. You were a Biker. Rival gangs from different sides of town. It was scary, yes, to think about how others would respond, especially the more impassioned of the groups. But you didn't have to listen to what others thought about you; their opinion was no longer relevant. No longer would you stick to the restricting role you were pushed into your whole life, you could break free from it now, like Nobara had taught. Plus, you would have Yuji with you throughout it all, there by your side to cherish and support you. It was like a fairy tale, and you would definitely be getting your happily ever after.

notes: yuji would totally call his gf "foxy babe." also, i apologize for this being kind of all over the place- i didn't know how i wanted it to end, sorry that it's rushed.

me sitting here convincing myself that the fifth grade level writing is completely intentional and plot relevant yessss hahaha

#yuji itadori x reader #jjk x reader #jjk #yuji itadori #itadori yuuji #yuuji x reader #yuji itadori x you #jujustsu kaisen x reader #nobara kugisaki #jjk nobara #nobara x reader #nobara kugisaki x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen

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dorcas4meadowes · 4 months ago

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rafe x stonergf

You made no effort to cover yourself as your sheets fell around your waist. A pleasant heaviness washing over your body after a night of too much sleep, and too much sex. Mere feet from your tousled blankets stood Rafe over your seething teapot, pulling it off of the hot plate and pouring it into a chipped mug onto the counter.

You never envisioned that Rafe Cameron, owner of the Kook domain, would be making coffee, standing pressed against the sides of your inherited caravan. Not only was it a month ago was the notion that you ceased to possess an espresso machine, let alone a drip pot, worthy of his expression to fall, but here he was settling into your fold out table with a hand made clay mug resting in his palm.

His eyes drifted around your home in a swift movement, landing on your slumped figure as you leant across your bed to the night stand - constructed of hardback books - to lick the filter closed that edged out of your blunt.

The pressured decline of his cup against your table, caused the flick in your lighter to momentarily desist, slowing to a gentle smoke that lulled Rafe towards you. The mattress slightly dipped as he eased into your side, your hand finding the back of his neck pulling him closer to you, shattering the reflexes instilled from his childhood (stfu he’s literally a white man) . You allowed his mouth to brush against yours, your thumb pressing his lower lip downwards and diffusing the bitter smoke into his mouth.

You couldn’t suppress the usual effort of yours to hide your grin as he tried to conceal his gentle cough as a rasp, closing your eyes and taking another drag, easing the smoke out in a smile as he peppered kisses along your bare shoulder.

“I have to go,” he muttered against your neck.

“Mhm,” you hummed, his hands blindly finding yours, pressing a kiss against your content lips.

“See you at the Boneyard tonight?,” he asked, slipping off of your body.

“Maybe, gotta graft the berries, my brother is trying to get his hands on them”.

“That won’t take all day, and Barry is on the mainland,” he replied, tying his shoes.

“Hm maybe”.

He downed his coffee and kicked at your door that only opens with a harsh budge, leaving without another glance in your direction.

୨୧

Your blade ran underneath the stem of the strawberry sapling, intertwining it with the cannabis stalk, hooking them together with a clip. Sweat beads formed along your forehead, and dripped towards the soil beneath your feet, the warmth making staying within the confines of your greenhouse an unbearable task. The screech of the glass door welcomed escape.

“Thought you were in the Mainland,” you responded, your eyes drifting against your brother's dirty clothes and messy hair.

“Things have a way of working out,” Barry replied, plucking a berry from the bushes and spitting the top onto the floor. You pursed your lips and stood from your squatted position and ushered him out of the house and closed the door behind you.

“Look I need a favour,” he was almost asking, but he never did, “I need you to do the rounds for me tonight, i -,” he finished his sentence short and looked for your assurance.

You rolled your eyes and abruptly noticed the spare bike parked beside your brothers. You knew who it was, but questioned it anyway.

“Who’d you bring?”

“Cameron,” Barry yelled, the blonde seamlessly appearing from out of your eyeline.

“This is my sister,” he nodded towards you, “make sure she gets to the yard tonight”.

“Yeah,” he said lowly, turning to you, "Rafe Cameron and you are?”

“Not impressed”.

୨୧

requests are open lovelies <3

#rafe imagine #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader

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amber-aromadiffusermachine · 2 years ago

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Discover the perfect scent machine for your home or office. Indulge in an aromatic experience that creates a welcoming atmosphere and promotes well-being.

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aliceinoakdale · 2 months ago

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✧♡✧ Bathroom Shenanigans ✧♡✧

Window - Gua Door - Lin Dian Lights - Hydra, Arnie : x, x Switch & Sockets - Pierisim Plants - Awingedllama : x, x Rugs - MyxDollYT Curtain - Hydra Shower - Violablu Toilet - Hydra Sink - Nickname Mirrors - Solovej, Hydra : x, x Shelf - Simkoos, Mechtasims, KKB : x, x, x Storage Cabinet - Lin Dian Trolley - Syboulette Racks - Lin Dian, Syboulette : x, x Oil Diffuser - Ravasheen Bin - Lin Dian Hamper - Hydra Washing Machine - Dust Bunny Iron, Vaccums - Snootysims Laundry products - Qmbibi, Little Dica, ATS4 : x, x, x Dental Care - Around The Sims 4 Makeups - Mel Bennett, Syboulette : x, x Skincares - JoyceisFox, Qmbibi, Ddaengsims, Platinumluxesims, Hydra, Snootysims, Lilac creative : x, x, x, x, x, x, x Perfumes - Around The Sims, Mechtasims, : x, x, x Straightener - Pierisim Clutters - Around The Sims Hair Dryer - Novvvas Shower Hanger - Hydra Towels - Snootysims, Mechtasims, Leaf Motif : x, x, x Toilet Papers - Syboulette Clothes - Syboulette, Shino : x, x Slippers - Bknysimz

CC Creators :

@gua-cc / @.LinDian / @hydrangeachainsaw / @.Arnie / @pierisim / @awingedllama / @myxdollyt / @violablu-cute-sims4-world / @nickname-sims4 / @.Solovej / @simkoos / @mechtasims / @syboubou / @ravasheencc / @.DustBunny / @snootysims-blog / @lilaccreative / @aroundthesims / @.Novvvas / @.Shino /

#ts4 #sims 4 cc #ts4 cc #sims 4 #cc finds #les sims 4 #ts4ccfinds #sims4ccfinds #sims4cc #sims 4 cc finds #sims 4 build #sims 4 build and buy #sims 4 clutter #sims 4 decor #simblr #my builds #sims 4 interior

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porcelainstarrr · 16 days ago

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Chapter 12

⌖

Morning Light

I woke up smiling.

Not wide. Not dramatic. Just a soft, sleepy curve of my mouth against the pillow. A breath that didn’t ache when I took it in. The light coming through the window was warm. Diffused. That honey-yellow that only shows up when the world is still quiet and soft and untouched by the day.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

I just let it sit there. That weightless feeling. The slow stretch of my legs beneath the blanket. The way the air felt cooler on my arms. My hair was half-stuck to my cheek. I turned my head, eyes still closed, and breathed in the stillness.

He kissed me.

The thought came like a whisper. Gentle. Unforced.

Not the way it haunted me before. Not like a question.

This time, it felt like a truth.

He kissed me.

Again.

And he didn’t regret it.

I opened my eyes.

The ceiling looked the same as always, white, cracked slightly near the corner, but the room felt different. Lighter. Like the silence wasn’t crushing anymore. Like it wasn’t pressing into my ribs or settling in my throat. I slipped out of bed slowly. The floor was cool beneath my feet. I padded to the bathroom, peeled off my shirt, and let the water run hot. Steam billowed up fast, curling around the mirror like it was trying to blur the version of me that existed before yesterday.

I stepped in.

Let it hit my shoulders.

Closed my eyes and exhaled.

My body felt like mine again.

Not like something fractured and overanalyzed. Not like a puzzle I couldn’t solve.

Just… mine.

And under the water, I thought about his hands. The way they shook, just barely, when he touched me. The way his breath caught. The way he kissed me like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

He was scared.

But he kissed me anyway.

And I stayed.

My fingers stilled under the stream.

He let me stay.

I rinsed the shampoo out of my hair slowly. Stepped out and wrapped a towel around myself, letting the steam follow me back into my room. I wasn’t rushing. I wasn’t scrambling to beat the clock or silence the doubt in my head. I moved through my routine with something I hadn’t felt in days.

Ease.

I dried my hair, combed it out with patient fingers, even clipped it half-up just to feel more like myself. My lashes curled, my skin glowed a little from the heat of the shower, and for once, I didn’t flinch when I looked in the mirror.

I didn’t see someone falling apart.

I saw someone still standing.

Still trying.

Still here.

I moved into the kitchen barefoot. The tile cooled my steps, but it felt grounding. Real. I cracked two eggs into a pan, turned on the coffee machine, and hummed to myself as I toasted a slice of sourdough. The sunlight hit the counter just right.

And I let myself think about him.

About today.

About walking into that room again. About meeting his eyes and not needing to say much, because we already had.

Because he kissed me.

Because we’re not broken.

Not like I thought.

And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m being naive.

But I don’t think I am.

Not this time.

He heard me yesterday.

Really heard me.

And whatever weight he was carrying, whatever fear that had stitched itself into his silence, I saw it shift. I saw it crack.

He let me in.

I sipped my coffee. Slow. Let the heat bloom behind my ribs. I was going to see him again today. Not as a ghost of last week. But like this. Like someone who mattered again. Like someone he didn’t want to push away.

Maybe we’re not there yet.

Maybe we’re still figuring it out.

But today didn’t feel heavy.

It didn’t feel impossible.

It felt like something was beginning again.

And for the first time in days…

I was looking forward to what came next.

─────── ⌖ ───────

The walk through the halls didn’t feel as heavy today. No nerves. No tension coiled tight behind my ribs. Just footsteps, quiet, even. The walls didn’t feel like they were closing in. They just felt like… walls.

For the first time in what felt like forever, my badge didn’t weigh a thousand pounds against my chest. I nodded at a few people I passed, colleagues, nurses, the quiet receptionist who always tucked a granola bar under the counter in case I forgot to eat. No one asked if I was okay. Which was… new. Usually, someone could tell. That I wasn’t sleeping. That I was unraveling at the seams. But today?

Today, I looked like a person again.

I felt like one.

I slipped into my office and closed the door behind me. The click echoed softly through the space, and the silence that followed was different than the kind I’d grown used to. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t lonely. It was peaceful.

The kind of quiet that lets you breathe.

I set my bag down, shrugged off my coat, and sat at my desk with a slow, content stretch, back arching, arms raised, fingers brushing the ceiling. My chair creaked just a little under me, but it felt good. Solid.

I opened my laptop.

Emails first. Notes second.

Then the charts.

I moved through them with ease. Clinical. Efficient. No second-guessing, no mental fog thick enough to drown in. I was clear. Focused. Even my handwriting looked cleaner, sharper. I jotted down updates for two patients I’d seen last week, flagged one for med reevaluation, then paused when I reached the last file in the stack.

Poindexter.

Benjamin.

I hesitated for a second.

Then opened it.

Just to check.

Not out of obsession. Not because I was spiraling.

Just because I wanted to.

Because I could.

His file stared up at me, his name, his photo, that barcode the system tagged to his wristband. I scrolled through the notes. I could almost track his progress like a line graph in my head. The steep slopes. The climbs. The crashes. The plateaus.

And the shifts.

The parts that weren’t measurable in ink or metrics.

The moments. The trust. The fight in his eyes when he tried.

The silence that wasn’t apathy, it was fear.

The kiss that wasn’t weakness, it was something real.

I added a brief update.

Patient’s emotional restraint remains high, but relational responsiveness has shown recent signs of breakthrough.

Recommend continued sessions to assess behavioral stabilization over time.

I paused.

Then added-

Notable improvement in eye contact. Voluntary touch noted.

My lips twitched. Barely.

A smile.

Small. Private.

I saved the file and leaned back in my chair.

For the first time in weeks, the air in this office didn’t taste like nerves. It felt still. Clean. Like I had the right to be here. Like I was good at what I did. And maybe, just maybe, it was working.

All of it.

Him. Me. The thing we weren’t calling anything yet.

The day moved slowly, but not in a bad way. I answered emails. I scheduled two more check-ins. I re-filed three loose charts and actually remembered to finish my tea before it got cold. It felt like balance. Like peace.

And then-

A knock.

Firm. Knuckles to glass.

I looked up.

One of the nurses. Jason. Friendly, a little awkward. Always wore mismatched socks under his scrubs. “Hey,” he said with a half-smile, lingering at the door. “Sorry to interrupt. Chief Calder wants to see you in his office.”

“Oh yeah. Of course,” I said, already rising to my feet. “Did he say why?”

Jason shook his head. “Just asked me to send you over.” I nodded, brushing my hands down the front of my slacks as I moved to the door. “Thanks,” I murmured, stepping out into the hall. He gave me a polite nod and turned the corner, disappearing down the hallway.

I stood still for a second.

Then started walking.

I wasn’t nervous.

I should be nervous. When your boss asks you to come to his office, you should be nervous. But I wasn’t,

Not at first.

Calder called people into his office all the time. Routine updates, chart reviews, program changes. Sometimes he even pulled doctors in to thank them for their performance. And today, after how this week had turned around?

Maybe that was it.

Maybe he’d seen my notes, my patients.

I walked faster.

Shoulders straight. Hands calm at my sides.

It was probably nothing.

Just a check-in.

Just another quiet moment in a day that had started off so good.

So steady.

So full of hope.

─────── ⌖ ───────

His office is warm.

Not in the cozy sense, but in the way that nice offices are supposed to feel. Neutral wood paneling, low light, books stacked neatly behind his desk. Everything is in its place. He’s already sitting when I step inside.

“Morning, Doctor,” he says, gesturing toward the chair across from him. “Close the door behind you.”

I do.

No tension. Not yet.

Just the quiet click of the door as it seals shut. I take the seat he motioned to and smooth the fabric of my pants against my thighs. There’s a coffee mug near the edge of his desk, half full, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling. His laptop’s closed. No charts open.

This isn’t about a file.

“First of all,” he starts, folding his hands over a legal pad, “I just want to say, you’ve been doing exceptional work lately.”

I blink.

Not the sentence I expected.

“Thank you,” I say, cautious but polite.

“I mean it,” he continues, nodding slowly. “The patient reports I’ve reviewed? Remarkable. Your cases show growth, structure, and clarity. And the progress I’m seeing in some of our most complex patients, Poindexter included, isn’t something we see every day.”

He smiles.

A real one. Not forced. Not stiff.

Pride flickers in his eyes.

And I feel myself relax, just a little.

A small breath leaves my lungs.

“Thank you,” I say again, more softly this time. “That really means a lot.”

He nods once more.

And then his gaze drops.

Only for a second.

Barely long enough to register.

But it’s enough.

Something shifts.

“And that’s why this isn’t easy,” he says.

My smile doesn’t fall yet. But it starts to falter at the edges.

He leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly.

“You’ll be off Poindexter’s case.”

The words land with quiet finality.

At first, they don’t register.

Like I misheard him. Like maybe he misspoke. My brain tries to rearrange them into something else. Something softer.

But they stay.

Right there in the air between us.

You’ll be off Poindexter’s case.

“I-” My voice catches. “What?”

His face shifts, less warm now, more composed.

“I know this comes as a surprise.”

No.

No, no, no.

No.

My spine straightens, the chair suddenly too rigid against my back. My hands curl into fists in my lap before I even realize I’m doing it. “But- sir, I’ve been working with Poindexter for months now,” I say, trying to keep my tone level. “He’s progressing. We’re making headway. I don’t understand why would you change his doctor? You just told me you were proud of my work.”

“I am proud,” he says quickly. “This isn’t about performance. It’s not even a question of method.”

He hesitates, just briefly.

That flicker again.

Then he says it.

“It wasn’t my decision.”

And that-

That’s when it starts to sink in.

Slowly. Like ink bleeding into water.

My breath feels shallow.

“What do you mean it wasn’t your decision?”

He sighs, folding his arms now. Leaning forward. “You’ll be reassigned,” he says. “We’ve got a new intake arriving later this week, classified, high-risk. You’ll be leading it. It’s a challenge, I know. But you’ve proven you’re more than capable.”

I don’t care.

I don’t care about a new intake.

I don’t care how “capable” I am.

He’s still talking, words I can’t hear. Something about it not being personal. Something about opportunity. Career growth.

But it all fades.

Blurs.

Like, my ears aren’t working anymore.

Like someone pulled a plug and drained the noise out of the room.

My stomach sinks.

I feel it in my ribs. My throat. My chest.

He requested it.

Dex requested this.

And just like that, everything soft from this morning turns cold. All that warmth, all that hope-

Gone.

─────── ⌖ ───────

I don’t remember leaving his office.

I know I stood up. I know I thanked him. I know I kept my voice even and my expression composed because that’s what I was trained to do. But it wasn’t me who walked out of there. It was some version of me on autopilot, nodding, smiling, saying all the right words as if something hadn’t just been ripped out of my chest. The hallway feels colder now. Too bright. Too clean. Each step echoes louder than the one before, and by the time I get back to my office, my hands are shaking. I close the door behind me, slower than I should.

Staring at nothing.

Poindexter.

He requested it.

He asked for someone else.

And the worst part, the part that’s making my skin prickle and my lungs burn, is that I didn’t see it coming. Not even a little. I walked into that session yesterday believing we were on the same page. I just sit there in my office, hands loose in my lap, eyes fixed on nothing. The corners of the room feel sharper somehow, like everything has been hollowed out and left to echo.

The silence isn’t soft anymore.

It’s not peaceful.

It’s suffocating.

I blink at the wall in front of me, but it doesn’t feel real. Nothing does. The light through the blinds feels wrong, too warm, too bright, like it doesn’t belong in this moment. My ears are ringing. I don’t know if it’s the blood rushing to my head or the words replaying in it on a loop.

You’ll be off Poindexter’s case.

Reassigned. Removed. Like it’s nothing. Like I’m nothing.

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. My fingers thread into my hair, clutching the roots like they’re the only thing keeping me from floating off the floor. I press my forehead to my hands and squeeze my eyes shut, willing something, anything, to make this make sense.

We were okay.

Yesterday, we were okay.

He kissed me.

He held me.

He looked at me like I mattered.

I sit up abruptly, breath catching in my throat. The urge to cry comes fast, but I fight it back with a hard blink. No. Not here. Not now. I reach for my phone. My hands are trembling, but I unlock it anyway.

My thumb hovers over Gigi’s name.

I don’t think- I just tap.

It rings once. Twice.

“Heyyy,” she answers, voice light. Unknowing. Warm.

I swallow.

“They took me off his case.”

There’s silence. Just a breath. One second. Two.

“What?”

“Dex,” I say quietly. “They pulled me off his file.”

Another pause. Her voice drops, serious now. “Wait- what? Why?”

“They reassigned me to some new high-risk intake,” I mumble, my voice already wobbling. “My boss called me into his office. Said it wasn’t his decision.”

Another silence.

Longer.

“Oh,” she breathes. Then, carefully: “Was it…?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “He asked for it.”

Gigi doesn’t speak for a beat. And then she exhales, slowly. “Fuck.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. I’m still trying to process it. Still hoping there’s another explanation waiting to surface. “He didn’t say anything yesterday,” I say, quieter now. “Not a word. He let me sit there. Pour everything out. And then he kissed me. Held me like I was the only person in the world. And now I’m off his file like none of it meant anything.”

The tears come now.

Not loud.

But steady.

And they sting more than they should.

“I want to go up there,” I mutter, wiping my face with the sleeve of my shirt. “I want to yell at him. I want to scream. I want to walk into his room and just-” I pause, my chest tightening. “I want to beat his ass.”

Gigi makes a sound-half laugh, half breath, but it’s not because she thinks it’s funny. She just gets it. She always does. “Okay, babe. Listen to me.” Her voice changes.

Softer. Firmer. Anchored.

“You can’t go up there.”

“I know,” I murmur.

“You’re not his doctor anymore.”

“I know.”

“I know you want to scream. I know you want answers. But this isn’t how you get them. He made this choice. For whatever reason, he asked to be reassigned.”

“But why?” My voice breaks. “Why would he do that if he didn’t want me to leave? Why kiss me? Why let me in? Why hold me like that if he was just going to shut the door the next day?” Gigi sighs again, softer this time.

“Because people like him, people who’ve been through what he has, they don’t always know how to have something good. So when they do, it scares the shit out of them.” I press my hand to my mouth, trying to steady my breathing. It doesn’t work. My chest still shakes.

“You don’t do this to someone you care about,” I whisper.

“No. But he probably thinks he’s protecting you.”

“I didn’t ask him to protect me.”

“I know,” she says gently. “But he’s not thinking like that. He’s thinking like someone who’s been hurt so badly, so many times, that letting someone love him feels like handing them a loaded weapon.”

I close my eyes.

It hurts.

It hurts in that quiet, permanent kind of way. Like something’s shifted in me and can’t be undone. “You kissed him,” she says softly. “And he kissed you back. He held you. That wasn’t fake. That wasn’t meaningless.”

“Then why?”

“Because he knows he can’t give you what you deserve,” she says. “Because he’s scared he’ll hurt you. Because it’s easier for him to push you away than risk watching you stay.”

I wipe another tear off my chin.

“I’m so tired, G.”

“I know.”

“I really thought this was going to be different.”

“I know,” she says again. “But sometimes the people we want to save… won’t let us.”

I sit in that for a long moment.

And then, quietly, so quiet it’s almost not there:

“I miss him already.”

“I know, y/n,” she says. “I know.”

There’s a pause. Long. Quiet.

Then Gigi’s voice shifts.

Sharper. Drier. Like she’s done holding the soft space for me.

“Okay. But babe… what if this is who he is?”

I blink. “What?”

“I mean it. What if this is just… him? We’ve always known he’s high-risk. You said it yourself, he’s been through shit, he’s dangerous, he’s emotionally unstable. So why are you so surprised?”

My mouth opens, but I don’t know what to say.

“He asked for another doctor after kissing you, y/n. After holding you like you were air. That’s not normal. That’s not okay. And it’s not your job to try and make it make sense.”

“He’s not- he’s not manipulative, G.”

“Are you sure?” she shoots back, voice firm now. “Because I don’t know, if I looked like him? I’d probably use it too. Wrap a pretty girl around my finger, kiss her like it’s the end of the world, make her feel like she’s the exception, and then drop her before she gets too close.”

“G…”

“No. Listen to me. You’re smart. You’re good at what you do. But this? This wasn’t clinical. This was personal. And he knew it.”

I go quiet. She keeps going.

“I’m not saying he’s evil. I’m saying he’s sick. And maybe this isn’t the first time he’s done this. Maybe you’re not the first person who thought they were saving him. Maybe that’s the cycle.”

Silence buzzes in my ears. I can barely breathe around it.

“You want to think you mattered to him,” she says. “But y/n, even if you did, especially if you did, he still made the choice to let you go. And I think you need to stop trying to turn that into something noble.”

I sit there, completely still.

Because even though I don’t want to hear it…

Part of me knows she might be right.

But God-

It hurts worse than silence ever did.

─────── ⌖ ───────

My apartment is quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels personal. Thick. Like it’s sitting in my lungs. Like it knows what I did today.

I’ve got a glass of wine in one hand, cheap, red, something I forgot I even had, and Gordon Ramsay is yelling at some poor chef on the TV screen across from me. Hell’s Kitchen. I don’t even remember turning it on. It’s background noise now. A distraction with a British accent and too many knives. The window’s cracked open. Just a little. Just enough for the night air to slip in. I can hear Hell’s Kitchen below me, the real one. Not the show. Cars. Horns. Sirens. Some guy is yelling down the block. Music from someone’s second-story apartment bleeding into the street. The usual mess of life outside these walls. It’s comforting, in a way. All that noise. All that movement. Everything else keeps going.

Even when I feel like I can’t.

I take another sip. It doesn’t taste good. Too acidic. But I don’t care.

I stare out the window, unfocused.

And I think: I got too attached.

Too fast. Too hard.

I wasn’t supposed to. I knew better. From the moment I felt that pull, I should’ve said something. Should’ve stepped away. Handed the file to someone else. Requested a reassignment. Something. Anything.

But I didn’t.

I stayed.

I leaned in.

I crossed every line I swore I wouldn’t, and now I’m here, alone, tipsy, staring at the city like it has answers.

This was a mistake.

Letting myself care about him.

Letting myself believe for even a second that there was a version of this where it could work.

That we could work.

God, how stupid could I be?

There was never a future here.

He’s a patient.

A high-risk one. A murderer. A convicted assassin with a documented kill count and a track record that reads more like a horror film than a resume. People fear him. They build walls and systems and entire facilities to contain him.

And me?

I thought I could… what? Reach him? Fix him?

Love him?

He kills people. Innocent people. People like me. And yet I sat there, on that couch, in his room, and let him touch me like I was something he wanted to keep.

I close my eyes.

My head tips back against the couch cushion, and I exhale hard.

Why would he care about me?

I’m just a name on a badge. A signature on a file. A face he’s seen every few days for a few months.

He probably saw an opportunity.

And he took it.

Started cooperating. Started talking. Made me think he was progressing. Made me feel like I was helping, like I was special. Like I was getting through to him in a way no one else had.

And then he kissed me.

God, I let him kiss me.

More than once.

I let myself believe it.

And now?

Now I’m sitting here, drinking half-warm wine and wondering if this entire thing, every session, every look, every pause between breaths, was just part of some bigger play. A manipulation.

Maybe this is what he wanted all along.

Get me close. Make me care. Get me on his side.

So when the time came, I’d make it easier for him to walk free.

So I’d be the one to convince the board he was stable. Safe.

And when I wasn’t useful anymore-

He’d drop me.

Like he did today.

Like I never mattered in the first place.

My throat tightens, and I press the heel of my hand to my eye.

I feel so stupid.

I should’ve never let this happen.

I’m a professional. A doctor. I’ve worked too damn hard to get here. My license. My career. My entire future- I risked all of it for a man who has nothing left to lose. A man who could’ve easily made me the next name on his list.

And I miss him.

That’s the part that breaks me.

That’s the part I can’t say out loud.

Because after everything, after today, after that look on his face when I walked into his room, I still miss him.

I still want to be close to him.

I still want to know why.

I wrap the blanket tighter around myself and stare at the flickering lights on the TV. My wineglass rests on my knee, hand loose around the stem.

I’m an idiot.

I got fooled.

I fell for it.

And now I’m trying to explain it away. Trying to rewrite the narrative in my head, like maybe there’s a version where it wasn’t cruel. Where it wasn’t calculated.

What if I’m overanalyzing this?

What if Gigi’s wrong?

What if he didn’t mean it like that?

What if he’s hurting too?

What if this is how he protects people? What if he thought it was safer to push me away than to keep me close? What if he’s sitting in his room right now, just as wrecked as I am?

What if he cares?

What if he really, truly-

I clench my jaw.

My wineglass trembles slightly in my grip.

No.

Who am I kidding?

He asked for the reassignment. He didn’t even look at me when I confronted him. Barely spoke. Barely moved. All that connection, all those things we weren’t saying aloud? He walked away from them. He let them die.

Because it was easier.

Because I didn’t matter enough.

I’m not the exception.

I’m not the one who changed anything.

I was just next.

I sip the wine again. It tastes worse now.

I need to get over this.

Get over him.

He’s not mine to care about anymore. He’s not mine at all. He never was. He’s out of my hands. Out of my case file. Out of my future. And I need to remember who I am. I need to remember what I worked for. I need to find someone normal, someone stable, someone safe. Someone who doesn’t live behind bulletproof glass and prison bars. Someone who doesn’t look at me like they’re starving and kiss me like it’s the end of the world.

I deserve that.

I know I do.

But the ache in my chest says otherwise.

Because all I want is to go back.

To that moment.

That second before everything fell apart.

And it hurts.

It hurts more than I thought it would.

More than I want to admit.

Because even now, after everything, I still don’t know if he ever really felt it.

And worse?

I still do.

─────── ⌖ ───────

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. ♡

I know the last few chapters have been a bit heavy (okay… very heavy), and I’m so sorry for putting you all through the emotional blender, but trust me. I’m cooking. The good stuff? The everything-you’ve-been-waiting-for stuff?

It’s coming.

Veryyy, very soon.

I’m already writing the next chapters, and I can’t wait for you to see what’s ahead.

Thank you, truly, for reading.

Enjoyyyyyyyyyyyy.

Yours truly, Raey ♡

─────── ⌖ ───────

[ next chapter ]

#benjamin poindexter #daredevil #daredevil born again #fanfic #matt murdock #marvel #foggy nelson #mcu #wilson fisk

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vivalas-vega · 10 days ago

Text

fine line / part seven

a moment we've been waiting for!! chapter eight is still in the works, hopefully I'll have that out in the next few days. please let me know what you think! comments & reblogs make my day, and I read every one (multiple times) giggling and kicking my feet.

fine line / mcu x reader / part six

part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six

summary: Three kids from Brooklyn. A war that asks too much. And a woman with secrets stitched into every seam.

to be tagged in future works, please turn on post notifications for @vegaslibrary

word count: 2.6k

warnings: (not specific to this part, but for the series as a whole. this fic is 18+, you are responsible for your own media consumption). language, angst, drinking, smut, violence, references (and descriptions) of bucky's abuse within hydra, canon-typical situations - this is the mcu y'all, shit will get a little crazy, and a little devastating

part seven: 2012

The Quinjet’s hum faded into nothing as black boots sank into fresh white snow. The mountain didn’t make a sound. The sun hung overhead like a watchful eye, but its light was diffused through pale fog, casting everything in a silver hush. Natasha stepped lightly, her breath curling like smoke as she moved through the trees toward the bunker embedded in the rockface ahead.

She scanned the slope as she descended. No fresh tracks. No guards. No chatter on the comms to intercept. Just an eerie silence that felt too loud.

“Romanoff, you getting anything?” Tony’s voice crackled in her ear.

“Not yet,” she murmured. “Either this place is empty or someone cleaned up real well.”

“Or you’re about to take a lovely hike through a glacier full of human rights violations.”

She didn’t respond, she didn’t need to. The door to the outpost was already visible, hanging slightly ajar, like someone had walked out and never come back.

Inside, the air was colder. Still. No machines humming. No overhead lights. Just the cold and the quiet. She moved slowly, methodically, her steps nearly soundless against concrete slick with meltwater.

She passed empty rooms, remnants of file cabinets pried open, computers smashed, terminals charred black. Something had gone wrong—badly—but there were no scorch marks, no bullet holes. No sign of resistance. Nothing she could really pick up on at all… until the scent hit her. Blood. Not fresh, but not old either, metallic and sharp. She followed it to Sublevel 3, where the walls opened into what had once been a control room.

You were kneeling like a statue, motionless but not unconscious. There was a ribbon wrapped around your ponytail, tied into a neat little bow… it didn’t fit, but Natasha knew better. She knew what it did. Blood soaked through your uniform and your hair. It slicked the floor beneath your knees, but you didn’t even seem to notice. Your hands were folded behind your back and your eyes were open.

Watching.

Waiting.... but for what, Natasha couldn't see.

Natasha raised her weapon on instinct. “Marionette.”

You blinked.

“Do you know that name?”

A pause. You tilted your head slightly, as if trying to recall something you hadn’t used in years. “I… think so,” you said softly. “It was used. Once. Often.” Your voice was unsteady. Not shaken–simply unused.

Natasha stepped closer. Not enough to close the distance, but enough to read the vacancy behind your eyes. It wasn’t apathy, it wasn’t fear. It was a void.

“Who gave you your last order?”

Another pause. Longer. You were still processing.

“There has been… no instruction in an unknown number of days.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Waiting.” You glanced to the floor, to the wall, like answers might be hidden in the cracks. “Protocol requires standby until further directive.”

Nataha’s grip tightened around her gun. You weren’t lying, you weren’t even trying to sound human. It was mechanical, like no one had taught you how to improvise.

“You were Hydra.”

A slow blink. “Yes.”

“You did this?” she asked, motioning around you.

“They attempted shut down.” You didn’t look at the bodies, you didn’t seem to register them at all. “Their command phrases were incorrect. Protocol stated any hostile interference be terminated.”

There was a beat. Natasha said nothing, just studied you.

You didn’t seem to understand the silence.

“Handler designation?” you asked. “Do you require identification?”

Her chest ached. “No,” she said. “I’m not here for that.”

You tilted your head again, eyes catching hers like a mirror held at a strange angle. She saw something familiar in you, something that reminded her of her. The quiet between your sentences, the way you braced every time she moved… like you expected pain, and were ready for it.

“What do you want?” she asked.

You blinked slowly again, like each word she spoke was difficult for you to understand when not accompanied by force. “I… don’t know.”

It wasn’t a deflection. It was honesty.

She lowered her gun. Not all the way, but enough. “There’s no more orders coming,” she said. “You’re done.”

You repeated the word. It sounded foreign in your mouth. Not wrong—just oddly distant. Like trying to speak in a language you used to know.

Natasha watched you carefully. You didn’t move, didn’t argue, but the tension in your shoulders said something was shifting, something small and uncertain, like ice cracking beneath weight.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said. “I’m taking you with me.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere safe.”

You stared.

Not at her eyes, not her face, but at her hand. It was outstretched now, open and steady, like a peace offering. Like trust.

You didn’t take it right away.

You stared at her hand like it might vanish. Like this was a trick. Minutes passed before your fingers moved, hesitant, joints stiff from disuse. Her warmth startled you, but you didn’t pull away.

She helped you to your feet and you followed without resistance.

She led you onto the Quinjet where you boarded like someone reporting for duty. The door sealed shut behind you, and Natasha strapped in across from you, watching the way you sat–back ramrod straight, hands clasped loosely in your lap, eyes vacant and unfocused.

“Romanoff,” Tony’s voice came through again. “Target neutralized?”

She looked at you. You hadn’t moved.

“Not exactly,” she said. “She’s coming with me.”

“She’s Hydra. She’s dangerous, a loaded gun with a heartbeat.”

“She doesn’t know who she is,” Natasha replied. “Not yet.”

Tony took a beat before replying, considering all the implications of what Natasha was doing. “You think this is smart?”

“No,” she sighed. “But it’s right.”

The hangar was still as the Quinjet settled, the hydraulic hiss of landing gear muffled by the vast emptiness of concrete and shadow. Steve was already waiting, arms folded tight against his chest like he was bracing for impact. Tony hadn’t told him anything. Just said: ask Nat. That was enough to plant him right at the edge of the ramp, pulse heavy in his throat.

The first one off the jet was Natasha–her gait sharp and purposeful as always–but something about the way she turned back stopped Steve cold. She extended a hand. Waited.

Then you stepped into view.

Steve’s breath caught in his throat. The face that haunted his dreams stepped out of the dark—and it was almost right. Almost. The mouth, the shape of your eyes. But the soul was missing. Hollowed out. He took a step back, instinctively, the air suddenly too thin around him.

You were wearing a hoodie far too big for you–Tony’s, he realized—and pants that must have belonged to Natasha. They hung off you like someone had tried to dress up a battered blade. Wrong. All wrong. But that wasn’t what mattered.

What mattered was you were alive.

He remembered combing through crumbling mission files when he came out of the ice, digging through redacted reports and dead ends. One flimsy folder. One name. Missing in action. Presumed dead. Some part of him hoped you'd moved on after the war. Moved on from him and Bucky. He hoped to find a marriage certificate, maybe even birth certificates of your children. He wanted to track you down, old and gray, sit with you and hear all about the life you'd led.

He carried the weight of knowing that wasn't the ending you got everyday, of knowing he lost you just like he had lost Bucky.

But now you were here.

Natasha approached, slow but certain, and Steve moved to meet her. “Mission didn’t go to plan,” Natasha said, voice even, measured. “Facility was mostly empty. I found her in a control room on Sublevel Three.”

Steve’s eyes didn’t leave her face, but something about her tone made his stomach tighten.

“I couldn’t do it,” she added.

He blinked. “Do what?”

“Neutralize her,” she said simply, as if she were reporting on the weather.

The world lurched sideways, words landing like a gut punch, and Steve took another step back without realizing it. His breath stalled.

He looked past Natasha, to the figure standing just behind her. To you.

You, who’d once made him a suit from scratch when he couldn’t find any that fit with steady fingers and a tired smile. You, who vanished into the war like smoke through cracks. Who lingered in footnotes, a ghost sealed into forgotten files. One of the faces that haunted him every night when he tried to find rest.

His jaw clenched. “You were going to…” His voice trailed off, thin and strained. He couldn’t stomach it, the idea that you’d been right there, so close to coming back to him… only to be eliminated by Natasha.

Natasha turned toward him slightly, eyebrows drawing together at the look on his face. “SHIELD classified her as an unresponsive Hydra asset. She was kneeling in a puddle of blood, waiting for someone to give her orders.”

Steve’s heart twisted. “And you were going to put her down.”

“I had no reason not to,” she replied calmly. “Until I looked at her.”

He swallowed hard, throat dry. “And?”

“She flinched when I moved, but she didn’t raise a hand to defend herself. She looked at me like I might hurt her.”

Steve’s voice was barely a whisper, “she’s not just anyone.”

Natasha watched him, brow furrowing slightly. “Clearly.”

He nodded once, a shaky breath escaping, and with it your name. “We grew up together. She was–” he stopped himself. “She mattered.”

Something in Natasha’s posture softened, just a fraction. But her voice stayed level. “I didn’t know. You never mentioned her.”

“I couldn’t,” Steve said quietly. “If I said her name, it made it real. That she was gone.”

He didn’t realize he’d moved until he was already walking past her. He stepped forward like a man approaching a grave, not because he feared what he might find—but because some part of him already knew what had been buried even if he wasn’t ready to admit it.

“Are you my new handler?” you asked, the words so hollow they hit him like a blade between ribs.

Natasha hesitated. “This is Steve,” she said carefully. “He’s… a friend.”

“Friend.” You echoed the word like it didn’t belong to you. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Steve stepped closer, slowly, as though approaching a wounded animal. “Button,” he tried, soft and steady.

You flinched, subtly, and something behind your eyes shifted.

“That name… do you remember it?”

You closed your eyes like you were rifling through a drawer in your mind that had already been emptied. “No,” you said, tone clipped. “Should I?”

Natasha gave him a look, a warning not to push, but he wasn’t sure he could help himself.

“You used to sew,” he said softly. “Fixed a button on Bucky’s coat once, while we listened to a game on the radio. He started calling you that. You hated it, said it made you sound small, but… we never meant it that way. You were the biggest part of both our lives.”

You were so still it was like the air had stopped moving around you.

“Button,” you repeated. “It feels… familiar.”

Steve swallowed hard. “You were a seamstress. A resistance courier. Smuggling intelligence through Europe when you were barely more than a kid, before you moved onto bigger fish...” His voice cracked. “You were brave, and reckless, and always five steps ahead of everyone else. And now…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

You watched him closely, something flickering behind your eyes—but it wouldn’t catch. “Is this where I receive my next orders?” you asked.

It shattered him.

Natasha laid a gentle hand on his shoulder as his face crumpled, just slightly. “They broke her,” she murmured.

Steve shook his head slowly. He saw something, even if it was barely there. “No,” he said. “They bent her until she forgot who she was. But she’s still in there. Somewhere.”

You were where Natasha had left you��in a quiet conference room, tucked away in the tower–and Steve stood just outside the glass. Watching. Hoping. Dreading.

“I can’t order her around,” he said. “Not after everything.”

“I know,” Natasha said quietly. “But right now, structure is the only thing she understands. If it helps her feel safe, maybe it’s worth it.”

He nodded, but the grief was still there, raw and blooming beneath his skin. “She looked at me like I was no one.”

“She looked at you like you were someone she wanted to remember,” Natasha corrected. “That’s something.”

Steve turned back toward you. You sat rigid in the chair, hands folded in your lap, eyes fixed on the floor like you were waiting for a cue. No emotion. No hesitation.

Just waiting.

The silence was starting to suffocate when the elevator finally dinged.

Tony strolled in like he’d just come back from a press tour, not from tracking down an ex-Hydra kill site. “So,” he said, voice light but laced with curiosity. “Did we figure out if she’s a sleeper cell or just deeply committed to the bloodstained cryptid aesthetic?”

Steve didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn.

Tony followed his line of sight through the conference room glass. “That's her?” he asked, a little quieter now. “The ghost in my hoodie?”

“She hasn’t moved,” Natasha said. “Not since I sat her down. It’s like she’s afraid to do anything without permission.”

Tony took a step closer, peering in with narrowed eyes. “You sure she’s not a mannequin? Because I’ve seen more life in my showroom armor.”

Steve bristled at that, and Tony caught it. “Kidding,” he added quickly. “Sort of.”

He went quiet for a moment, uncharacteristically so, and when he finally spoke again, it was subdued. “So what’s the game plan? We keeping her in glass like a museum piece or…?”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Natasha said firmly.

“She thought I was her handler,” Steve added, his voice thick.

“She asked if I was going to kill her, on the Quinjet,” Natasha said. “Like it would have made sense. Like it would’ve been routine.”

Tony ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus.” He glanced back toward the room. “And we’re sure she’s not gonna snap in the middle of the night and redecorate the walls with our internal organs?”

“She won’t,” Steve said quietly, and Natasha nodded in agreement.

“She’s disoriented, not dangerous. She’s not a threat right now–she’s a survivor who doesn’t know what surviving looks like anymore.”

“She’s one of ours,” Steve breathed out like the words were barbed wire. “Always was... long before the war ever took her.”

Tony let out a long breath. “Alright, so… we take her in. We don’t rush, we give her structure until she learns choice. Orders until she learns freedom. We teach her how to be a person again.”

There was a pause. Then Steve said it aloud, for all of them.

“We help her find her way back.” The words weren’t just hope. They were the promise he’d been waiting almost seventy years to make.

Tony tapped a finger against the glass. You heard the noise but you didn’t react. “Hope you’re ready for the long haul, Rogers. That’s a lot of ice to melt.” And still, Steve watched the glass like it might crack first. Like something might reach back.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Steve said. “And neither is she.”

Natasha looked at you again–still seated, still silent, eyes unfocused and distant… but there was something there now, just beneath the surface. A flicker. A thread.

They just had to pull gently enough not to snap it.

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#james bucky barnes #james bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes x you #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky #bucky x reader #bucky x you #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #mcu fanfiction #mcu x reader #mcu x you

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saccharinosis · 11 months ago

Text

IN OUR AMBER HOUSE (M!Yandere OC x GN!reader) - 1.9k words

(Warnings: manipulation?? General yandere things yeah under cut)

WHERE WAS HE? Anxious eyes peeked through the veil of blinders, panning across sun-soaked suburbia. Previously grey skies diffused with splashes of tangerine and rosy inks glowed above asphalt roads, hugged by pavement and dirty gold lawns which preceded duplicate houses—houses that harboured spouses who just arrived home to their loved ones. Yours was not one of them.

You glanced back at the clock; ‘5:32pm’, it read. It only takes him twenty minutes to get home—what's taking him so long? He was always the punctual type.

Anxiety twisted your thoughts into a web of indecipherable ramblings: what if he got into an accident at work? Or a car crash coming home? What if he decided to abandon you just like everyone else? What were you to do then? You couldn’t survive on your own. The train ticket hidden beneath the laundry machine weighed heavy on your conscience. Guilt seeped into the open wound of worries, for ever thinking anything sinful of his character. He was your lifeline.

Or maybe…

Maybe you should step outside—

Tires crackled. False storm clouds climbed out an exhaust pipe’s silver chimney, revving thunder. Your wide eyes glued themselves to the window. The aegean blue vintage Camaro rolled into view. He’s home.

You sprinted from the window to the entrance. Through the door you could hear the thumping of his powderhorn boots, soon coming to a halt. The jingling of metal alerted you to back away from the entrance. When the door creaked open, you jumped, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in the faux fur of his hood. A deep inhale; the faint scent of ashwood, pumpkin spice and vanilla was familiar to you. You felt the vibrations of chuckles from within his chest, arms slithering around your waist.

“Sorry I’m late, honey. I forgot something at work,” he said softly.

His words carried a certain lilt, weightless and airy, leaving you full of sweet nothings and starved of candour. Did he really? You decided not to reply, tightening your grip as if he’d vanish into thin air.

“Aw,” he removed one of his arms, tilting your chin up with a finger, “were you worried about me?” Gold were his eyes, flecked with scarlet. Amber.

“... yeah,”

He brushed aside your hair, planting a kiss on your forehead. He moved to your cheek, the bridge of your nose, the side of your jaw—you attempted to pull away from the onslaught of kisses, but his grip tightened, keeping you in place.

“Lovel—”

Your protests were subdued when his lip met yours. The hand on your waist pulled your bodies flush against each other, while the other cradled the back of your head, fingers entangled in locks of hair. A tantalising heat roiled in your chest as you reciprocated with overwhelming fervour. When you were just about running out of air, he let you pull back, winded.

“You were saying earlier?” Lovel asked, his own breathing slightly heavier.

“Uh—I should go finish cooking,” you pressed your hands against his chest.

“Let me help you then.”

As you looked into his eyes, you couldn’t find the words to refuse. Your hands ghosted over the base of his neck, feeling sheepish as he stared, before helping him unzip his olive green coat. It slid off with the ease of a snake shedding its skin, and you hung it upon the coat rack while he kicked off his boots. In just a moment his hand intertwined in yours, leading you to the kitchen which held your work-in-progress.

Muted sunlight drifted through the windows, leaving the corners and crevices of the room vignetted. Upon the porcelain enamel countertops rested a cutting board alongside a myriad of vegetables. Nearby, a stream of steam billowed from the vents of the rice cooker whose red light flickered, already prepared. Thawed meat sat in a large pan on the burner.

“I’ll handle the meat. Would you cut the rest of the vegetables for me?”

You nodded. He patted your head, moving to the stove. As you returned to work, you couldn’t help but take glances at your fiance from the corner of your eye. He looked to be in his element, the sleeves of his black turtleneck pulled to his elbows as he shifted the pan around. A mellow tune, so relaxed yet precise, rose and fell from his throat like a threaded needle weaving through silk. You turned back to the cutting board, knife hovering above a stalk of scallions.

You were grateful, truly grateful, that in spite of all your other friends, he was the only one who stayed by your side. That when university and life’s unfortunate happenings reared their ugly heads, he was always there to listen and lend you a shoulder. He was the only one who cared about you. He was the only one who loved you.

And it was suffocating.

The same day reiterated itself. You wake up. You get dressed. You wish Lovel a good day at work. You do insignificant tasks. You wait for him. You greet him when he gets home—actually, that’s the only time when you felt like life had any meaning. Although there’s twenty-four hours in a day, your life was sequestered to the golden hour when he was home, when the etiolated sun rolled gold fog over the neighbourhood (and sometimes, what felt like in your head). You loved him. Yet something about the way he loved you left you feeling hazy; the perpetual golden hour, the stagnant sunlight like a flickering bulb in a dusty attic, it was all-consuming.

“What’re you thinking about?” he whispered, his breath fanning your ear.

A chill rushed through you. His hands rested on the counter on either side of you, your back pressed against his chest.

“It’s nothing.”

You felt the weight of his gaze sear into your skin. Your eyes fixated on the cutting board in front of you; the knife slipping from your trembling grasp. Huh. You didn't realise you were shaking. He hummed, fingers thrumming over the countertop.

“You wouldn’t hide anything from me, right?”

You shook your head.

“Use your words.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Good.”

He pressed his lips against your temple. Yet the air remained thick with tension, cloying your visage.

“I’m feeling a bit nauseous actually,” you said, removing one of his arms around you. “I’m going to the washroom.”

You left without another word, his stare glued to your back until the hallway turned around the corner. Almost instantly, the heavy atmosphere receded. You shook off the rest of the nerves as you walked. The hall itself stretched on, lined doorway after doorway which glowed dimly under marigold lights. One of such arcs emitted a light brighter than the rest.

You paused. To the right, the sun chiselled a passage between flowing curtains, its lustrous path resting at your feet. Its glimmer enveloped you in a trance, and thus you followed it: a moth to a flame, step by step. With a slight tug at the fabric, you unveiled a sky rippling of tuscan and silver, goldleaf clouds dappled across its expanse—your backyard, still like a painting. The only thing that stood between you and the outside was a glass door. You twisted your head back to the hallway. No one was there. It’ll be okay, you thought. You’ll just take a quick look.

Your hands gripped the edge of the panel, pulling it open merely a smidge. Crisp autumn wind caressed your face, and compared to the stale air inside, you’ve begun to realise liberty’s absence. You dragged the door the rest of the way, invigorated with newfound confidence. Tucked by the entrance was a pair of grey slippers a few sizes bigger than yours, beckoning you to wear them. Your heart pounded. It took but a second to slip them on. It took a few more for you to leap over the border and meet dirt. The grass reached its bowed arms over the exposed skin of your feet, swaying alongside your movements. You couldn't hold back the laugh bubbling up your throat as you hopped further down the yard.

Something twinkled in the sandy sky. You looked up. The sky’s gift landed atop your nose—a snowflake. For a moment you could examine its byzantine structure: geometric symmetry, hexagonal lattices forming crystalline branches. Mother nature’s perfect selenite flora, and just as fragile. Opaque white thawed into a glassy dome, almost like a snowglobe.

“What are you doing out there?”

Lovel’s voice piqued your ears. You tensed. Twisting around, his golden gaze flared in the sunset. He was omnipresent.

He murmured softly, similar to coaxing a hare, “Come back in, you’ll get cold.”

You hesitated.

“(Y/N). Come back.” Now.

That tender smile returned to his face as you ambled up the porch. An arm reached around your shoulder, as if he thought you might get lost. Together, you walked back inside. Back home. Another iteration.

When you turned, attempting to get one last glance at the backyard, he had already pulled the curtains close. Gold. Yet sunrays seeped through the sheer polyester, giving it a luminous, almost gelatinous quality. Like resin beginning to set. He turned to face you.

“If you wanted to go outside, you could’ve asked me.”

‘What does it matter if the answer is no?’ you thought, the sour words held back by the cage of your lips, but not through your eyes. He read your expression.

“Winter’s soon. We both know you’re more susceptible to cold. Do you remember last year?”

“... Yeah.”

“And what kind of future husband would I be to let my love get sick like that again?”

Whatever irritation you harboured melted off from the heat creeping up your face; you looked away. It seemed he always knew what to say.

“We can continue this later. I finished dinner.”

The guilt-ridden wound throbbed dully. You really couldn’t do anything without him. From frustration, to endearment, to shame he orchestrated your emotions in a contorted cacophony until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other started. The world around you blurred as your mind focused on the saline aftertaste of discomfort on your tongue. It is in your best interest to stay. Even so, you think that maybe there’s a world waiting for you outside this house. You want to bask in the extraordinary life of an average person: getting a job, buying a car, being independent.

Your eyes drift down to your feet. Gold wraps around the edge of your toes, ever so languidly creeping up the rest of your figure. Maybe it's too late. Maybe the amber had already crystallised, encasing your body to the confines of your own home.

But when you thought back to that snowflake, so bright and delicate, you couldn’t help but hope. That with the winter and the death of all things so would this old life find its conclusion; and in the dawn of liquescence you’d break through the icy surface, riding the springtide.

“.../N)?”

Twin suns melted the mirage of your mind. Lovel smiled at his seizure of your attention. He threaded his fingers through the contours of your hands, the sensation of skin-against-skin leaving fervid solar flares in its trail. Every inch of you drowned and burned in sunlight.

Yes, you thought. You couldn’t wait for an eclipse.

#farewell express #your lovel #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #IM SORRY IF THE FORMAT IS HIDEOUS IDFK WHAT IM DOING #FE PREQUEL??? CANON IG??#can you tell this is my first time writing a kiss 🚶#hey that one irl!! I hope you don't think of me any differently if you read this 😁😭#god I hope I don't se a mistake the second I post this

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