#spanning two miles is impossible

[icryyoumercy]

does anyone have a written copy of the goblin emperor and might check something for me?

i have vague recollections of someone saying the bridge over the istandaärtha would need to span two miles, but checking with the audiobook is not working too well

[sweettu1ips]

PAIGE BUECKERS x FEM!READER

SYNOPSIS: Two souls, separated by time, find their way back in a quiet moment, where unspoken words flicker like stars between them, a promise that they were never truly apart.

WARNING(S): fluffy ⋮ reunion ⋮ reader is brunette ⋮ not seeing/ speaking to Paige for three years ⋮ tension ⋮ slow-burn ⋮ childhood friends-to-lover ⋮ readers last name is LEXINGTON ⋮ changed Paige's siblings names for a good reason but her parent's names remain the same ⋮ FYI, I'VE NEVER BEEN TO MARTHA'S VINEYARD. THEREFORE, I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S THERE. ALSO, MOST PLACES ARE MADE UP HERE :)

WORD COUNT: 16.7K ( another long one :p )

| P. TWO ⋮ WOTVB SERIES ⋮ MAIN MASTER LIST |

MARTHA'S VINEYARD—an island suspended in time, steeped in golden summers and salt-laced laughter, a sacred place woven into the fabric of the Bueckers and Lexingtons.

 It was never just a destination; it was a ritual, a tether, a second home built not of walls and roofs but of traditions and tangled histories. Every year, without fail, we returned—drawn back by something deeper than obligation, something stitched into our very marrow. 

A legacy carved from decades of sun-drenched Julys and twilight bonfires, from fathers who once met as high school boys and forged a brotherhood strong enough to span generations.

Except, I hadn’t set foot on its familiar shores in nearly three years. Three summers lost to the unrelenting tide of distance, of duty, of a life that had gradually reshaped itself into something unrecognizable. Washington—the state of endless pines, of mist and mountains, of cold rain drumming against my dorm window—had claimed me.

 College had swallowed me whole, my days consumed by the relentless pursuit of knowledge, my nights tangled in the exhaustion of work and deadlines. The thought of leaving, of carving out time for something as indulgent as nostalgia, had always felt impossible.

Until now.

Because Wren would not have it.

"If you don’t show up to my wedding, I’ll come to Seattle myself and drag you down here."

The words, scrawled in bold, unwavering black ink, were etched at the bottom of the invitation box—the one that held the ultimate question, poised to demand my presence: Will you be my Maid of Honor?

Three years. Three years since I had last seen the Bueckers, the people who had once been as constant in my life as breath itself. But most of all—three years since I had seen her. Paige.

The others, I had managed to hold on to in some way or another—occasional messages, late-night check-ins, moments stitched together with just enough care to keep the thread from snapping completely. But Paige and I? We had unraveled. And it was my fault.

Once, she had been my shadow, or maybe I had been hers. Two girls moving in synchronized rhythm, seamlessly intertwined, never questioning the certainty of each other’s presence. But distance is a cruel, insidious thing. It starts slow—missed calls, unanswered texts—until one day, you wake up and realize the silence has settled in like an old tenant, comfortable and unchallenged.

I had gotten too busy with life. Too caught up in the deadlines, the obligations, the relentless forward motion of everything. Until, before I even knew it, the space between us had stretched too far to reach across.

We had gone from next-door neighbors in Minnesota, where our lives bled together in a seamless blur of backyard games and whispered secrets, to existing in entirely different worlds. 

She was in Connecticut, chasing the dream she had been born for, carving her name into UConn’s legacy one game at a time. 

And I—thousands of miles away in Washington, buried beneath textbooks and the intricate calculations of an engineering degree—had let the days slip through my fingers like sand, until Paige was nothing more than a memory softened at the edges.

And now, I was going back.

Back to the island where our laughter still echoed in the dunes, where our past selves still lived, preserved in the salt-stung air. Back to the place where it had all started.

But the question lingered, heavy and unspoken:

Would we still know each other?

The summer sun dripped gold through the open sunroof, sinking its warmth deep into my skin, coaxing a slow, lazy heat that stretched through my limbs. 

The salty breeze curled through the car like an old friend, thick and briny, laced with something sweet—maybe the distant scent of waffle cones from the ice cream shop or the faint perfume of beach roses growing wild along the shore. 

The road hummed beneath the tires, the distant cry of seagulls weaving through the melody of Surf Curse thrumming from the speakers.

Martha’s Vineyard.

A place stitched into my bones, etched into the softest parts of my childhood, my adolescence, my becoming. 

A place where salt clung to bare skin, where the air was always rich with the scent of melting sunscreen and freshly brewed coffee, where the rhythm of the waves was a constant lullaby, steady and unchanging. 

It had been three years, yet as I drove these familiar streets, it felt like no time had passed at all. And still, everything had changed.

Everyone had arrived yesterday—well, not quite everyone. Wren had insisted on a week of just us, just like old times, carving out a pocket of quiet before the storm of the wedding swept through.

 No chaos, no rehearsals, no distant relatives lingering like ghosts at the edges of the house. Just us. The way it had always been.

Except this time, Carson—the man who would soon be my brother-in-law—was folded into that sacred space, a new presence settling into the history we’d built here.

And me? I was late. A day behind.

A crumpled UW sweatshirt lay forgotten in the back of the rented Bronco, abandoned in favor of the striped blue tube top clinging to my sun-warmed skin. 

My hair, heavy with the day’s heat, was twisted into a claw clip, though a few stubborn strands had slipped free, framing my face in loose waves. 

The weight of exhaustion pressed into me—seven hours of travel, a ferry ride that rocked me into something close to sleep, the ache of a body that had spent too much time folded into cramped seats and airport terminals. But it didn’t matter now.

I was here.

I slowed as I passed the places that had once been second nature, my gaze tracing their outlines like reading the pages of an old, beloved book. 

The little bookstore, its sun-faded awning drooping slightly at the edges, its wooden sign still creaking softly in the breeze. The café with its sprawling deck, where people sipped iced coffee and watched the world pass by, their faces kissed by the golden light of late afternoon. 

The weathered ice cream shop, where Wren and I had once pressed sticky fingers to the glass, deliberating between flavors as if it were the most important decision of our lives.

And then—there it was.

The Honeycomb Garden.

It stood just as I remembered, its cream-colored façade softened by years of salt air, its windows spilling over with cascading blooms in every shade imaginable. A riot of color, a symphony of scent.

 Every summer, without fail, my mother, Wren, and I had made this stop—a quiet ritual, an unspoken promise. We would step inside, breathing in the floral air, fingers trailing over delicate petals as we searched for the perfect bouquet to bring home. 

The scent of it would fill the beach house, settling into its walls, marking the official start of summer.

I pulled onto the curb, the tires crunching softly against the pavement, and turned off the engine. The absence of music made the world feel suddenly still, the only sounds the distant cry of gulls and the faint hum of life moving around me.

With a sigh, I stepped out, stretching my arms overhead, letting the tension slip from my body as the sun pressed hot and unyielding against my skin. 

The breeze carried the scent of flowers and saltwater, a combination so achingly familiar that it made something in my chest tighten.

The little brass bell above the door chimed as I stepped inside, a sound so deeply ingrained in my memory that it sent a shiver down my spine.

And then—

“Well, if it isn’t little Y/N!”

Kristy’s voice rang across the shop, warm and rich with familiarity, as if no time had passed at all.

She stood behind the sage-green counter, her green eyes crinkling at the edges as she set down a bundle of pale pink peonies. The scent of them curled through the air—delicate, sweet, tinged with something almost honey-like.

“Miss Kristy.” I grinned, stepping forward just as she rounded the counter, her sunflower-printed sundress swaying gently with each step. White sandals. A brown apron dusted with tiny petals. The same, yet different.

“Oh, my dear,” she sighed, her arms opening before I could say another word.

The hug was tight, the kind that settled deep into the bones, the kind that felt like home. She smelled of lavender and sun-warmed earth, of afternoons spent here, hands buried in stems and petals. I held onto her just as tightly, letting the moment stretch.

Her hair, once long and cascading over her shoulders, had been cut into a neat bob, silver strands glinting in the light. She pulled back slightly, her hands resting on my arms as she studied me with an almost motherly softness.

“How have you been?” she asked, eyes searching mine. “It’s been, what? Three years?”

I nodded, exhaling a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah… a long time, huh?”

My gaze flickered around the shop, tracing every familiar corner, every vase overflowing with fresh blooms.

As if anything had changed.

As if everything had.

Her smile unfurled like the petals of a morning bloom, soft and familiar, her laughter laced with warmth as her fingers lingered in a gentle squeeze against my elbows. 

Fine creases gathered at the edges of her eyes, a quiet testament to years of sun and salt and soft, knowing glances. She studied me once more, head tilting slightly, the corners of her mouth tugging upward in that effortless way only she could manage.

“A little too long,” she murmured, a teasing lilt threading through her words, though there was something wistful beneath it. “Look at you! I think that Washington rain has washed away your sun-kissed glow.”

I huffed a small laugh, rolling my eyes even as I reached up instinctively to push back a loose strand of hair. “Unfortunately,” I admitted, a breath of a chuckle escaping me.

And then—something shifted. A flicker of recollection sparked in her gaze, her brows arching in sudden remembrance as her ears seemed to perk up.

“Oh! I just remembered—”

She released me, already turning on her heel, her sundress swaying with the movement. The scent of her floral perfume—jasmine and something faintly citrus—whispered through the air, lingering even as she disappeared behind the counter.

Her voice, ever honeyed and rich with familiarity, carried through the small shop, weaving through the blooms and filling the space with its warmth.

“Your mom placed an order yesterday—well, last night, actually,” she called out, her tone softening as she rummaged for something unseen. “Your dear brother was supposed to pick ‘em up.”

A knowing pause.

I could almost see the amused tilt of her head before she even emerged.

“But, I’m sure he’s still asleep.” A quiet laugh followed, a sound like wind chimes caught in a summer breeze.

My gaze flicked to the old clock mounted on the wall, its delicate hands frozen at 12:14 PM. My lips pressed into a thin, bemused line.

“Yep. Definitely still asleep.” I exhaled, shaking my head with a small smirk.

Miss Kristy reappeared, carefully cradling a bouquet wrapped in brown kraft paper, her fingertips gently smoothing over the edge as if the flowers themselves deserved the kind of tenderness only she could give.

It was so my mother.

A sunlit embrace of yellow dahlias and crisp white begonias, the colors as familiar as home itself. I reached forward, drawing the bouquet closer, my fingers brushing against the delicate petals as I traced the softness beneath my touch. The scent—fresh, bright, subtly sweet—bloomed in the air, stirring something deep in my chest.

Miss Kristy let out a knowing chuckle, shaking her head with a sigh.

I glanced up at her, hesitating for just a moment before clearing my throat.

“Uh—actually…” I started, shifting my weight slightly. “Do you maybe have any purple tulips?”

Her head tilted, her brows knitting together in quiet surprise.

“No lilies today?” she mused, her voice touched with curiosity, knowing well that lilies were my usual choice.

I smirked, shrugging. “Gotta expand my taste, right?”

A breath of laughter passed through her lips, the kind that was light and effortless, like the rustling of leaves in a soft breeze.

“Well,” she mused, tapping a finger against her chin, “I believe I have some tucked away in the back. I don’t think I’ve put them out yet.”

With that, she turned, vanishing once more into the depths of the shop.

The air seemed to hum in her absence, thick with the scent of blooms and the weight of nostalgia pressing gently against my ribs. I leaned an elbow against the counter, my fingers grazing the rim of a nearby vase as I waited, my gaze sweeping over the kaleidoscope of flowers before me.

Even after all this time, even after three years away, this place still felt like an inhale after a long-held breath.

Miss Kristy emerged from the back, her presence as effortless as a petal drifting on a summer breeze. She cradled the bouquet in her arms as if holding something sacred, her fingers gently adjusting the delicate stems before offering them to me with a warm, knowing smile.

“Ah! Here you are,” she hummed, her voice carrying that familiar lilt of affection. She tilted her head, the corners of her lips curling as she reached down, pulling a sheet of brown kraft paper from beneath the counter. “Just the tulips, sweets?”

I nodded, the scent of the shop thick around me—roses in full bloom, the crisp, green sharpness of eucalyptus, and the soft, honeyed whisper of baby’s breath. The air felt heavy with nostalgia, pressing against my ribs in a way that made my chest ache.

“Yes, please,” I murmured, slipping my hands into the deep pockets of my linen pants, fingers brushing against the leather of my wallet as I moved to fetch it.

But before I could pull it free, the warmth of Miss Kristy’s hand settled over mine—gentle, firm, a touch that spoke of quiet insistence. I stilled, glancing up to find her shaking her head, a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

“This one's on the house, dear,” she said, her voice soft but resolute, a grin tugging at her lips. “A welcome home gift.”

I blinked, caught somewhere between gratitude and protest, my brows furrowing as I opened my mouth. “What—no—Miss Kristy, I can’t—”

But she leveled me with a sharp, playful glare, the kind that had the power to silence even the most stubborn of arguments. I shut my lips so tightly they barely parted when I exhaled.

“No buts,” she said, her tone firm, her gaze unwavering. “I insist.”

“Miss Kristy—” I tried again, shaking my head, the start of another argument forming at the tip of my tongue.

And so it began—the back-and-forth, me refusing, her countering with the patience of a woman who had won this battle many times before. A well-worn dance, choreographed by years of familiarity.

But in the end, I caved.

With a sigh and a slow, yielding smile, I raised my hands in surrender, cradling the dahlias in one arm. “Fine,” I exhaled, the breath leaving my lips like a quiet breeze. “But next time, I’m paying, m’kay?” I arched a brow at her, my voice teasing but lined with sincerity.

Miss Kristy chuckled, shaking her head as she carefully handed me the tulips, their petals soft as silk beneath my fingertips. She turned to tidy the counter, momentarily distracted—and that’s when I moved.

With careful precision, I tucked a crisp $30 bill beneath the register, sliding it out of sight just as she turned back.

“Alright, off with you now,” she teased, waving a hand as if shooing me away.

I grinned, stepping backward toward the door, my hands full of blooms, my heart full of something unspoken.

“See you later, Miss Kristy.”

But just as I pushed open the glass door, her sharp intake of breath reached me, followed by a voice laced with exasperation.

“Y/N Lexington!”

I turned back just enough to catch her incredulous expression, her eyes narrowing as she spotted the money beneath the register.

But by then, I was already slipping out onto the sunlit pavement, my laughter bubbling up like champagne, light and airy, carrying on the breeze.

“Bye, Miss Kristy!” I called over my shoulder, quickening my pace as I hurried toward the waiting bronc, my feet barely touching the ground.

Through the shop’s wide windows, I caught one last glimpse of her, standing behind the counter with a mix of amusement and feigned frustration painting her face.

The moment felt so fleeting, so tender, like a whisper of summer wind through the trees. I hadn’t even realized how much time had slipped through my fingers until I glanced at my phone, its screen glowing with missed calls and unread messages—most of them from Wren and my mom, though Amy and Lilly had their fair share, too.

Lilly’s texts stood out.

“dude hurry.”

A second one, only minutes later:

“ur moms goin’ crazy ‘cause ur not answering ur phone.”

I sighed, shaking my head as I finally slid into the driver’s seat, the familiar worn leather cool against my palms. The scent of salt lingered in the air, seeping through the cracks of my rolled-down window, mingling with the distant echoes of seagulls and crashing waves. 

I turned the key in the ignition, the soft rumble of the engine grounding me as I set off toward the place that had lived in my memories for far too long—the beach house.

The drive felt surreal. Every turn, every street, every landmark was steeped in nostalgia. The docks stretched out into the water, boats rocking gently against their moorings, their white sails like ghosts against the cerulean sky. People bustled along the boardwalk, laughter spilling from sun-kissed lips, the scent of fried seafood and sunscreen thick in the air.

And yet, as much as I drank in the familiarity of it all, my mind wandered elsewhere.

To her.

The way she used to chase the waves, shrieking as the cold water lapped at her ankles. The way the freckles on her nose darkened in the summer sun, how she always smelled like coconut lotion and salt. The sound of her voice, soft but sure, teasing but kind.

God.

I swallowed hard, pushing the thought away as I rounded the final corner. The beach house stood before me, untouched by time yet somehow different. The long driveway stretched ahead, gravel crunching beneath my tires as I slowly pulled in.

And then—before I could even shift into park—chaos erupted.

The front door burst open, figures spilling out onto the porch like a tidal wave of familiarity.

First, Wren, right on my mom’s heels, her dark curls bouncing as she ran. Then my dad, his usual calm expression cracked open with relief. And behind them, the Bueckers siblings—Diego, Lilly, and Reece—all pushing past one another, racing toward me.

Except for one.

A certain Bueckers kid was missing.

A certain blonde who had been haunting my thoughts more and more with each passing day.

Before I could fully process it, the younger ones broke into a full sprint, feet pounding against the sun-warmed planks of the porch, their laughter spilling into the thick summer air like a song I hadn’t heard in too long. The sound wrapped around me, sweet and familiar, tangled with the scent of salt and sunscreen, of grass crushed beneath bare feet.

"Y/N!"

I barely had time to draw a breath before they crashed into me—a tangle of limbs and warmth, their bodies colliding with the force of a rippling wave, pulling me into the undertow of their embrace. Arms wove around my waist, my shoulders, my back, each squeeze desperate, filled with the kind of unspoken longing that only distance could create.

“Woah—Jesus,” I gasped, stumbling back a step, their collective weight nearly knocking me off balance. My laughter burst out, breathless and tangled with disbelief.

Diego—who had once been small enough to balance on my hip—was now pressing his face into my ribs, arms banded tight around my middle as if afraid I might disappear again.

 Lilly, my little shadow, was suddenly face-to-face with me, her chin digging into my shoulder, her embrace unrelenting, as if trying to pour every ounce of her missed time into this single moment.

 And Reece—once my short, scrappy sidekick—stood taller than me now, his arms hooked firmly around my back, his grip solid and steady, grounding me in the weight of their presence.

I pulled back just enough to take them in, my hands grasping their shoulders, my fingers brushing over the sun-warmed fabric of their t-shirts, the scent of ocean air and childhood summers clinging to them like something sacred. My chest ached with the sheer force of it—of them, of this moment, of home pressing itself back into my bones.

I let out a shaky laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. “What the hell have y’all been eating while I was away?” My eyes darted between them, scanning their faces, trying to reconcile the past with the present. “Seriously—growth hormones? Miracle-gro?”

Lilly giggled, her smile wide enough to crinkle her nose, swiping at her sun-drenched cheeks. “We missed you, dummy.”

Diego nodded so fast it made his dark curls bounce. “So much.”

Ryan smirked, clapping a hand against my shoulder, his grip firm, steady. “Took you long enough to get here.”

I swallowed hard, something warm and unshakable swelling in my chest, curling around my ribs, settling deep in my bones.

"Yeah," I murmured, glancing past them—past the porch, past the gently swaying wind chimes, past the years I had spent away.

"I’m home."

As soon as the words left my lips, something deep within me exhaled—like the tide finally surrendering to the shore, foam-kissed waves melting into the sand after being held away for too long. 

The weight I hadn’t even realized I was carrying settled, dispersing into the thick summer air, where the scent of salt and sun-warmed cedar clung like a second skin.

But before I could fully sink into the feeling, my mother’s voice cut through the moment, warm but edged with that familiar exasperation—the kind laced with love, the kind that had followed me through childhood like a shadow.

"Alright, alright—let her breathe, for God’s sake."

The younger ones groaned but obeyed, their arms unraveling from me with reluctant slowness, like they feared I’d disappear if they let go too soon. 

Diego lingered the longest, his small hands gripping the fabric of my shirt at my waist, fingers tightening as if committing the moment to memory before finally, with a deep breath, stepping back.

And then, there she was.

My mother stood poised on the porch, arms crossed, the setting sun catching on the fine lines near her eyes—the ones carved from years of laughter, worry, and love. Her lips were pressed together, and for a second, it looked like she was about to scold me, but then I saw it—relief, warm and brimming, pooling in the depths of her deep brown eyes like a tide held back too long.

Beside her, my father stood in his usual ease, a lopsided grin stretching across his face. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his faded cargo shorts, as if keeping them there would stop him from pulling me into a hug too soon. 

He rocked back slightly on his heels, his gaze steady, as if reassuring himself that I was really standing here.

And Wren—Wren stood slightly apart, just behind them, arms loosely folded, her expression unreadable at first. But I knew her too well. I knew that tilt of her head, the way her eyes traced me like she was searching for something beneath the surface. 

Wren never just looked at people—she saw them. And right now, she was seeing me, reading between the lines of my posture, my expression, the way my fingers twitched at my sides.

She always saw too much.

I swallowed hard, the weight of it all pressing into my ribs—the porch where barefoot summers had stretched endlessly, where late-night whispers and childhood laughter had been carried off by the wind. 

The people who had filled those summers stood before me now, their faces aged by time but still achingly familiar. 

The scent of salt and sun-warmed cedar curled through the thick, golden air, wrapping around me like an embrace from the past, like something stubborn and unyielding, something that refused to be forgotten.

My mother was the first to move, stepping forward with a slow shake of her head, her expression wavering between exasperation and something far more fragile. Like she was still convincing herself I was real, flesh and bone and not just some distant memory come home to haunt her.

"You didn’t answer your damn phone, Y/N." Her voice cracked, just barely, a thin fracture in the frustration she was trying to hold together.

Guilt crept in, pooling at the edges of my relief. "I know, I know—I got caught up, I—"

I didn’t get the chance to finish before she was pulling me in, her arms a fortress, steady and unshakable, the same way they had always been. The scent of lavender and sun-warmed cotton enveloped me, the press of her fingers threading through my hair, resting at the nape of my neck—gentle, familiar, grounding.

"Next time, answer," she murmured, her voice muffled against my hair, the edges of it frayed with worry. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

A lump formed in my throat, thick and aching, but I forced a smile, my grip tightening around her. "I promise."

She lingered, holding on like she wasn’t quite ready to let go, like she was memorizing the feeling of me in her arms. And then, with a deep breath, she stepped back, her warmth slipping away just as my father pulled me in.

"It's good to see you, kiddo," Dad murmured, pressing a kiss against my temple. His hug was quick but firm, the solid press of his hand against my back grounding me in a way words never could.

 The rough warmth of his palm ruffled my hair, the same way he had when I was twelve—like no time had passed at all, like I had never really left.

And then there was Wren.

She stood apart from the others, her arms folded loosely across her chest, her weight shifted onto one hip, exuding a quiet confidence as if she had all the time in the world. The sunlight caught the engagement ring on her finger, making it gleam like a promise forged in the warmth of the summer day.

 But her eyes—they were a different story. Deep, knowing, unblinking, they scanned me, tracing over every detail as if she were piecing together a puzzle. It was as though she was measuring the gap between the person I had been and the person I had become, silently assessing if the two still fit together, if the distance between them could ever be bridged.

The silence stretched between us, thick and humming, something unspoken pressing against the spaces where words should have been. I felt it in the way her brow pinched, just slightly. In the way she tilted her head, assessing, calculating.

I exhaled sharply, rolling my eyes. "You gonna keep staring, or are you gonna say hi?"

Her lips twitched—barely, a flicker of movement that almost didn’t happen. "Hi."

I scoffed, shaking my head. "Unbelievable."

And then, finally, finally, she moved.

The space between us closed in an instant, and when her arms wrapped around me, it wasn’t hesitant or delicate. It was solid, effortless, the kind of hug that wasn’t just a greeting, but a homecoming. Like the last few months hadn’t stretched between us at all. Like time had simply been waiting for us to meet again.

Her voice was muffled against my shoulder, dry but warm. "Welcome back, dumbass."

A breathless laugh escaped me, and I clung to her a little tighter, grounding myself in the familiarity of it all. "Missed you too, asshole."

But when I pulled back, something tugged at the edges of my focus, something missing. My gaze flickered past her, searching—the porch, the doorway, the lingering stretch of golden afternoon light spilling across the wooden steps. My chest tightened as my eyes swept over the familiar scene, looking for a silhouette that wasn’t there.

Wren exhaled before I could even ask. "Beau’s still asleep."

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. "Figures."

Even if I already knew.

Still, my search didn’t stop there. My eyes kept moving, scanning past my parents, past the younger ones still tugging at my arms, past the way the wind chimes trembled in the soft, salt-tinged breeze.

Wren saw. Of course, she did.

Her fingers curled briefly around my wrist—a quick, fleeting squeeze—before she let go. "She’s, uhm—out."

That was all she said.

And yet, it was enough to make my stomach twist, enough to make something settle, heavy and wordless, between us.

I nodded slowly, a quiet acceptance neither of us acknowledged out loud. "Right."

Wren offered a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach her chocolate brown eyes.

I returned it anyway.

There would be time for that later.

For now, I was home. And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

The heat pressed against my skin, thick and insistent, as though the sun itself were trying to melt me into the pavement. The air, heavy and sultry, wrapped around me like a thick blanket—saturated with the earthy scent of freshly cut grass and the faintest trace of sea salt, still lingering in the breeze. 

The world felt too much, too alive—too vibrant. The cicadas hummed a constant, vibrating chorus in the trees, their song loud enough to pulse beneath my ribs. The wind, playful and mischievous, fluttered through the hanging chimes, making them sing a hollow, tinny tune that scraped against the air. 

My siblings' laughter echoed in my ears, sharp and bright, filling the space, forcing itself into every corner of my consciousness.

But underneath it all, there was something quieter. Something heavier. A pull deep in my chest, like the last remnants of a storm settling inside me. 

It was a weight I couldn’t shake—one that clung to me with the same stubbornness as the heat, pressing down on my ribs, curling tight around my heart. The world swirled around me, but that feeling remained, persistent and unrelenting.

I shoved it down.

For now.

Reece and Dad were already at my car, moving with ease, pulling my luggage from the trunk. Diego, still a little small and determined, stood beside them, his tiny hands gripping the handle of my suitcase like it was the most important thing in the world. 

I watched as he tugged, his face scrunching up in concentration, muscles straining with the effort—but the bag barely shifted. He planted his feet firmly, giving it another go, a little grunt escaping his lips. Still nothing. The suitcase refused to budge, stubborn and unmoving in his grip.

I couldn’t help it—I bit back a smile.

"Hey, kid," I said, my voice soft but carrying as I stepped toward him, my uggs sinking slightly into the cool earth beneath me. "Think I’m gonna need your help with something way more important."

Diego's wide, innocent eyes flicked up to meet mine, a trace of confusion flickering across his face, like he wasn’t sure if he had heard me right. But the warmth in my tone seemed to settle his doubts, and after a beat, his gaze followed mine toward the passenger seat.

There, wrapped in brown paper, was the bundle of dahlias and begonias—their yellow faces turned toward the sky, their delicate petals whispering with the wind. It was a humble bouquet, nothing extravagant, but it had a beauty in its simplicity.

I nodded toward it. "I need someone very responsible to bring in the flowers. Think you can handle it?"

The shift in his expression was immediate. His eyes widened, and for a split second, I saw the world shift beneath him—he was no longer just the little brother trying to carry my bags. No, now he was entrusted with something precious. He stood taller, his chest puffing out like a proud little rooster, his grin spreading from ear to ear, so wide it almost swallowed his face.

"I got it!" he declared, voice rising with determination, his tiny hands reaching for the flowers with a reverence that made my heart ache a little. His fingers curled gently around the stems, lifting them as if they were made of the finest porcelain. His steps were swift, purposeful, as he marched toward the house, the bouquet cradled against his chest like a secret he was eager to protect.

I watched him go, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. It felt good—no, it felt right—seeing him so proud of something so simple. I reached out, ruffling his dark hair as he passed, the motion soft and affectionate, the way I’d always done. "Good job, kid."

He didn’t hear me, already lost in his mission, but the light in his eyes was all the thanks I needed.

Turning away, I grabbed my duffel bag, the weight of it familiar and grounding, and threw it over my shoulder. 

My fingers brushed the cool metal handle of the suitcase next, and I tugged it free from the car, dragging it along the gravel with a small grunt. As I glanced up, I saw Reece effortlessly lifting the last of my luggage, one hand gripping the handle, the other tucked casually in his pocket as if the suitcase weighed nothing at all.

I smirked, raising an eyebrow. "See you’ve been hitting the gym, huh?"

His grin grew, smug and self-assured. "Yeah, Paige’s been on my ass about going with her." His voice was easy, but I could feel the undercurrent in the words—the way he said it like it was no big deal, but I knew better.

My stomach tightened, a knot forming as her name echoed in my mind. Paige. Just the mention of her sent a ripple of something cold through me. Something I couldn’t quite place, but I could feel it clawing at the edges of my thoughts.

I tried to shake it off, forcing a chuckle as I shifted my weight. "I bet she has."

Reece didn’t seem to notice the shift, his smirk never faltering as he hoisted the luggage with ease. "It’s been good for me," he said with a casual shrug, like it was a normal part of his day.

But as the words hung between us, a sudden heaviness descended. It was in the way he didn’t break eye contact, the way he said her name—so effortlessly, so naturally, like they were in sync, like they were the same.

I swallowed, the tightness in my throat only slightly noticeable as I forced myself to look away.

Dad’s voice called out from the porch, cutting through the tension like a knife. "Is that all?"

Reece, still not picking up on my unease, shot back with a grin. "Nah—got the whole wardrobe in here."

I rolled my eyes and smacked him on the arm. "Real funny, ass hat." My voice was light, but my heart was still beating a little too fast, a little too hard.

Reece only chuckled, stepping aside as I shut the trunk with a resounding thunk. The sound echoed in my chest, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else had closed too. Something softer, quieter—something I wasn’t ready to face.

Even as I turned toward the house, my mind was still spinning, and one name refused to let go.

It gnawed at me, even though I didn’t want it to.

I swallowed again, trying to push it down, trying to move forward. There was no point in asking Wren now. Not yet. I had just gotten back. I didn’t need to unravel everything all at once.

But something in me ached to know.

Maybe I would ask her later. Maybe I’d ask when the house wasn’t so full, when everything wasn’t so loud. When the air didn’t feel so heavy.

But for now, I would carry this weight in silence. For now, I was home. And maybe that would be enough—for now.

Following Reece into the house felt like stepping into a dream that had been patiently waiting for my return. 

The moment I lifted my gaze, the weight of time pressed against my ribs—not in a suffocating way, but in a way that filled my chest with something warm, something deep, something that whispered, You are home.

Martha’s Vineyard had a way of making the past feel alive. The air was thick with salt and sun, the scent of distant tides curling through the open windows like an embrace. It had been too long, but nothing had truly changed.

 The house stood just as it always had, unwavering in its quiet elegance, its cream-white wooden walls kissed with a hue of baby blue, a color that carried the scent of summer mornings and childhood mischief.

As I stepped over the threshold, nostalgia wrapped around me, tangible as the sea breeze outside. I could almost hear the echoes of my past self—barefoot and reckless, sneaking down these very stairs with Paige at my side, hushed giggles breaking through the night as we slipped out the door, hearts hammering with the thrill of escape. 

The beach had been our sanctuary, the bonfires our altar. 

Some nights, it had been just the two of us, feet sinking into cool sand, waves curling against the shore like a secret whispered between old friends. Other nights, the firelight stretched across miles of coastline, casting flickering shadows over dancing figures, smoke and salt mixing in the air as music pulsed through the dark.

I could still taste the saltwater taffy we had stolen from the pantry at ungodly hours, could still feel the rough wooden railing beneath my palms as I sat on the porch, legs swinging idly while Paige teased me about some long-forgotten crush.

 The ghosts of those nights still lingered here, tucked between the wooden planks, hidden in the corners where moonlight once pooled at our feet.

The house itself breathed with life. Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, golden and endless, illuminating everything it touched—the polished floors, the delicate lace curtains, the picture frames that still lined the walls, frozen moments capturing laughter, love, and the stories of those who had walked these halls before me. 

Some frames adorned the staircase, their glass glinting beneath the Cape Cod sun, reflecting back faces I had memorized like scripture.

And just beyond the glass, past the rolling green lawn, the ocean stretched out like an old promise. The blue of it was sharp enough to make my chest ache.

A burst of laughter broke through the air, pulling me back to the present. In the living room, Diego and Lilly were locked in some fierce, ridiculous competition, their playful bickering weaving through the house like background music. 

The familiarity of it brought a smile to my lips, but it was only when movement caught my eye that my heart truly swelled.

Amy.

Emerging from the staircase, her short blonde hair swaying as she descended, the same radiant smile that had welcomed me a thousand times before now stretched wide across her face.

"You’re finally here!" she beamed, voice thick with warmth, with the kind of love that had always felt like a second home.

"Mama Amy!" The words tumbled from my lips before I could help it, my feet moving before my mind could catch up. In my excitement, I nearly tripped over my luggage, but I didn’t care. I closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, launching myself into Amy’s waiting arms.

The embrace was tight, fierce—years of love, of shared history, of something deeper than blood but just as binding. I buried my face into Amy’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla and sun-warmed linen, the scent of comfort, of long talks on the porch, of arms that had held me through both laughter and heartbreak.

"Ugh," I groaned dramatically, squeezing tighter. "I missed you so much."

Amy chuckled, smoothing a hand over my hair the way she always had. "Missed you more, sweetheart. It’s been too quiet without you around."

And I knew she meant it. Because Amy had never just been Paige’s mom—she had been mine, too. A second mother in every way that counted. Just as my own mother had been to Paige and Lauren, Amy had been there for me. 

Through heartbreaks and triumphs, through childhood scraped knees and the sting of growing up too fast. Through every moment that mattered.

Amy pulled back just enough to cup my face, her blue eyes searching mine with something soft, something knowing. "You doing okay?"

I swallowed.

I wanted to say yes.

I wanted to mean it.

But for now, I just nodded, letting the warmth of Amy’s touch and the weight of her arms settle the ache in my chest.

Because for the first time in a long time, I was finally here.

“Where’s Bob?” The words left my lips as I stood in the golden haze of the late afternoon, my voice threading through the air like the familiar melody of an old song. 

The walls of this house had heard that name a thousand times before, whispered in the quiet of early mornings, shouted over the sound of waves crashing in the distance.

Amy turned to me, her face warm, crinkled at the corners from years of sun and laughter. She smelled like salt air and vanilla, the scent of summers past clinging to her like a second skin. Her arms, still wrapped around me, gave one final squeeze before she pulled away, her fingers lingering for just a second longer.

“He just left actually–– went out grabbing groceries with Paige and Carson,” she said, her voice light with the ease of routine. “You know how it is, the ‘Grocery Gang’.”

I nodded, already picturing the scene—the three of them wandering through the tiny, sun-warmed market, their hands brushing against fresh produce and wicker baskets, arguing over whether to get the sweet or unsweetened iced tea. 

Time had a way of shifting, folding new people into old traditions, stretching and reshaping what once felt immovable.

“And Josephine?” I asked, tilting my head slightly, the name slipping from my tongue like a question wrapped in longing.

Amy exhaled softly, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to make it this time. Work’s been keeping her tied up.”

A quiet pang settled in my chest, the kind that only comes when someone is missing from a place they’re supposed to be. 

Josephine had become a fixture in our summers, as much a part of this home as the scent of cedar and sea spray, as the laughter that drifted through open windows at dusk. She was more than just Diego’s mom—she was a guiding presence that filled the spaces left by time and distance.

“Hopefully, she gets to join us soon, though,” Amy added, her voice threaded with hope.

I smiled, a knowing curve of my lips, and nodded. “Yeah, hopefully.”

Before I could sink too deep into the thought, I hitched the strap of my duffle bag higher onto my shoulder. “I’m gonna put my stuff in my room real quick.”

“Oh, lemme help you,” Reece’s voice emerged from the kitchen, thick with something sweet.

I turned just in time to see him wiping his sugar-dusted fingers against the fabric of his shorts, his mouth still full, his blue eyes dancing with mischief.

I arched a brow. “With your sticky hands?”

He scoffed, utterly unbothered, rolling his eyes with a dramatic huff. “Please, these suitcases probably cost twenty bucks. It ain’t that special.”

My lips parted in mock offense. “Excuse me—seventy dollars, actually.”

He snorted, already reaching down to grab a handle, his fingers curling around the worn leather with practiced ease. “Still not that special.”

Our words bounced between us like skipping stones over water, light and effortless, the kind of back-and-forth that had been carved into our bones over the years.

Amy chuckled softly as she watched us, shaking her head before slipping into the kitchen, disappearing into the soft hum of a home alive with movement.

And then, like a wave crashing against the shore, I felt it—that scent.

It curled through the air like an embrace, thick with warmth, wrapping around my senses and pulling me under. Smoky embers and charred wood, the unmistakable scent of barbecue, rich and golden. Beneath it, something briny, something fresh, the perfume of the sea woven into the promise of a meal made with love.

My stomach twisted in quiet longing as Reece and I drifted toward the kitchen, the weight of our bags shifting against our bodies. He carried two suitcases with ease, the muscles in his arms flexing with the effort, while I adjusted the duffle on my shoulder, my fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of my own luggage.

And there, bathed in the golden glow of the evening sun, was my mother.

She moved through the kitchen with effortless grace, a quiet symphony of motion. The counters were covered in an array of ingredients—chopped vegetables glistening under the soft kitchen lights, meats marinating in deep earthenware bowls, the air thick with the rich scent of herbs and spices.

“Whoa,” I murmured, pausing at the doorway, my eyes sweeping over the spread before me. “What’s this? A royal banquet?”

Mom hummed, rinsing a bowl of potatoes beneath the steady stream of water, a small smirk playing on her lips. “We always celebrate the first night back here,” she said, matter-of-factly, as if I should have known better than to question it.

And she was right. How had I forgotten?

The first night back in this house was never just another night. It was a ritual, a way to stitch ourselves back into the rhythm of this place, to remind each other that no matter how much time passed, no matter how far we had gone, we always found our way back—to the same table, the same laughter, the same love.

Reece and I shared a look before making our way up the staircase, our steps in sync as we climbed toward the familiar. The wooden steps creaked beneath us, a sound so ingrained in my memory that it felt like a song I had once known by heart.

As we walked, our conversation drifted between the past and present—what had changed since I had been gone, what had stayed the same. Reece filled me in on everything, from the small, meaningless updates to the ones that mattered. Who was dating who, who had left for school, what pranks had been pulled when I wasn’t around to witness them.

It was easy. It was effortless. It was home.

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself sink into it completely.

As we ascended the staircase, the wooden steps creaked beneath our weight, whispering their quiet welcome, a sound so familiar it felt like an embrace. The second floor unfolded before me, and a warmth bloomed in my chest, thick and golden, like sunlight filtering through salt-kissed curtains on a summer morning. 

Four doors stood before me—three bedrooms, one bathroom—each a vessel of memory, of laughter and whispered secrets, of childhood dreams spun from the innocence of five-year-old hearts. One door, set apart from the others, belonged to Wren. Or at least, it had, until she decided she had outgrown it, trading in its small comforts for one of the bigger rooms on the far side of the house. 

Now, it belonged to Lilly, and with her, it had taken on a new heartbeat, a new rhythm, though echoes of Wren still lingered in its corners.

The other two rooms, side by side, ours. Mine and Paige’s. A stake we had claimed long before we understood what permanence meant. Our names, scrawled across the wooden doors in glitter—Paige’s in regal purple, mine in a bright, childish pink—still shimmered under the dim hallway light. 

The banners we had made with tiny hands, glue sticking to our fingers, had stood the test of time. A declaration. A promise. That no matter how much we grew, how much the world outside changed, these rooms would always be ours.

My feet carried me forward before I even realized I had moved, instinct guiding me to my door.

"Y/N’S SURF SHACK"

The words greeted me, bold against the white-painted wood, pink glitter still clinging stubbornly to its surface despite the years that had passed. Around them, seashells and surfboards danced in a scattered collage, hearts pressed between them like unspoken love. And there, beside the banner, a stick-figure drawing of two little girls—one blonde, one brunette—etched in messy crayon strokes, their hands clasped together in the way only best friends could.

A smirk tugged at my lips as I pressed my palm against the cool metal of the doorknob, fingers curling around its familiar shape. With a soft twist, I pushed the door open.

The scent hit me first.

Coconut and ocean salt, like sun-warmed skin after a day spent diving beneath rolling waves. The air felt untouched yet lived-in, the kind of space frozen in time yet waiting, patiently, for my return.

Everything was exactly as I had left it.

The walls, painted in a soft white-cream with an accent of baby blue, mirrored the sky just before it kissed the horizon at dusk. Sheer white curtains billowed gently in the breeze, whispering secrets carried from the sea. 

The queen-sized bed sat pressed against the far wall, its wooden headboard adorned with delicate fairy lights, their glow faint in the fading daylight. 

A thin string stretched across the wall above it, polaroids clinging to it like fireflies, snapshots of summer days and stolen moments.

Framed pictures and art I had carefully chosen lined the walls, pieces of my soul scattered across the room in colors and strokes.

 Beside the bed, matching white nightstands stood like sentinels, their surfaces home to trinkets, forgotten books, and memories encased in glass frames.

 In the corner, a hanging egg chair swayed slightly, as if remembering the weight of my body curling into it, book in hand, lost in worlds beyond this one.

One side of the room bore the evidence of my greatest love—the ocean. Surfboards leaned against the wall, their colors faded from years of salt and sun, each one holding the memory of a perfect wave, a fall, a triumph. 

Among them, nestled between the wooden planks, were plants that had somehow survived my neglect, their green leaves stretching toward the light like they, too, belonged here.

A white dresser stood against the opposite wall, cluttered with the remnants of my life—a stray bracelet, a half-burned candle, a forgotten letter folded neatly beneath a smooth sea stone. Above, the ceiling fan spun lazily, stirring the air like an exhale, slow and deliberate.

And there, resting on the bed as if it had never moved, was my white bunny Jellycat. Nestled between a sea of throw pillows, its soft body slightly worn, the fabric stretched in places where tiny hands had clutched it too tightly in the night. It was a relic of comfort, of childhood fears soothed beneath the weight of moonlight and whispered reassurances.

But what caught my breath, what stilled my heart for a fraction of a second, was the vase.

Sitting atop the white nightstand, its glass surface catching the golden light, was a bouquet of pink lilies. Fresh, their petals unfurling in delicate, blushing curls, the fragrance wrapping around me like an embrace. 

Paige. 

She had been in here, had left them for me, had remembered.

Beside the flowers, a framed photo—Paige and me at ten years old, laughing mid-collapse, her arms wrapped around my shoulders as I struggled to keep us both upright. Frozen in time, our joy immortalized behind the glass.

My throat tightened.

It wasn’t just a room.

It was a time capsule. A love letter to every version of myself that had lived here, every laugh, every tear, every whispered confession made to the walls in the dead of night. It was a place untouched by time, yet full of it.

With a deep breath, I stepped inside, letting the warmth of home settle into my bones.

I step inside, and the past comes rushing at me like a tide—thick with the scent of salt, sunscreen, and a life I only get to touch for a few months out of the year. The air is heavier here, humming with old laughter, sunburned memories, and the echoes of a childhood that still clings to the walls.

“Welcome back, Y/N.”

Reece’s voice rumbles from behind me, steady and familiar, grounding me before I drift too far into nostalgia. I turn just as he sets my luggage down with a soft thud, his towering frame still as solid as ever, a quiet presence that never changes.

I smile, reaching up to ruffle his light brown hair like I always have, my fingers tangling in the strands before giving his back a firm pat. “Thanks, big guy,” I murmur.

Reece chuckles, a low sound, then nods once before heading downstairs, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floors, fading into the heartbeat of the house.

And just like that, I am alone.

The silence is thick but not empty—never empty here. It hums with something alive, something waiting, like the house itself is breathing me in. I let my eyes wander, drinking in every detail that tethers me back to this place. 

The soft cream walls, still sun-bleached from the years. The desk by the window, cluttered with forgotten trinkets and sand-dusted notebooks. The faint scent of vanilla and sea salt, a perfume of the past that lingers in the fabric of the curtains.

But it’s the balcony doors that call to me the loudest.

Drawn like a thread being pulled, I cross the room, fingers finding the cool brass handles as I push them wide open. The ocean air rushes in, crashing into me with its salted breath, thick and alive with the weight of summer. It fills my lungs, clings to my skin, wraps itself around me like an old friend.

God, I missed this.

The view is the same—always the same—but it never loses its magic. The dunes stretch long and golden, their tall grasses swaying in rhythm with the wind.

 Beyond them, the ocean sprawls endlessly, a restless blue that shifts with the sky, a shade I have never quite been able to find anywhere else. It’s a short walk to the beach, but from here, I can still hear the waves, the endless push and pull, whispering their secrets to the shore.

And if I listen even closer, I can hear voices drifting through the warm air.

Dad’s voice, deep and steady, carrying over from the pool where the grill sizzles. The smell of barbecue mingles with the ocean breeze, thick and smoky, curling through the air like an unspoken invitation. Wren is probably beside him, leaning against the railing, making some dry remark about his technique. The sound of their quiet laughter stirs something deep in my chest—a longing, a warmth, a knowing that this is home.

I linger there, drinking it in, before finally stepping back inside, leaving the doors open just enough to let the breeze follow me in.

My eyes drifted back to the lilies. 

Soft pink, delicate, arranged with a kind of thoughtfulness that makes my chest ache. They sit on my nightstand in a glass vase, petals still dewy, as if they’ve only just been placed there. And beside them, a small folded note, edges slightly curled.

I already know who it’s from before I even touch it.

The handwriting—the careful curves, the way the ink presses just a little too hard in certain letters—it’s unmistakable.

I exhale a laugh, barely more than a breath, as I pick up the note, my thumb brushing over the familiar scrawl.

"Welcome back, princess."

Princess.

I roll my eyes, but my lips twitch into a smile despite myself. It started as a joke—an affectionate tease that Paige threw at me when we were sixteen. I had hated it at first, wrinkled my nose every time she said it, but over time, I stopped fighting it. Maybe because, deep down, I started to understand why she called me that. And suddenly, it didn’t bother me at all.

With a sigh, I let the note flutter back onto the nightstand before collapsing onto my bed, limbs splaying out in a careless starfish position. The sheets are crisp but familiar, the comforter slightly cool from being untouched. My childhood bunny still sits among the pillows, a little more worn, a little more forgotten, but still here—like a ghost of who I used to be.

I close my eyes.

Let myself sink.

The house breathes around me, the sounds outside blurring into a lullaby—the hush of the waves, the distant laughter, the cicadas singing in the heat. My body is heavy, my mind slipping somewhere between wakefulness and dreams.

Until—

“What’s up, stranger?”

The voice is deep, loud, and entirely too close.

A sharp burst of sound that shatters the quiet like a hammer to glass.

I jolt upright, heart slamming against my ribs as my eyes fly open.

“Jesus—” I hiss, my pulse still racing. “You scared the shit out of me, dipshit.”

Standing at the foot of my bed, grinning like a damn menace, is Beau.

My eighteen-year-old brother, taller than I remember, his shoulders broader, his hair sun-lightened and messier than ever. His grin is all teeth, mischief crackling in his dark brown eyes like a brewing storm.

Before I can react, before I can even think—

He launches himself onto the bed.

A solid weight, knocking the breath out of me as he crashes down, arms wrapping around me in a ruthless, smothering hold.

“Beau—” I wheeze, squirming under him.

“C’mon, you know you missed me,” he says, his voice muffled against my shoulder before his arm snakes around my neck, locking me into a chokehold.

I let out a strangled noise as he ruffles my hair with merciless enthusiasm, tangling the strands I had only just managed to tame.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I grumble, trying—and failing—not to smile.

He just laughs, completely unbothered, still holding me captive in his vice grip.

And then—

“Are you two seriously wrestling already?”

I don’t need to look to know who it is.

Wren leans against the doorframe, one brow arched, arms crossed, exuding her usual brand of effortless cool. The kind that makes it impossible to tell whether she’s amused or exasperated. Probably both.

Beau scoffs, rolling onto his back beside me, arms behind his head. “You jealous or something?”

Wren snorts. “Yeah, totally. I just live for the sight of you two rolling around like a couple of feral dogs.”

I sit up, running a hand through my now thoroughly wrecked hair. “If you’re gonna be in here, at least shut the door. You’re letting all the air out.”

Wren shrugs but does as she’s told, kicking the door closed with the heel of her foot. “So, now that the princess has returned, does this mean we’re getting into trouble tonight, or what?”

I smirk, stretching out my arms in an exaggerated yawn. “Depends. How much trouble are we talking?”

Beau grins, eyes gleaming. “The kind that gets us grounded for the rest of the summer.”

And just like that—

The house feels alive again.

Buzzing. Humming. Crackling with something electric.

And as I sink into the moment, into the warmth of them, I realize just how much I missed this.

How much I missed them.

The clock on my nightstand read just past three in the afternoon, the soft hum of the ceiling fan above stirring the warm summer air in lazy circles. The room still smelled faintly of salt and sunscreen, but now, layered on top of it, the familiar sweetness of coconut and vanilla clung to my skin. 

My body was warm from the shower, my limbs still heavy with the kind of drowsy comfort that came after hot water and quiet solitude. The moisturizer I had lathered onto my legs made my skin impossibly soft, and my damp hair left cool, damp trails against the bare skin of my shoulders.

I had taken my time getting ready, slipping into a white floral tank top, the delicate fabric whispering against my skin. 

The spaghetti straps sat gently on my shoulders, the V-cut dipping just enough to hint at something softer, a tiny satin bow sitting at its center like an afterthought. The mini skirt hugged my waist, airy and light, the hem brushing against the tops of my thighs with every movement.

As I stood in front of the open balcony doors, the humid air wrapped around me, thick with the scent of the ocean and the distant smokiness of the barbecue still sizzling downstairs. 

The world outside stretched endlessly—rolling dunes, scattered wild grasses swaying lazily, the sun dipping lower in the sky, gilding the horizon in honeyed gold. And then—

Then, my eyes found her.

Down at the dock, standing alone, her blonde hair caught the wind, rippling like a flickering flame that danced in defiance of the vast, endless blue stretching before her. Paige.

The sight of her struck something deep in my chest, a slow, painful ache unfurling like a frayed thread that had somehow found its way back into the fabric of my heart. 

Three years. Three whole years. 

And yet, there she stood—still Paige. Still effortless. Still radiant in that quiet, impossible way that made it impossible to look anywhere else.

Her back was to me, but I couldn’t help but drink her in. The sun kissed her skin with a warmth that seemed almost unnatural, casting a soft glow that made her look as if she had been sculpted from light itself. 

I couldn’t help but trace the way her shoulders held a tension, something unfamiliar but familiar at once—a guarded kind of grace. 

It was in the way her white cropped tank top draped over her, the gentle curve of her form visible beneath the fabric, as if time had shaped her in ways I hadn’t quite expected.

 The soft lines of her silhouette, the subtle shift in the way she moved—everything about her spoke of the changes that had taken place, the growth that had come with the years. 

And yet, beneath it all, she still carried the essence of the girl I had once known.

She looked unreal, like something conjured from the depths of a dream I had long buried, but now it resurfaced, flooding my senses with the pull of what had once been.

Before I could second-guess myself, before I could drown in the weight of everything I hadn’t said, my fingers clenched into my palm, and I let out a slow, steady breath.

And then I moved.

The comb in my hand was forgotten, dropped onto the bed as I turned and stepped out of my room. My bare feet moved swiftly across the wooden floors, past the open kitchen where Mom and Amy stood talking, their conversation a gentle hum I didn’t bother to decipher. 

Past the living room, where Beau and Diego sat hunched over the screen, their game of Black Ops 6 filling the air with gunfire and shouted curses. Past my dad, still tending to the grill, his deep voice carrying over the sound of sizzling meat.

And then, out the back door.

The moment my sandals touched the grass, the heat of the afternoon pressed against me like a second skin. The air felt heavier out here, thick with nostalgia and something dangerously close to regret. I stepped onto the sand, the fine grains shifting beneath my soles, sinking slightly with every step.

 Each movement felt surreal, like I was caught between past and present, like I was walking toward something I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.

But Paige was still there.

Still standing at the edge of the dock, still lost in whatever thoughts had her so still.

I hesitated at the dock’s entrance, the worn wooden planks creaking beneath my weight as I stopped. Three years. Three years of silence, of missed calls, of never showing up, of pretending the ache in my chest wasn’t real.

What the hell was I even supposed to say?

Hey? Sorry I haven’t texted you? Sorry I never called? Sorry I didn’t show up to any of your games? How have you been?

It all sounded stupid. Useless. Like trying to patch up something that had already been burned to the ground.

I swallowed hard, my hands tightening into fists at my sides, trying to steady myself against the wave of uncertainty. But then—

I exhaled. Released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

And I stepped forward.

The wooden planks were warm beneath my sandals as I slowly made my way down the dock, each step feeling heavier than the last. My heart pounded against my ribs, but my voice was steady when I finally spoke.

“Well, if it isn’t Paige ‘Buckets’ Bueckers.”

My voice was soft, careful, as if saying her name too loudly might shatter the fragile moment between us.

I saw it then—the way her shoulders stiffened ever so slightly, the way her breath hitched in the split second before she turned around.

And when she did—

Paige blinked at me, lips parting, her blue eyes wide with something I couldn’t quite place. Disbelief? Shock? Maybe something else, something deeper.

“Y/N.”

My name left her lips like an exhale, like she wasn’t sure if she was really seeing me.

And for a moment, neither was I.

The world stilled.

For a moment, all I could hear was the soft, rhythmic lapping of the water against the dock, the distant hum of my father’s laughter mingling with the sharp sizzle of the grill, the occasional cry of a gull overhead as it circled lazily in the sky.

But everything else—the voices, the background chatter, the weight of three long, aching years—fell into a quiet hush as I stared at her.

Paige.

Her name echoed in my mind, a long-forgotten tune that had once filled my world but had gone silent, tucked away in the shadows of time. I hadn’t allowed myself to sing it in so long.

She was standing there, barely a few feet away, but in that moment, it felt like an entire lifetime stretched between us, the distance palpable and heavy, a gap carved out by silence and time.

The afternoon light bathed her in gold, casting a warm halo around her as it played across her form, highlighting every sharp and soft angle of her. 

The light kissed her skin with a gentle reverence, turning her into something almost too perfect to be real. Her blonde hair, now slightly longer than I remembered, swayed with the breeze, each strand catching the sunlight like delicate threads of spun silk, glimmering in the golden haze. 

Her skin, kissed by the sun and glistening with a natural glow, held that kind of effortless radiance that made her look ethereal, as if she existed just a touch beyond the realm of ordinary, like she wasn’t standing on the same plane of existence as the rest of us.

She had always been beautiful.

But now, standing before me after all this time, she was breathtaking in a way I wasn’t prepared for, in a way that pulled at something deep inside of me.

Her white cropped tank clung to her, the fabric stretching slightly over her body, accentuating the defined shape of her shoulders, the gentle curve of her waist. I noticed how her abs had become more defined, the subtle ridges of muscle drawing the eye, a quiet testament to her discipline, the years of hard work that had shaped her. 

The pink cotton shorts, soft and simple, sat comfortably on her frame, riding up slightly when she shifted, the pale color contrasting against her sun-brushed skin, which seemed to shimmer in the fading light.

But it wasn’t just how she looked—it was how she felt. How her presence, standing so close yet so far away, pressed against me, filling my senses with something indescribable, something deep and untouchable. 

A feeling I couldn’t quite name, but one that seemed to pull at me, to unravel something inside me I had long since sealed away.

She blinked again, her lashes fluttering as she looked at me, lips parting ever so slightly, like she wasn’t sure if I was real, if I was really standing here before her after everything.

“Y/N,” she said, my name rolling off her tongue, hesitant, almost fragile. It lingered in the air like something both familiar and foreign, a whisper of the past—so soft, so careful, as if she were afraid it might break in her mouth.

Something inside me twisted at the way she said it. Like it was a ghost of something she had tried to forget. The syllables clung to the space between us, heavy with unspoken things, things that had been buried under the weight of years and distance.

I swallowed, my throat tight, and for a fleeting moment, the world seemed to close in around me.

“Hey, Paigey.” My voice was softer this time, almost like a confession, an apology wrapped in a single word. The unspoken weight of everything I couldn’t say pressed down on my chest, making each breath feel too heavy, too sharp.

Paige exhaled sharply, a breath she had been holding, and then—just for a second—her expression cracked. It was subtle, but I saw it. A flicker of vulnerability, of something that had been hidden away for far too long.

I saw it in her eyes. The hesitation. The quiet hurt buried beneath layers of time. The way her gaze wavered, searching for something, something she had lost but couldn’t quite let go of. And the silent question that seemed to hang in the air between us, unanswered and aching.

Where the hell have you been?

I didn’t know what to say. Three years was a long time. Too long.

I had missed things. So many things.

Her games, where she had probably looked just like this—strong, radiant, untouchable under the stadium lights, the spotlight making her seem like she belonged to a world I could only watch from afar. 

I had missed the way her sweat would glisten, the quiet intensity in her eyes as she locked in on the basket, the way her body moved with a grace that seemed both effortless and powerful all at once.

I had missed the late-night drives we used to take just to feel the wind in our hair, the hum of the car engine our only companion as we talked about everything and nothing. Our laughter getting lost in the rush of the road, the shared silence feeling like something sacred, as if the world outside didn’t matter as long as we were together.

And I had missed the way she used to lean against me during movies, her head resting comfortably on my shoulder, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, but still warm, still trusting. Like I was something safe in a world that never seemed to stop moving.

And I had just—disappeared.

I had allowed the silence to stretch like an endless chasm between us, the emptiness widening with each passing day until it became something insurmountable. 

Something that now loomed in the background of every thought, every memory, a weight I didn’t know how to lift. I had let the space between us grow into a void, an ocean of time and distance that felt impossible to cross. But in this moment, none of that mattered anymore.

Because she was here.

And so was I.

The air between us buzzed with a strange, quiet tension, and for a heartbeat, the years that had slipped by seemed to vanish. All that was left was her and me, this lingering proximity that felt both foreign and familiar at once.

“Your hair got longer,” she finally said, her voice softer now, almost as if she were afraid to break the fragile moment between us. But even in its quietness, it was steady, certain.

I blinked, feeling the flutter of warmth in my chest, and my fingers twitched at my sides, a nervous tic I hadn’t realized was still there. 

She remembered how it used to be—how my hair used to fall just past my collarbones, how she would absentmindedly tug at the ends when her hands had nothing to do, braiding small strands while we sat in the back of my dad’s truck, our eyes fixed on the endless sky above us, tracing constellations we had named ourselves.

“Yeah,” I murmured, my voice a little thick. “Figured it was time for a change.”

She hummed, a sound that felt like it reached into my chest and held onto something fragile. Her gaze lingered on me, just a fraction longer than necessary, like she was tracing the lines of me, mapping the girl she had once known but had somehow lost.

A gust of wind swept past us, tossing loose strands of her hair around her face. 

I couldn’t help but watch as the soft tendrils danced in the air, framing her face with a wild, untamed beauty that made my heart stutter.

 For a split second, a reckless urge surged through me, one I couldn’t ignore: to reach out, to brush the hair from her face, to tuck it behind her ear the way I used to, to erase the space that had grown between us, to make everything feel like it once had.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I clenched my hands into fists, the muscles in my arms tightening as I fought the impulse. I rocked back slightly on my heels, the weight of the moment pressing down on me, heavy and intense, and I wondered if I would ever stop aching for the ease of things that had once been.

“How’ve you been?” I asked, the question feeling ridiculous the second it left my lips. It sounded hollow, an echo of the distance between us, something that could never bridge the gap of those years.

Paige let out a quiet laugh, breathy and short, like she didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed. It was the kind of laugh that hinted at something deeper, a history that still lingered between us, unspoken.

“Oh, you know. Winning championships. Breaking records. Carrying the team on my back.” She raised an eyebrow at me, the corner of her lips curving upward in a playful challenge. “Not that you’d know.”

I winced, a sharp sting of guilt pricking my chest. I deserved that.

“I saw,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. The words seemed fragile, like they might break apart before they even fully formed. “I kept up, Paige. I—” I hesitated, my tongue suddenly thick, tripping over the weight of things left unsaid. “I just—”

Couldn’t be there. Didn’t know how to come back. Didn’t know if I was allowed to.

The silence between us thickened, but only for a moment, before Paige studied me with a quiet, knowing gaze, something flickering behind her eyes like a door left ajar, teasing me with the possibility of what had been. Then she let out another breath, shaking her head with a soft, almost melodic chuckle.

“Still the same,” she murmured, almost to herself, the words like a secret shared between the wind and the sea, something private that no one else would ever understand.

I frowned slightly, an unfamiliar discomfort settling in my chest. “What do you mean?”

She glanced at me then, her eyes catching mine for the briefest of moments, and for the first time since she turned around, she smiled. It was small, faint, barely-there—but it was real, and it struck me with the force of a forgotten memory resurfacing.

It did something strange to my chest, a feeling I couldn’t name.

Paige shrugged, her gaze drifting away again, toward the horizon where the sky and the water met in a seamless blur of blue—a vast, endless expanse that seemed to stretch on forever, the edges fading into the unknown.

“You always sucked at talking about feelings.”

The words hung in the air, like a teasing melody that both mocked and understood.

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words caught in my throat. Instead, I exhaled a quiet laugh, the sound almost a release, a soft surrender to the moment.

“Yeah,” I admitted, my voice tinged with something close to regret. “Guess some things never change.”

A pause settled between us, but it wasn’t as heavy this time. It wasn’t drowning in the silence of old wounds or the weight of unspoken apologies. It was just—there. A soft, comfortable space, neither awkward nor charged, but simply open. A breath waiting to be taken.

And maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something that could be rebuilt.

Slowly.

 Piece by piece.

 Step by step.

The air between us felt like a canvas—thin, stretched tight, and full of potential but still waiting for the first stroke of color. The weight of three years hung in the space between us, but the longer we stood there, the more that weight seemed to shift. The silence, once thick and suffocating, had softened. 

I was still acutely aware of the tension in my chest, the way my heart beat a little faster with every stolen glance at her.

She was a lot taller than me now. I hadn’t remembered that. Or maybe I’d tried to forget.

Paige used to call me short stack when we were kids—her nickname for me that always felt so casual, so comfortable. She’d ruffle my hair in the most aggravating way, making me bat at her hands like I could do something about it. 

Now, standing next to her, I was aware of how much space she occupied. How much taller she stood, her head just above mine. I felt small in comparison, my body pressed into the earth below while hers was a towering figure in the light, radiating strength and presence.

She was still Paige—my Paige, in a sense—but now, she seemed like someone else entirely.

Without thinking, I took a step forward, then another, until I was standing at her side.

She didn’t look down at me at first. Her eyes were still fixed on the water, the movement of the waves gentle against the wooden pillars of the dock, creating a rhythm that I could almost lose myself in. 

The scent of saltwater mingled with the faint trace of sunscreen and the smell of her perfume, something light, floral, and citrusy, like the warmth of a summer day that you never wanted to end.

For a moment, I just stood there beside her, unsure if I should speak or if the silence would be enough to say what I wanted. She had always been good at filling the quiet—her voice, warm and steady, had a way of cutting through the air like a summer breeze, making everything feel just a little lighter.

“I’ve missed this,” I said softly, the words coming out before I even realized I’d thought them.

Her lips quirked slightly, and I couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes softened when they flickered toward me. “What, the dock? The ocean?” She gestured to the expanse of blue stretching out in front of us.

I nodded, swallowing a lump that had risen in my throat. “Yeah. The beach, the salt air. All of it.” My gaze drifted over the water, catching the way the sunlight bounced off the waves, giving them the shimmer of liquid glass. “It’s like nothing’s changed, and everything has, too.”

Paige exhaled through her nose. “You’re not wrong. It’s strange, isn’t it?” Her voice was quieter now, almost like she was talking more to herself than to me. “It’s all the same, but it’s not. I don’t know.” She fell into a silence, her hand brushing absently at her shorts, and for the first time, I saw her hesitate.

I took a breath, trying to gather myself, the weight of the years apart pressing against my ribs. It felt like there was so much I wanted to say, but I didn’t know where to start. 

So instead, I let my fingers drift to the edge of the dock, brushing against the smooth wood, and I glanced up at her. “How’s the team? And your dad?” I asked, my voice a little stronger than before, like I could find something to hold onto in the conversation.

She nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Dad’s good. Still grilling at every chance he gets. The team’s... well, the team’s on fire. You should come see a game sometime.”

“Yeah?” I raised an eyebrow, watching her as she spoke. There was something about the way her eyes lit up when she talked about it, a fire I had never seen before. It was like she had become this new version of herself—this incredible version of herself—and it both amazed and terrified me.

“Yeah. I’ll get you tickets.” She said it so casually, but there was a soft vulnerability in the offer that made me pause.

“I’ll take you up on that,” I said, a little more sincerely than I’d intended.

There was a long stretch of silence again. But it wasn’t uncomfortable, not anymore. In that moment, standing there next to her, the world seemed a little bit quieter. We both seemed to exist in the same space—still, a little bruised from the time apart, but in a way, finding our footing again.

I didn’t expect what happened next.

Without warning, Paige turned toward me, her arms slipping around me in a tight hug, pulling me into her chest so suddenly I barely had time to react. The warmth of her skin against mine sent a shiver through me, not from cold, but from something I couldn’t name.

 Something heavy and familiar, something that wrapped itself around my chest and squeezed. Her body was solid, strong, a safe presence I hadn’t realized I’d been craving all this time—an anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

For a second, I was frozen—shocked by the sudden closeness, the feeling of her heartbeat against my own. It was as if time itself had slowed down, and I was caught in the suffocating rush of emotions I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in years. 

My breath caught in my throat, my chest tightening. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed this—the simplicity of being held by her, the steady rhythm of her presence. It was like coming home after being lost for far too long.

But then, slowly, I wrapped my arms around her, my head resting on her shoulder. The sensation was overwhelming in its intimacy, as if every part of me was yearning for her to stay, to never let go. It felt so natural, like we were two parts of the same whole, as if we’d never been apart. 

There was no awkwardness, no question of where we stood—just the softness of her touch, the unspoken understanding between us, the weight of everything that had happened pressing down, yet strangely light in the comfort of her embrace.

“God, I missed you,” she muttered into my hair, her voice rough, as if the words had been locked away for too long. The warmth of her breath against my skin sent a shiver down my spine, but it wasn’t cold—it was like I had just exhaled after holding my breath for years. 

Her fingers tightened around me, almost like she was afraid I would slip away again, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she, too, felt the fragile nature of this moment—how everything was hanging by a thread, yet it felt like the most real thing I’d ever experienced.

I closed my eyes, pressing my face deeper into the fabric of her shirt, the familiar scent of her and the ocean mixing in the air, filling me up like a memory I hadn’t known I was starving for. 

There was something about the way she held me, something so sure and certain, that made everything I’d been running from feel distant, like it didn’t matter anymore.

 “I missed you too,” I whispered, and it was the first time in years I’d said it without hesitation. The words felt right, like they’d been stuck in my chest for far too long, and I was finally giving them the space they needed to breathe.

The hug lasted a moment longer than either of us probably expected, but neither of us pulled away. I wasn’t sure what exactly we were trying to hold onto—whether it was the memory of who we were, or the hope of something more—but in that moment, I didn’t need to know.

 I just needed to be here, to feel her against me, to acknowledge the truth that had been buried beneath layers of time and distance. We didn’t need words; the silence spoke louder than anything else.

When she finally pulled back, there was a softness in her eyes—something raw and unguarded that she hadn’t shown me before. 

Something fragile, like she was allowing herself to be seen in a way she hadn’t been in years. She stepped back, but her hands lingered at my shoulders, grounding me in this moment, anchoring me to the now. 

And I let her—because in that moment, I didn’t want to let go. I didn’t want to forget what it felt like to be close to her, to be hers.

“So,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, like she was still catching her breath from the hug. “What now?”

I didn’t know. I didn’t have all the answers.

But for the first time in a long time, I was okay with that.

The space between us felt like a warm memory, alive and trembling, like the soft afterglow of a sunset that refuses to fade into darkness. I stood there, lost in the weight of her hug, letting the quiet stretch, not feeling the need to rush through the moment. 

A part of me, deep down, knew that everything in this instant—this reunion, this fragile reconnection—was not something to be hurried. And for the first time in what seemed like forever, I didn’t want to push for anything more. 

No questions. No answers. Just this. The feeling of her arms around me, the heat of her chest pressed against mine, the solid, familiar rhythm of her breath. It was a lullaby, pulling me into a place of peace I hadn’t realized I’d been craving.

Then, as if the universe had decided to drag us out of that perfect stillness, a voice pierced the moment.

“Y/N! Paige!” Wren’s voice called, the sound of her hand waving from behind the dunes, a small speck of movement in the distance. “Mom needs you both to start on the fruit salad!”

I groaned, the simple, mundane reality of life sliding back in. My shoulders sagged a little in exaggerated defeat, the world’s little interruptions making their presence known. But despite it, I found myself smiling.

 Not at the fruit salad request, but because Paige’s laughter had tickled the edges of my consciousness in that moment, a sound so familiar, so rich with joy that it had the power to shift the air around us.

"Coming!" I yelled back, my voice trailing on the breeze.

The sound of her laugh rang in my ears, and only then did I notice the weight of her gaze. It was like the sun lingering in the late afternoon, never fully setting, just casting a soft, golden glow that made everything feel brighter, more alive. 

Her eyes were still locked onto mine, and I couldn’t ignore the way it made my chest flutter, my pulse quickening with the unspoken energy that passed between us.

“What’s so funny, weirdo?” I teased, my lips curling into a smirk as I leaned into her lightly, swatting her shoulder.

Her eyes lit up, and the sound that escaped her lips wasn’t just laughter. It was a sigh of relief, a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding in for years. “Nothin’, just good to have you back.”

Those words—so simple, yet the weight of them crushed me in the gentlest way. She didn’t just say them; she breathed them out like a confession, something tender and unspoken that swelled between us. 

The warmth that settled in my chest spread through me, curling through my ribs and wrapping around my heart, coaxing a smile out of me that I couldn’t fight.

I bit my bottom lip, and for a fleeting moment, I noticed the shift in her gaze. Her eyes followed the movement of my teeth grazing against my lip, and the air between us seemed to hum with something heavier, something that hovered just beneath the surface. 

Her lips parted, a soft breath escaping as she almost seemed to lean toward me without realizing it. It was a fleeting thing, but it made my heart stumble in my chest.

"Missed me that much, huh?" I teased again, my voice low, like I was trying to mask the sudden flutter of nerves that rose up inside me.

Paige rolled her eyes, but there was a sly smirk playing at the edges of her mouth, a soft exhale slipping past her lips. "Shut up," she said with affection, nudging me with her shoulder.

But there was something more in the way she looked at me, something deeper. She wasn’t just laughing with me—she was laughing at the unspoken history between us, the distance we’d traveled, the time we’d lost, and yet still, here we were. 

Standing together. The weight of it was overwhelming, almost intoxicating.

“Let’s go before Ivy yells at us,” Paige said, her voice light but with an underlying softness that made me want to linger longer, just to savor this moment.

She slipped her arm around my shoulders with an ease that made everything feel natural again, like nothing had changed between us. The simple act of her hand resting on me felt like a reassurance, a promise. 

She pulled me with her, our footsteps sinking into the sand as we walked toward the house, the sound of the ocean still whispering behind us like a secret only we could hear. The weight of her presence next to me, her warmth so close, made everything else feel distant and faint.

 It was like the rest of the world could fall away and leave just the two of us, standing in this perfect moment.

“Hey, Paige,” I said after a beat, the words slipping out before I could stop them, “you ever think about how much we used to talk about everything? When we were kids, I mean?”

She glanced down at me, her smile softening, her fingers tightening just a fraction around my shoulder. “Yeah,” she replied quietly, a small, almost wistful sound to her voice. “It feels like a lifetime ago, huh?”

I nodded, the weight of the years that had stretched between us settling in like an anchor dragging at the edges of my heart. “Yeah, a lifetime ago.” The words fell from my lips, soft and heavy, filling the space between us like the last trace of a dying star—bright and distant, but still burning with a warmth that threatened to pull everything back into its orbit. It was a strange sensation, standing there with Paige once again. 

Her eyes held something I couldn’t quite name—something familiar, like the echo of a song that had been forgotten until it suddenly returned, flooding everything with its old, comforting tune. There was a spark in her gaze that lingered, just long enough for the air around us to shift. 

A fleeting moment, yet profound in the way it made my chest tighten, made my breath catch.

Maybe it was the warmth of the evening sun casting long shadows on the sand, or the quiet, unsaid words passing between us, but I had a feeling—just for a moment—that we were somehow picking up where we left off. 

No time had passed. No hurt, no distance. Just the two of us standing in the middle of it, as if we had never been apart.

I glanced over at Wren, who stood a little farther down the path. Her eyes were locked onto us, and though she was pretending to busy herself with something, the way her gaze lingered for just a second too long felt like more than idle curiosity. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips—one that almost seemed teasing, as if she knew something we didn’t, something that was left unsaid. 

A secret shared in a look, between friends who had lived through more than their fair share of things, and maybe even seen things we weren’t ready to acknowledge yet.

We continued our walk, the ground soft beneath our feet, each step pulling us closer to the kitchen. Paige, with her arm still draped over my shoulders, had a quiet confidence to her now, a steady rhythm in her walk that mirrored something deeper between us. Her presence felt like a blanket wrapped tight around me, keeping the cold at bay.

 We didn’t need to say much. It was in the comfortable weight of her hand resting against my back, in the way her fingers brushed my skin, almost absentmindedly, as if we had never been apart. I could feel the pulse of her every step beside me, and for the first time in years, the noise of everything else felt muffled, distant.

As we reached the kitchen, I noticed the familiar hum of home—the warmth from the oven, the rich scent of dinner filling the air, and the ever-present sound of Mom tapping her foot in a rhythm of mock impatience. 

She stood by the counter, arms crossed, looking both like she was about to scold us for something and yet, there was an unmistakable softness in her eyes when she saw us together again. “Took you two long enough,” Mom remarked, her voice light but laced with something more affectionate.

Paige and I exchanged a quick glance, that look of shared amusement passing between us, as if the absurdity of it all—after everything, the distance, the time apart—had led us right back to this moment. 

Together, in this space, we fit just like we always had. Life had a funny way of pulling people in different directions, of pulling you so far apart that it felt like you could never find your way back. Yet, here we were. Back where we began. 

And, for all the uncertainty of life and the time that had passed, one thing was clear: no matter the years or the space between us, the quiet connection we shared remained, untouched. It was unshaken and whole, like the roots of a tree, deep and steady beneath the surface.

Amy, with her usual gentle smile, added, “Good to see you both again.” Her voice was soft, an undertone of warmth threading through her words. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed hearing it—how much I’d missed her presence, too. 

The familiar clink of utensils and the soft rustling of things being prepared around us made the moment feel almost surreal. Wren’s eyes flickered back to us for just a moment before she turned to help her mom with the preparations, her fingers brushing the fruit in front of her with a kind of practiced ease.

As I moved toward the counter to grab the fruit, my fingers brushed against Paige’s for the briefest second. The touch, so small, yet it carried a charge, a kind of electric shiver that shot up my spine, leaving the back of my neck tingling. I almost didn’t want to pull away. Neither of us did. 

It was as if we both knew what this touch meant—the gentle brush of skin, soft and fleeting, but steeped in a thousand unspoken words. In that brief moment, we were suspended between the past and the present, between the things we’d shared and the things we had yet to discover. There was a heavy silence between us, a truth neither of us needed to say aloud.

 We both felt it. The truth of our history, of how much we had meant to each other, and how the years apart hadn’t erased that bond.

 It was still there, in every lingering glance and every slight touch. For the first time in so long, I felt a strange kind of peace settle in my chest.

I didn’t know where this would lead, what we would become, or how much of us would ever truly change. But in that moment, standing in the kitchen with her—with Paige—I felt certain of one thing: we had never truly been apart. Not really.

Footsteps creaked against the wooden flooring, and Carson walked into the kitchen, his familiar presence filling the space. 

He was a little disheveled, his shirt untucked and his sleeves rolled up as if he had been upstairs doing something, but the sight of him—so effortlessly at home in this space—made me smile.

 I hadn’t seen him in what felt like forever, not like this. Wren’s fiancé. The one who had always been like a brother to me, the one who had grown up with us in the house, alongside Wren. Even now, he stood there with a grin that had never changed, a grin that made him seem just a little bit younger than he actually was. It was the kind of smile that made everything feel familiar again.

“Look at you two,” Carson said with a teasing tone, his eyes flicking between Paige and me. “Thought you’d be hiding somewhere, away from all the family chaos.”

Wren rolled her eyes, her smile softening as she threw a quick glance in Carson’s direction. “We just got here, give them a break,” she said, though the amusement was clear in her voice.

Carson moved to stand next to me, his hand clapping me lightly on the back, his way of greeting me. It was always like this, a brother-sister relationship that had never wavered. There was a certain comfort in it—no pretense, no time wasted on small talk. 

Just the ease of a connection that had been forged long ago and was as solid now as it had ever been.

“How’s life treating you, kid?” he asked, his voice light and teasing, but there was a certain softness there, too.

I shrugged, leaning into the warmth of the conversation. “Same old, same old. And you?”

“I’m alive,” Carson said with a laugh, his usual self-deprecating humor in full swing.

As the conversation continued around us—Mom making sure we were all helping, Amy gently pushing everyone to contribute—I felt that old, comfortable rhythm returning. 

The kitchen, bustling with life and voices, felt like home in a way it hadn’t in years. It wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. But with every word, every shared laugh, and every passing touch, I realized it didn’t need to be. We were here. Together. And that was enough.

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[plaguedocboi]

Waterfalls! These gorgeous, powerful features of nature have been oddly lacking in my past lists, I think in part because their danger has always seemed more “obvious” to me. But doing the research for this list has reawakened my phobia of the water. Some of the later entries (numbers 9 and 10 especially) brought back anxieties that I thought I had gotten over long ago, but it was kind of thrilling. Like watching a particularly scary horror movie. Let’s get into it!

1. Underwater Waterfall, Mauritius

No, it’s not really a waterfall. It’s just an optical illusion caused by sand falling off the island’s slope down into the deeper water below. But it looks cool and scary, and the drop-off is 2.5 miles deep so that’s pretty impressive and I think it deserves at least a mention.

2. Blood Falls, Antarctica

There’s nothing particularly dangerous about this one, it just looks incredibly creepy. Obviously, it’s not actually blood, it’s just water that’s very rich in iron. But the really fascinating part of this waterfall is that its source seems to be a subglacial lake that contains a unique microbial ecosystem which has been isolated for two million years! These microbes are like nothing else we’ve ever observed in nature before. They live in an incredibly cold and extremely saline lake, and metabolize sulfur and iron ions with no oxygen present. They are being used as a model to study what life on ice-covered alien planets could be like.

3. Khone Falls, Laos

This waterfall is not nearly as famous as some of the others on this list, which is surprising because it’s the widest waterfall in the world, with an average width of six miles! Although not particularly tall, it is the second most powerful waterfall in the world, more than double the power of Niagara Falls! The Khone falls divide the Upper and Lower Mekong river, making travel by boat between the north and south impossible. What makes it kind of unsettling to me is that during the rainy seasons the falls are basically swallowed up by the river, turning them from a spectacular waterfall to a series of massive rapids.

4. Huntington Gorge, Vermont

When water levels are low, this river is a popular and scenic swimming spot, and the canyon has an almost otherworldly quality with its unique bends and overhangs. Unfortunately, these very features are what makes it so dangerous. Much like the infamous Strid, the gorge is full of holes, steep drop-offs, and powerful currents hidden beneath the water, which can suck people in and trap them against the cliff walls. Over fifty people have died here since the 1950s, and many more have been injured. With proper precautions, one can safely explore the gorge and swim in the river, but don’t forget that this water has swallowed up many people before you.

5. Victoria Falls, Zambia

I’m sure most of you already know about Mosi-oa-Tunya, more widely called Victoria Falls, as the largest waterfall in the world. Formed as the Zambezi river pours into a series of massive gorges, this curtain of water spans nearly a mile and falls 300 feet with such force that columns of rising spray can be seen for miles around. Despite this, the pools around the lip of the falls can be relatively tame, and locals have fished while balancing on the edge of the cliff for generations. The safest and most famous of these fishing holes is the Devils Pool, which allows you to literally swim right up to the edge of the world’s biggest waterfall. The pool is actually very safe when the correct precautions are taken, and I can only find one death attributed to the pool specifically, when a tour guide in 2009 fell while trying to help a man who had slipped and was dangling off the edge (and, honestly, I was expecting a lot more deaths given the amount of clickbait articles advertising it as the most deadly swimming hole in the world). Although that was the only death from the Devils Pool, there have been many other deaths at Victoria Falls, mostly tourists who underestimate the power of the river or get too close to the edge. So if you ever visit this spectacular waterfall, please observe it from a safe distance and follow all the rules.

6. Huka Falls, New Zealand

This is not a traditional waterfall, but rather a series of small waterfalls along a narrow stretch of the Waikato river, creating an incredibly turbulent chasm that ends in a whirlpool. The 300-foot wide river is funneled into a 50-foot wide stream, causing a torrent of water that flows at a rate of 58,000 gallons per second. Obviously, this is not an area that you should get in the water, but not everyone takes that advice. There have been multiple deaths at this waterfall, and a few narrow escapes, including two swimmers who, incredibly, survived after trying to raft down the falls on pool toys. Please, for the love of god, don’t do that.

7. Niagara Falls, US/Canada

These falls are the only place on this list that I’ve visited, and I can tell you they are certainly an incredible sight, but also rather intimidating due to their sheer size and power. These three massive waterfalls are fed by the Great Lakes and, combined, have nearly 700,000 gallons of water thundering down every second. There is also a permanent whirlpool in the river that has existed for over 4,000 years and reaches depths of 125 feet! Besides being huge and awe-inspiring, these waterfalls are known for their appeal to daredevils who have gone over the edge in barrels or, in one case, a giant rubber ball. But these famous success stories are punctuated with tragedy. Roughly 20-30 people die at Niagara Falls every year. Most of these, sadly, are suicides, but others are failed attempts to replicate the successful daredevils of the past, and others are accidental. An estimated 5,000 bodies were recovered at the bottom of the falls between 1850 and 2011.

8. Murchison Falls, Uganda

Also known as Kabalega Falls, this is the worlds most powerful waterfall. Formed as the Nile River flows from Lake Kyoga to Lake Albert, this waterfall is so strong it literally causes the ground to shake around it. Here, the Nile is constricted from a river nearly 400 ft wide to a passage only 20 ft wide, creating an incredibly turbulent and violent tunnel of water that tears its way into the pool below at 79,000 gallons per second. And this is no ordinary pool. Waiting below the falls is the highest concentration of large crocodiles observed anywhere in the world, waiting for any dead or stunned animals caught in the falls to wash into their lair. Although the waterfall and surrounding park are now a beautiful tourist attraction and wildlife refuge, the history of the falls includes tales of human and animal sacrifices, thrown in alive to appease the gods that some believed resided beneath the raging waters.

9. Bath Fountain, Jamaica

This is just a random little waterfall along a hiking trail, but the video triggered some intense bathophobia in me for the first time in a while. Like, I was scared to get in the shower after watching this. Proceed with caution:

10. Kipu Falls, Hawaii

This one scares me because, despite my research, I can’t actually figure out what the hell is happening here. Multiple people have died here; all tourists, all drownings, all of seemingly very unclear causes. Kipu Falls is a beautiful and popular swimming spot, and locals frequently dive off the top of the falls with seemingly no danger. However, five deaths over the course of five years from 2006-2011 challenged its reputation of being a safe swimming hole. All the articles I could find seem to repeat the same information; there is no current in the pool and the waterfalls are not especially powerful. Despite these established facts, all five deaths were the same. Someone jumped in, surfaced, and then were dragged back down to the bottom of the pool and held there until they died. This has resulted in a lot of speculation, including everything from a hidden whirlpool current to evil spirits. I’m just. Really unsettled by the lack of information on this one. Every article I found was published in 2011 and I couldn’t find any updates, which hopefully means people aren’t still dying here, but… what the fuck???? Was going on????? Sorry guys this one might not be as dangerous as some of the others but it freaks me out a lot so it’s getting a higher rating. I want to know what’s going on but I’m sure not going to investigate it myself.

[whirlybirbs]

— have some wips !

i have so many things cooking in the kitchen that i think i just need to share. so, happy monday! here are ten works in progress.

below the cut are works for: nanami kento, toshinori yagi, keigo takami, katsuki bakugo, sylus, ryomen sukuna, kyojuro rengoku, estinien wyrmblood & thancred waters

1.) nanami kento / f!reader — a little workplace romance fic with a pining trope set around the time nanami leaves his finance job to teach.

Nanami is cleaning off his desk. Not there's much to clean off, really. You catch a glimpse of him through the divide in monitors. You steel your gaze. For the last two years, he sat across from you in this small office. When in doubt, you would lean around your computer and lock eyes with him. He would answer your questions on the details of his recent sale, and when your heels would brush his dress shoes under the desk's small opening, neither of you would say a word about it. You should have enjoyed it more while it lasted.

2.) secretary!toshinori yagi / f!reader — another office romance set during vigilantes! i love a good "secret identity" moment.

"Between you and I, sir, I know Mr. Yagi's health has been a bit touch-and-go. He has not shared the details with me, nor have I really asked," you shrug as you eye the stack of finished paperwork, "However, I just wish to do the best I can this week so that he may ease back into work with not nearly as much stress." All Might's face is hard to read. Suddenly, the character is back. "Well! A high compliment! Anywho! Good luck with the socks!" And he's gone. When the door to your office closes, you're confronted with a few things. The first is a shameful realization that All Might is hot. The second is that now you feel strange owning a ten-pack of underwear with his winking face on each pair. The third is stranger, more tangled.  Is he sexy because he reminds you of Mr. Yagi? Or is he sexy because he's All Might? I mean, the hands. They're the same hands.  Do you have a thing for blondes?  ...Do you have a thing for Mr. Yagi? Oh. Oh.  ...That energy drink needs to be discontinued. 

3.) meet & greet part two — hawks / f!reader — i know i have been so slow on updating this one, but i promise i am working on it, i just have the attention span of a pigeon.

Wild eyes fly to the large, glass windows lining the far end of the bar — there's someone there, sliding slowly down the floor-to-ceiling panes. Your face contorts into a look of confusion, then disgust when you realize... ew, there's slime trailing the... The bird. Your eyes widen miles long, and then your head snaps to the waitress in panic.  She's still staring, as is most of the waitstaff and patrons, when she mutters: "Is that... Hawks...?" Oh shit. It is. Yep. Mhm. It's him, unceremoniously sliding down the windows of Sakura Spring, one of the nicest restaurants in this city. His back hurts — and fuck, his nose is bleeding, and ow, it's been a while since he's hit a window that hard.  The slime in his feathers is making any sort of controlled descent nearly impossible.

4.) pro hero!bakugo / f!reader — this was originally a halloween piece that i have been marinating on for a while. mina is a great wing woman and pro hero dynamight likes pretty girls in all might costumes.

You're snickering as you give the green soju bottle a strong spin.  It goes and goes and goes and goes — three and a half whole spins. It begins to slow, creeping to a stop, and the whole room goes silent when they follow the line of the neck of the bottle. You clam up. Bakugo grits his jaw. The bottle is pointing directly at him. He sits back, narrows his eyes at you, and you swear he almost sneers.  "I can spin again," your tone is apologetic like you've just inconvenienced him in the worst way possible. You bow your head, moving to reach for the bottle, "Since you're not playing—" But, Bakugo's already standing up.  Your eyes must be a mile wide. And Mina, god... Mina is screaming silently as the blonde gets up, tugs his black jeans up, and shoves his phone into his back pocket.  Your hand is frozen mid-air. Then, Dynamight — the Dynamight — throws a look over his shoulder at you. "...Are you comin' or what?"  His voice is... almost shy. 

5.) sylus / mc!reader — literally do not look at me i told y'all i wouldn't be able to come out the other end of love and deepspace unscathed by the sylus bug

He's frustrating.  He's so — BLAM, BLAM, BLAM — goddamn irritating.  The cascade of empty casings slows as the air rings. The target three meters ahead of you, down range, has been torn apart — the bullseye is no more than tatters now.  The air smells like spent gunpowder.  You exhale and finally lower your aim.  Your jaw is tight as you thumb the magazine release. The empty cartridge slips into your hand before you place it down forcefully on the range's shelf. Like always, you cock back the hammer and eject the last remaining bullet. You catch it, then slam it down to the table. The pistol follows. It's fast. Practiced.  "It's fine." Sylus hasn't torn his eyes off you once. He's leaned back against his workbench — long legs stretched out before him, his boots crossed at the ankle. His expression is unreadable, as always, but his voice is imperceptibly soft. "Just fine?"  "I prefer my standard issue—" "Those pistols were junk," he cuts you off sternly, and you finally look backward at him from down range; he is glaring now, "Haven't you ever heard the expression 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth'?"

6.) heian era!ryoman sukuna / f!reader — when i tell you this might be my favorite thing i have ever written i mean it and it is not even done yet. this fic is literally me being INSANE. mmm tasty human flesh, bad bad mental health, black mold consumption, all of it.

"You care for them." He sounds... curious. You smile up at him, squinting into the sun. You're squatted in the gravel, your palm open as the little fetal things clamber over your palm and feast upon a bad cut of meat. Too much fat. They chew and chew with their misshapen mouths. Their bone-colored skin is covered in gore.  You're delighted at the sight. "Do you not?" you ask softly, with such honesty it shocks him; no one speaks with him. They answer to him. You tip your head back down and coo at them, "You are their King, after all." Sukuna scoffs. He wanders a few feet from the sight and turns his eyes up the great cherry blossom tree in the center of the garden. There are other minor curses there, watching. His lip curls. "They are insignificant, mindless things." That sentiment hurts. Stings. Aches. Your frown is pained as you continue your doting, but your voice is clipped. "They are nothing of that sort." "Mind your tone, little shrine maiden," he reprimands sharply, his teeth glimmering in the sunlight; he turns, crosses his arms, and pins you with an unamused look, "You dare challenge me on that fact? You said it yourself, I am their King." "...They are made of emotion," you murmur, an ache of rejection stinging through your face. You have more to say, more to explain. Does he not understand it? You don't dare lift your head.  Sukuna doesn't like how... quiet you've gone. He doesn't like it.  He... fuck.  He's going soft, isn't he?

7.) bruised ego part 3 — young!all might x f!reader ; derecho — this is a wildly angsty fic about derecho being forced to relapse on trigger and being sent home to her family's fishing village and it's me chasing down the feeling of longing you get from a ghibli movie

This is bad. It was supposed to be like any normal, first-shift patrol. Noon to night. You two were on your usual route through Shibuya Crossing when — what is now understood as a preplanned attack — six Yakuza members caught you both unaware.  You were separated in the fray. From what Toshinori has gathered in the hours after the incident, the handful of yakuza knew you — they were from the same crime family you'd managed to shake after your arrest and rehabilitation. They knew who you were and they knew exactly what would happen when they lodged a full vial of Trigger into your thigh in the scramble to apprehend them.  "We're just lucky this didn't happen at rush hour," the lawyers said during the debrief an hour ago, "We'd be facing far worse than one serious injury and one fatality." The fatality: Hishiro Ioiri. A member of the Shie Hassaikai. The man who'd been stupid enough to be in your grasp the moment he slammed the drug into your already activated nervous system.  The news has been replaying the footage over and over and over — your rampage only lasted fifteen minutes, but it was the longest fifteen minutes of Toshinori's life. Four blocks of the highly trafficked, commercialized transportation zone: effectively rendered totaled. Blown-out. Any and all electrical was shot. Fuses melted. Panels of glowing advertisements fried, their LEDs burst like every transformer in a mile radius. Pop, pop, pop.  You inadvertently blacked out Shibuya Crossing.  Not until after you electrified Hishiro Ioiri to death on live television, that is. Not until the rage swept you away, and the years of forgetting what Trigger felt like rushed back up to meet you full force.  Toshinori's knee bounces as his mind swirls. 

8.) kyojuro rengoku / f!reader ; hashira — this is loosely related to my other rengoku piece, but this is all about unrequited yearning and responsibilities keeping lovers apart and it hurts me, actually

"You oughta get some sleep, Kyojuro." "When she wakes." Rengoku doesn't lift his head. His arms remain crossed, braced along his crisply starched uniform jacket. His characteristic unruly strands of gold and crimson spill along his back and shoulders.  Tengen can hardly swallow down his concern for his dear friend when he notices a shadow of stubble along the Flame Hashira's jaw. Never in all the years that he's known Kyojuro has ever seen him unshaven.  ...He looks like his father.  Tengen exhales and pushes off the doorway. He enters the private room, taking careful stock of the sun dappling your cheeks as you remain unmoving in bed. The window above you is open, the breeze is soft. Your crow is perched there, as still as a statue. One black, beady eye asses Tengen, then returns to watching you sleep.  The Sound Hashira's voice is soft — coaxing.  "She'd want you to eat, y'know." "As I said," Kyojuro reminds him firmly, "When she wakes." Damn. Shinobu said it was bad, but she didn't say it was this bad. Tengen isn't entirely sure how Shinobu figured out the fickle, unspoken thing: that you care for Rengoku as much as he cares for you, and Tengen doesn't ask. Kocho is creepy like that. Creepy and smart. Creepy-smart.  But this? He's never seen Kyo so... extinguished. Dull. Half-there.

9.) estinien wyrmblood / f!reader ; warrior of light —literally do not look at me don't fucking look at me this has been in the works since 2023 i cannot stop thinking about it

The hymn is as soft as falling petals. As sweet as spring. A long-forgotten tune hummed on a high octave. Soft, ephemeral. The opposite of everything he knows about the woman ahead of him. But, Estinien Wyrmblood — as he drags himself onward, over a fallen log, and deeper into the ancient wood of the Dravanian Hinterlands — supposes that now is as good a time as any to be taken with the sudden, fleeting, and delicate beauty of the dear Warrior of Light.  You're a few yalms ahead of him, slipping through the thicket and chasing bundles of firewood with open arms.  Beneath his helm, his mouth twists into something shy of a grimace.  He should have heeded Master Alphinaud's pleas to join them.  Perhaps then he wouldn't be so silently taken with the rarity of a quiet moment with the Warrior — and perhaps he wouldn't be so keenly aware of his own faceted personality.  Introspection does nothing good for the soul, not when the nibbling rage of Nidhogg in the back of his mind is enough to keep him awake night after night. Not when, even now, he can hear the wyrm's mocking snarl somewhere in the back of his mind. Early evening light filters through the broad leaves and dapples the grass. The Azure Dragoon heaves a sigh from his lungs, then stops long enough on the path to violently wrench a dying branch down from its perch. Into his arms, it goes. Firewood fine enough. You catch the jerky, hasty motion out of the corner of your eye. It's almost enough to make you laugh.  Estinien — in the short time you've known him — has become an admirable companion.  He is, after all, renowned as Ishgard's Azure Dragoon. The knight's title is a thing worth marvel and awe. The very idea of him being surrounded by the pomp and circumstance of the title earned is enough to draw a slow smile to your face.  From your spot, crouched to grab a low branch, you slip your gaze across him.  Tall. Broad and imposing and decorated in armor as dark as the hide of the mighty Wyrm he seeks to destroy. His intricate armor tinkers as he moves with ease through the brush. That helm of his hides all. No gaze — only an inky flash of obsidian.  Only a deep frown. You call it as you see it, crouched in the brush as you pull another branch into your arms.  "You're frowning." The jest from your lips is unprompted. Estinien realizes, suddenly, that he is not yet accustomed to the rasp of your voice.  You're a warrior of little words — that much was made clear from the start. Now, in the quiet lull of travel, he's begun to hear more of your words. Be it traded softly over the fire with Alphinaud, or over thoughtful conversation with Lady Iceheart.  "Pardon my lack of enthusiasm for menial chores."

10.) thancred waters / f!reader ; warrior of light — and on that note DON'T LOOK AT ME DON'T LOOOOOK AT ME

...You shouldn't be resting. You clench and unclench your hands three times. The joints ache. There are scars littering those digits like starlight. The everlasting reminder of false Gods and mighty Men brought to their knees by you.  You. Pathetic, exhausted, sweating you.  You should be getting back to the others in Mor Dohna, keeping them updated. Tataru is most likely worried sick.  You're about to give in, to muscle yourself up and heave your chest piece and pack back on. This moment of reprieve — however slight — will have to do for now. But, then, you hear rustling just beyond your shoulder.  Your face tenses and your fingers move to the dagger in your boot. Surely Feo Ul would forgive you for skewering a pixie? If they knew their dearest, sweetest, little sapling was vexed by this mood? This tiresome, begrudged mood?  Yes. Yes, they'd allow it. You're sure of it, and perhaps it would teach those winged-beasties something about minding their manners — especially around an already sour Warrior of Darkness, Light, and everything in between.  ...Whatever your damned title is nowadays.  But, the tell-tale giggle of a winged pixie never comes.  Instead, the familiar voice of a certain ashen-haired Gunbreaker meets your ears; soft and smooth and... hesitant.  "I do hope I'm not intruding." Thancred Waters. Master of Espionage. Aether-torn. Father figure. Once-romantic.  ...Still romantic? There was a time in your life when you knew him mostly as a wine-tongued Lothario — as charming as they came and with wit as sharp as a knife. He waded through whispered secrets, peddled kiss-muddled rumors, and used them to shape the stake of the realm.  Back in Ul'dah, when you first met all those moons ago, you shook his hand in the hot sun and he met you with a smile as sweet as honey.  You understood it then, and you surely understand it now. Thancred himself supposes he's a different man than he was all those years ago back in Ul'dah, back when he first met you — after all, with Ryne turning her expectations to him, he could ill afford the old ways of being. That's not to say he misses it much; no, grief changed that. Where he used to long for the momentary release of a wandering touch, he now yearns for the more tender things.  Lies can only keep a man fed and full for so long.  And there's surely no sense in lying to himself: he cares for you. Deeply.

[pellaaearien]

Here With Me (Chapter 8)

Dreamling | E | Caretaking, Porn With Plot | ~20k total

--

In the end, Dream reflects, it is not that it is easy to forget that he is no longer the oracle. It is just that so many things have changed in such a short span of time that none of it seems especially noteworthy.

They leave the inn at sunrise, neither of them able to sleep more than a few hours at a time despite their exhaustion. Dream is unexpectedly sorry to leave the inn behind — it had been a place of rare refuge, and will remain such in memory.

Riding astride Jessamy, with Hob’s arms encircling him from behind, it is impossible not to be reminded of his changed status, the ache between his legs beating out a tempo with every mile.

Hob, who would shield him from every discomfort, apologizes whenever he is jostled. Dream shakes his head. It feels right and proper that it should hurt, that he should carry such a permanent change in his body somehow.

Hob takes them off the road as soon as might be, following the track of a convenient stream to, as he explains, foil pursuit.

“I’m expecting Burgess to send men after us,” he says. “But perhaps only a specialized team. He’ll want to get us back to save face; to the rest of the world, he might pretend he still has you in custody.” He grips Dream tighter at the thought, and Dream is only too happy to lean into his embrace. “Otherwise, we might have had to contend with the entire kingdom hunting us down. It’s the only reason I didn’t kill him.” The darkness of his voice suggests how near of a thing it had been.

Dream hums acknowledgement. He wants to have something more useful to say, but in truth it is difficult to care about such dilemmas while ensconced in the safety of Hob’s arms. 

Hob had come for him. Out of the jaws of death, behind enemy lines. When he had taken off that helmet and revealed himself, Dream had been reborn, his world bursting back into vibrant life. Alone in his cell, Dream had sunk into the clinging depths of apathy. Upon seeing Hob, that feeling had transformed. He still feels as though nothing matters, with one caveat: so long as Hob is there, he can face whatever happens.

He is happily, entirely Hob’s, the release of his body having released him from his function. 

“After that, I’m afraid I haven’t much more of a plan,” Hob admits. “We won’t want to stay in Burgess’ kingdom, and you’d be recognized back home.”

“Oh.” Dream blinks, coming back to the present, realizing he’d never told Hob this part. “I know where we’re going.”

“You do.” Dream can’t see Hob’s expression but he suspects the only reason he doesn’t sound more surprised is his amount of trust in Dream’s abilities. 

“This vision, it was… different.” Dream thinks of how to explain. “I just… know. Where it was. How to get there.”

“Well, then, my love,” Hob says, with another kiss to the top of his head that Dream is quickly learning to expect when they ride like this. “Where are we going?” 

Dream closes his eyes, reaches inside himself for that feeling of certainty. Without opening them, he points. “That way.”

Hob leans in; Dream is surrounded by his warmth, his scent. He no longer has a function. He might, in time, learn how to be human.

“That way?” Hob murmurs next to his ear. Dream wants to wrap himself in the sound of his voice. He nods, not trusting himself to look.

“That way, then,” Hob says, and turns Jessamy without another word. 

Summer has yet to quite lose its grip on Burgess’ lands, making it warm enough to sleep under the stars as long as they have a fire going, which Hob lights once he deems they are a suitable distance from the road.

Hob has supplies with him enough for a week’s return journey, enough for two — he hadn’t considered failure an option. Dream eats the simple rations with good will, not feeling the need to mention that the fare is as good or better than what he’s been eating recently. He thinks Hob knows, anyway, as they have a brief disagreement over Hob trying to give Dream part of his share. 

“And if you were to weaken due to lack of nourishment, who would defend me, out here in the wilds?” Dream finally demands, at the end of his patience. He does not like holding Hob’s oath over him like this. But it means he prevails, Hob smiling ruefully as he finishes his portion.

Hob had only bothered with one bedroll, Dream is pleased to discover, when he unrolls it next to the banked fire. They lie down on it, curled close, and it suddenly occurs to Dream that there is no longer anything forbidding them from touching each other. That there never will be again. That he will never have to wear a chastity belt, never be locked up in another’s keeping.

As the thought occurs, Dream shifts against Hob. Perhaps not as subtly as he’d hoped, if Hob’s hum of interest is any indication.

“Need something, beautiful?” Hob murmurs, a smile in his voice, and Dream bites his lip. He wants, suddenly. Urgently. But…

“I don’t think I can—”

“Shh,” Hob soothes, tracing simple patterns over Dream’s belly. Even this casual touch is like fire, and Dream wants to be consumed. “I never would. Not so soon. Not here. You deserve better than that. But I can…” He slips his fingers lower, and Dream’s breath catches. “I want you to have as many orgasms as you want. Every single day of your life. Will you let me give that to you?”

“Yes…” Dream’s voice is high in his throat. He can’t bring himself to care. “Hob, yes—”

“Hmmm…” Hob’s fingers withdraw, and Dream nearly sobs at the loss. Hob rummages around a bit, and returns with the salve.

“That is… for your wounds,” Dream protests, but the warm slide of Hob’s fingers over his most sensitive parts, where he is sore and aching, makes it difficult to complain.

“I’ll heal,” Hob shrugs. “Let me take care of you.”

And who takes care of you? Dream thinks, but then Hob gently brushes his clit and all higher thought flees from him. 

There is no grand production here, just the press of their bodies, and Hob’s careful touches. The pleasure builds slowly, sweetly, almost imperceptibly. His climax, when it comes, takes Dream by surprise.

“Oh,” he says, once he comes down. He hadn’t known it could be like this. He’s almost disconcerted at how easily his body had gone.

“Feel better, love?” Hob says softly, withdrawing his hand. Dream nods, a floaty sense of well-being flooding him. He has a vague thought that there’s a very important question he ought to be asking, but he’s asleep before he figures out what it should be.

Burgess looms over him, curled up as small as possible on the stone floor. “So, you were useless after all,” he hisses. “Not a single prophecy? What is the point of you?” There is a line of men standing behind Burgess, their faces in shadow. The core of him already aches. In front of him, Hob lies staring up at the ceiling with blank, lifeless eyes, his blood spreading in an ever-growing pool. He opens his mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.

Dream wakes, and doesn’t know where he is. 

It’s dark; the ground is cold and hard beneath him. Is he still in his cell? Was the rescue, Hob being alive, all a dream, and this the reality?

He lies very still. Perhaps if he doesn’t move, pretends he hasn’t woken, then he might find his way back to the place where Hob was caring for him.

“Dream?” Hob’s voice, heavy with sleep, comes from behind him. Dream squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to decide if he is dreaming or waking. Wishing he saw anything behind his lids but Hob’s lifeless eyes. “Wuzzit?”

The body behind him stirs. Dream doesn’t look, can’t look. If this is a dream, then he refuses to open his eyes and ruin it.

“Love, are you hurt?” Dream shakes his head. “Can you open your eyes for me?” He shakes his head again. “Why not?”

“You’ll be gone,” Dream blurts out, seized by the utter conviction that this is so.

“I’m not going anywhere, darling,” Hob’s voice says. “I promise. And I always keep my promises, don’t I?” He sounds so sad and concerned that Dream opens his eyes, willing to do anything for Hob.

Hob’s face is hovering over him, just visible in the darkness. Dream can’t make out the look in his eyes, and for a moment he’s just like those shadow-faced men, then he blinks and he’s just Hob again. Dream whimpers.

“Hob?” He doesn’t know what to believe.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Hob cups his face, and Dream grips his hand for dear life, the proof of something real. “What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”

“You were dead,” Dream whispers, as though saying it more loudly would draw attention. “And I was alone…”

“Shh, dove.” There are lips against his, clumsy and warm and real, and Dream sobs. “You’re never going to be alone, not while I’m here, and I am so alive.” 

He shifts, and somehow Dream ends up nestled on top of him like before. “Here, darling. Hear my heartbeat?” 

He cards his hands through Dream’s hair, pressing his head against his chest, until Dream has calmed sufficiently to hear the thrum of his pulse.

“Hob,” Dream sobs, pressing closer to that vital sound.

“It’s all right, love. I’ll remind you as many times as you need. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

Dream huffs. He doesn’t see the point of responding to such a ridiculous statement. 

“We’re using the rest of the salve on your wounds,” he says instead.

Hob’s chest rises and falls in a sigh. “As you wish, my love.”

[silcodependent]

Sway

Chapter 9

Silco x Fem!Reader

1.4K Words

Silco image to remind us what we are fighting for

The hours flew by looking over this piece of paper and that, trying to imagine walls out of two dimensional lines. The way Silco described it was breathtaking, it took the rumble you were surrounded with and painted a picture of the future, both grand and believable. He certainly had a way with words, it made you wonder what else that silver tongue was good for.

“There’s one last thing I want to discuss” Silco’s words brought you back from your daydream as you and Remy followed him back to what had been your dressing room.

Like everywhere else the walls were bare, the countertops, mirrors and vanity lights gone but had been replaced with large sheets of paper spanning most of the walls covered in detailed drawings of a dressing room beyond belief. Two stories, the bottom for dressing, makeup, costumes and a private bathroom to die for despite its size. The upper level was connected by a spiral staircase in the back corner that led into a lounge complete with a space to receive guests, entry from the balcony, wet bar and your own veranda overlooking a slice of the undercity. 

Your fingers gingerly traced the designs as Silco described every piece. A stunned silence hung in the air when finished.

“Do you like it?”

You couldn’t take your eyes off of it, lips trembling, stumbling over the right words. But there were no words. All you could do was shake your head in stunned disbelief. 

“It's…It’s too much.” You finally forced out, hands still tracing every line of the drawings, completely transfixed.

Silco hummed from somewhere a thousand miles behind you.

“I see. You prefer something simpler.”

His words hardly reached you, everything around you felt as surreal as a dream. It wasn’t until you felt his presence behind you that began to wake. 

“Show me.” Silco’s voice as dark as the depths and twice as soothing. You turned to him, your eyes betraying your normal concealment, showing you for exactly what you are: Confused, skeptical, and utterly in awe.

Fire and water searched your face for words you didn’t know how to speak. There was a slight lift in the scar on the corner of his lips and you were lost in it.

“She loves it.” Remy placed a hand on your shoulder forcing you back to reality. You couldn’t help but look at him in hope that he'd be able to speak the words you couldn’t.

Another win for Remy’s relentless charm as he did just that, looking directly at Silco.

“It’s perfect”. Isn’t that right?” This time Remy looked to you but you couldn’t return the gaze finding it impossible to lift your eyes from the floor. 

“Yes, perfect. Truly.” Was all you were able to squeak out. Luckily Remy continued as though you were being perfectly normal, asking Silco about materials and details until they exited to the next room.

A moment alone allowed you to exhale the breath you’d been holding since you walked into this room. 

It doesn’t make sense. It’s too much. It’s…

You felt naked and vulnerable in the light of such a grand gesture. You were lucky he wasn’t there to see. Or perhaps he already had. You didn’t know. Your head was swimming with thoughts and feelings you couldn’t understand.

The plans in front of you were taped neatly to the wall with intentionality. They were more detailed than any of the others you’d gone over today, complete with artist rendering of the finished design--something that no other part of the club was given.

But why?

The answer was both obvious and elusive. There was a spark between you. You knew that. You were sure he felt it too but to what degree? This was beyond the game of cat and mouse the two of you had been playing for weeks and it left you mystified and speechless.

This was the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for you. How do you thank someone for that?

Perhaps you were reading too much into this but the feeling lingered and nagged. What was this and what did it mean?

“If everything looks in order, I’ll have the workers start on it this week” Silco’s words pierced your haze as you joined them both in that hallway.

“This week sounds great.” You replied, finally finding your voice. 

“Then I’ll get to work.” Silco said, giving you a soft smile. “I’ll keep you updated as things progress.” He added, turning on his heels and making his exit. Your eyes couldn’t help but linger on the door after he left.

“Care to tell me what’s going on with you and Silco?” Remy’s smile was evident in his voice before you turned to see it plastered even wider on his face.

“Nothing!” You said, a little louder than you meant to. Remy simply laughed and shook his head as blush rapidly rose to your cheeks.

“Nothing.” You repeated softly this time,”I don’t know what all this is about.”

“Well I have a theory…” he teased. You did not appreciate it.

“Enlighten me.” you pushed back sarcastically.

“He’s smitten.”

“He is a flirt.”

“I very much doubt that.” Remy retorted.

You thought back on your moments together.

“I don’t have the look or temperament to be a lover”

“The more I find out about you, the more I’m surprised by your intentionality, strategic thinking, and reserve. We seem to have more and more in common.”

As comfortable and slick as he was trading coy barbs with you, his comments did make it seem like this was rare for him. Or perhaps rare for him these days. Your brain flashed the image of young Silco fighting on the bridge again, and you felt that familiar pang in your ribs. This was rare for you too.

Despite how light and fun you both had kept things, this had gone too far. You had known from the beginning that Silco was bad for business but you could never have predicted this. And here you were stunned and uncertain of your next move.

No investments, no attachments, no situations you weren’t in control of; rules broken. Rules meant to protect you.

“Do you like him?” Remy asked. He was genuine in his question but it didn’t make you feel any less silly.

I don’t know him, was your first thought. How much you longed to, was your second. 

But all that came out was a shake of your head as you replied “I don’t date men I’ve met at the club.”

Remy’s eyes were soft and compassionate, which made his next sentence resonate even more.

“That’s not what I asked you.”

The realization now obvious to both of you. 

This was going to be trouble. What were you going to do?

You shook your head, forcing that dilemma away until you were alone to unravel its meaning.

“Who else was supposed to be at this meeting?”

Remy’s brow creased with confusion at the sudden change of topic.

“Silco asked you if ‘this is everyone?’. Who else were you expecting?”

You could see from his reaction you were both in the middle of conversations you’d rather not have.

He swallowed hard before he answered, “The Kane brothers. Although I’m not sure ‘expecting’ is really the right word for it.”

“What?” You exhaled in disbelief. The Kane brothers? The Kane brothers? Your mind felt foggy and dense. Today had taken its toll and there was no way to process or understand this information. This wasn’t right. You were mistaken. You were dreaming. You were…

“I reached out to them to try and mend things. Invite them to still be a part of the process-”

“And Silco went for that?”

“Silco suggested it.”

The words washed past you with the idle meaning of leaves in a stream. Except they weren’t leaves, they were diamonds. Foreign and strange and wholly out of place. This was wrong.

“What?” Was the only sentence you could form.

“It hardly matters now..”

You could hear Remy continuing on but your mind was overloaded as it is. Of course it matters. When diamonds start floating down stream you figure out where they are coming from. And why is it that they aren’t sinking.

“--I was hopeful they’d show but not surprised they didn’t. I figured that much after they never responded to my letters, but you know me, I can’t help but hope for the best.”

At least you could count on Remy to stay Remy. That seemed to be the only thing you could count on these days.

[noodleblade]

Light by Mechanical Fire Chapter Two

When dawn came and it was time to head to morning refuel, Knock Out hardly felt himself anymore. His plating felt too heavy for his frame to carry, his mind possessed by thoughts he now accepted may never fade. It was as if another inhabitant had snuck into his body the day they had found the chop shop and it was slowly pushing him out. It was the only way to explain the thoughts, explain the desires, explain the hundreds of schematics he drew in his mind throughout the night cycles since.

Or, a post-canon Knock Out attempts to bring his partner back from the dead. [Frankenstein kobd au] (chapter two)

fic below the cut

“My dreams were all my own; I accounted for them to nobody; they were my refuge when annoyed - my dearest pleasure when free.”

It was a slow ride back to base. Smokescreen’s subdued disposition had changed little and Knock Out offered only a brief explanation as to the cause. The remaining members of their little squad understood immediately and asked no further questions, though furtive, pitying glances were thrown to them as they made their way out of the bunker. 

Wheeljack had taken it upon himself to fill the awkward silence for their ride back with another one of his little stories. Knock Out noted that rather than a tale of violence and bloodshed, it was one from his planet-hoping days. It was all in an effort to distract Smokescreen and while Knock Out found the gesture kind, he was quick to tune out the wrecker’s bravado. His own thoughts were plagued with visions no exaggerated story could cast aside. 

He couldn’t get the tank out of his mind; its soulless optics watching himself even as the miles between them grew. It was not so much the mech itself, but the nearly intact frame it contained. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his processor from going down a dark path. 

As part of his medic onboarding, he had downloaded the specs of every commonplace frame in the Decepticon command. He was surprised to find the tankformer’s specs in the archive, though the data itself was older and not as detailed as he would like. Still, in the quiet of driving back to base, Knock Out couldn’t help but take apart every inch of the schematics, dismantling the frame in his mind. It…was like a puzzle, taking the pieces and building something new. 

Knock Out had been intimately familiar with Breakdown’s entire structural framework as his primary medic for thousands of cycles. Knock Out had been insistent from when they first met that he would be the only medic to ever work on his partner’s frame and Breakdown had been more than willing to abide by the request. In that span of thousands of years, Knock Out had done every operation under the sun for Breakdown: armor refittings, wire patches, energon transfusion, structural repairs and replacements. Knock Out had even been on the lookout for a replacement optic for Breakdown but hadn’t managed to find a suitable match before… 

Well, it didn’t matter anymore.

Now all those years of expertise made piecing together a new Breakdown almost a game. There was a terrible, exhilarating pleasure in the exercise. A guilt and desperate want coiled in his tanks as his processor wove together all its knowledge of anatomy, surgery and medicine. 

In the back of his mind, Knock Out could practically hear Ratchet’s bewildered huff. If he knew even a micron of what Knock Out was only thinking about doing, it would send the ambulance into a panic.

Not that it would matter. 

Impossible , Knock Out could hear Ratchet’s exasperated tutting, you are picking a fight with nature and are going to lose.

Knock Out knew even if he could reconstruct Breakdown down to the smallest wire and cable, it wouldn’t matter without a living spark. His spark. Knock Out had heard tales of false sparks and while the science behind it was intriguing, it wouldn’t really bring back his partner. 

As of right now, Breakdown’s spark had been released into the cosmos, biding its time before coming back to Cybertron. 

But with a familiar host, perhaps it could circumvent its rebirth.

Knock Out cast that thought immediately, ignoring the gnawing ache in his tanks. 

He had to stop this madness. He had to stop his ceaseless hope for Breakdown’s return. He had to accept fate and had to accept the hand he was dealt and had to move on . 

But how does one move on when they were missing half of themselves? How could one step forward when everything was gone? How long would he have to go on feeling like this?

At their return to base, Knock Out felt out of body, his frame growing cold and numb. He watched wearily as the smile had returned to Smokescreen’s faceplates, the horrors of the chop shop gone from his mind now that he was back in familiar company. Knock Out wished he could feel the same.

He could still feel the tank’s optics on his back and everytime he closed his optics, all he could see was Breakdown, built anew. Perfect and whole and there.

“Joining us for refuel, Red?” Wheeljack called to him. 

Knock Out snapped his helm over to see Wheeljack watching him appraisingly, his optic ridges pinched together. For a wild moment, Knock Out thought Wheeljack knew what he was thinking; knew about the grim surgeries Knock Out had been fantasizing about on their long drive back; knew about his hopeless wish for Breakdown’s return even if it must be done by his own hand.

“No,” Knock Out said shortly. “I don’t quite have the stomach for it.”

Wheeljack gave a firm nod of understanding. “‘Don’t blame ya. If you change your mind, you know where we’ll be.”

With that, the wrecker led Smokescreen and Bulkhead towards the mess hall, a firm servo on both their back struts. Knock Out bade Ultra Magnus a brief goodbye before rushing to the medbay to lock himself into his private quarter. He needed to be alone to clear his helm, to rid himself of these thoughts.

In his haste for isolation, Knock Out haphazardly unloaded his haul from their scavenging mission. He tossed the tools and patch kits onto one of the recently cleared off medslabs. He would deal with them tomorrow, perhaps teach Smokescreen how to remove the rust and sanitize the tools for reuse. If the kid was so eager to play apprentice, Knock Out had no issue offloading some of the more mundane tasks. 

He paused as he held up the data drive. The casing was aged, weathered and chipping but there was a chance it was still functional. Knock Out knew he should hand it off to Ultra Magnus for inspection, but instead found himself booting up his recently refurbished console and plugging it in. He might as well see if there was anything of value on it to begin with. Due diligence was a quality admired by Autobots, surely. 

It took a while to download. The fact it was even compatible with his current setup was such a surprising relief that Knock Out found himself fine with the wait time. He forced himself to do some self-maintenance in the meantime. He had not been keeping up with his regiment since joining the Autobots. It wasn’t for lack of want or lack of time, but motivating himself to do anything was a struggle. The bare minimum seemed to take all his energy from him, leaving him a husk of a mech. 

Right now, though, the mindless routine was a welcome break from his processor’s ever maddening thoughts. Every time the tank dared cross his mind, he shifted his attention to the hairline scratches across his bumper and the steady pressure of the buffer in hand. 

By the time he had finished his entire frame- buffed and polished by hand -the download had completed, showing hundreds of files neatly arranged. Hunching over the console, Knock Out was surprised to see the depth of information compiled on the one tiny data drive; there were saved correspondences, Decepticon soldier records, supply manifests and inventory spreadsheets, and pages and pages of intensive research notes.

At first, Knock Out amused himself with skimming them. Several of the papers were from various other medics and- to Knock Out’s great surprise -more than half of them belonging to a prewar Ratchet. Apparently, the old ambulance had a Decepticon fanbot. Go figure. 

It was when Knock Out began reading the mech’s own research that his amusement shifted from mild curiosity to intensive fascination. 

Apparently, dissecting living mechs was only the tip of the iceberg.

The subjects were as vast as they were disturbing: vivisection and pain receptor readouts, unorthodox organ transplants, numerous torturous experiments on both Autobot hostages and injured Decepticon soldiers. One file caught Knock Out’s optic, his frame nearly stalling as his intake hitched.

Revival and Resurrection

Knock Out did not hesitate in opening the file despite every rational thought telling him not to. 

The research was sparse. Whether the mech had met his fate shortly after starting this particular field of study or had simply moved onto a different, gruesome topic, Knock Out was not sure. But there were scraps of interesting information compiled in the short document. Some were snippets of past research. A few were philosophical debates on the morality of such a feat. Others were failed case studies and experiments, though- from Knock Out’s understanding - true reanimation was never attempted. Just theoretical simulations and nerve testing on deceased protoform. 

But it was there , somewhere amongst the vague reports and sparse research. Knock Out was not the first to ponder the possibility of reviving the dead and if fate had gone out differently, this cruel doctor may have even been the first to attempt true reanimation. He could see it, in the contemplative notes written by the mech himself. 

“The life force of Cybertron is divided into three primary focal points: body, mind and spark. Body focuses on the structural frame of the individual and the physical components that make up the form. Life cannot exist without physical form. Mind goes beyond the physical processor and sensor readers, but that of cognitive, independent thought. To think for oneself is to be living. The matter of spark is simple; a life force must be present for there to be life. Without a spark, a body is just a husk and a mind cannot think.”

Knock Out captured the words, imprinting them across his processor as his optics trailed over the short passage over and over again. 

Body. Mind. Spark.

Three concrete goals.

Building a body would be easy- his processor linked the task to the ample supply of parts in the chop shop, pulling up his puzzle piece schematic for reference - and the mind would take some research, some trial and error, but it wouldn’t be impossible . But the matter of spark, of life-

A knock on at the medbay doors had Knock Out’s train of thought come to a horrifying, spark-stopping, screeching halt. It was like ice froze the energon in his lines, Knock Out’s entire frame seized up. He sat there, still and unmoving as the sudden reality of his situation fell on him. If anyone were to catch a hint of what he was thinking, he would be tossed into the waste lands of Cybertron to fend for himself or he would be locked away in the brig once more and forgotten. They may have reluctantly accepted a traitor and turncloak into their fold, but Knock Out had the uneasy feeling the acts defying the very laws of nature wouldn’t be so forgivable.

Another knock echoed across the medbay but this time it was followed by a small, muffled voice.

“Knock Out?” 

It took the medic an achingly long moment to realize the voice belonged to Smokescreen, though rather than carrying its typically care-free quality, it was muted, almost shy.

“You have a moment?”

As if anti-freeze had been poured into his system, Knock Out moved in rapid speed. He quickly shut down the console, closing up the data drive and stashing it away. It sat heavy in his subspace as Knock Out did everything he could to quell the faint guilty tremble in his digits. His spark was hammering in its chamber, threatening to dent his plating in its effort to escape. Fear and anxiety mixed with sickly, sticky guilt; not so much for the thoughts themself but for almost getting caught.

A third knock rang through the medbay again.

“Coming,” Knock Out yelped, hoping the panic in his voice did not carry through. 

He had to calm down, settle the shaking in his digits, the rattling of his spark. He closed his optics, taking a deep and steadying inhale and letting it out slowly as he pushed down the wave of morbid fear that tugged on his cables. 

He pulled on his familiar mask, his sharp smile covering the clamminess of his plating. It had been…a while since he had felt the need to don on appearances. Saccharide tongue and biting wit helped him little to gain the Autobot’s favor and as long as he played the good bot, there was never any real risk of harm as there had been on the Nemesis. Throwing up the charade of being calm, collected and controlled felt clunky after cycles of disuse, but Knock Out figured when against Smokescreen it should be adequate.  

He disengaged the medbay lock to find a rather withdrawn Smokescreen. The younger Autobot’s door wings hung low on his back, optics gazed towards the floor as he waited for Knock Out. Upon the doors opening, his helm bobbed up to meet Knock Out’s eye before dropping back down.

“Sorry,” the younger bot said quickly, “I bet you were getting ready for recharge. I just…” the words died and Smokescreen seemed to shrink in on himself.

Evidently, the experience of earlier today had not gone away with fun adventure stories and comradery with his fellow Autobots. Momentarily, Knock Out was rather assumed that out of everyone in their base, Smokescreen sought out Knock Out , the recent ex-Decepticon. There surely had to be an irony there but it was difficult to feel when Knock Out was also, in a way, still reeling from their mission today.

“Say what you need to say,” Knock Out said, his voice even and not completely unkind. “It’s better than letting your processor stew on it.” It was advice he should maybe heed himself but if he said his own thoughts, the brig may be the least of his concerns. 

Smokescreen let in a deep, steadying inhale, his jaw clicking as he released the tension. He still refused to meet Knock Out’s gaze as he spoke.

“It’s not the bodies that bothered me,” Smokescreen said quietly. “I’ve seen dead bots before. I’ve killed before. I’m…maybe not like Wheeljack or Bulkhead but I’m not naive . I just-” Cutting himself short, Smokescreen scrubbed his faceplates “-I just don’t get it.”

Knock Out let out a small snort. He didn’t blame the kid for not understanding a last resort measure like a chop shop. His ideals were still too pure, still too hopeful. In a way, Knock Out didn’t want to ruin that. Just because hope and purity got beaten out of him in the early years of the war didn’t mean everyone else had to follow his sad miserable path.

“It’s better if you don’t get it,” Knock Out said. Smokescreen’s optic ridges pinched together, his lips pressing tight in his confusion. “You don’t need to understand the dilemma of not being able to save everyone. You don’t need to get what it means to decide who is worth saving and who is worth dying. You don’t ever want to understand what a mech needs to do in their darkest hour, in their final last resort. You should be grateful that you can’t comprehend it.”

Smokescreen’s faceplates didn’t shift, the tension still coiled in his frame. 

“I guess…” Smokescreen murmured quietly, almost to himself. Slowly, he looked up, bright blue optics piercing Knock Out as if he could see right through him. “You said you had to do stuff like that before?”

Knock Out smiled a mean, cruel little thing. “I have. Not to that extent.” The chop shop may have started as a last resort but in the end had turned into the medic’s personal experimentation torture room. “But I have.”

“Was it worth it in the end?” Smokescreen asked. “Or do you regret it?”

Knock Out stared at the kid for a long moment. He had siphoned the still warm energon out of dying mechs before, he’d snuffed the life out of soldiers on his med slabs in order to free up a spot for others. He had pulled out fresh parts from graying frames and squirreling them away for later use, just in case . He had done so much, all with the excuse that it wasn’t for himself. 

It was for Breakdown . It was for the sake of someone else, someone he loved, someone that deserved it . It was for keeping them alive long enough to see the end of the war. How could he ever regret that? He may not have accomplished his goal, but he had gotten as close as he could get. If he managed to keep Breakdown at his side a few hundred years longer because of that, how could he not see the value in that. Those years may have been hard and painful, but he would never give them away if it meant he could cling to a few more memories of his partner.

“I don’t regret anything I’ve done,” Knock Out said sharply, the words cutting through himself. His servos clenched into tight, biting fists as a wave of grief threatened to climb up his intake. “The only things I regret are the things I didn’t do.”

He should have gone out looking for Breakdown. He should have kept a better eye on his partner. He should have tracked his signal better, sooner. He shouldn’t have allowed that human scum to come anywhere near his partner. 

He should have listened to Breakdown when he said they should go rogue all those years ago. He should have never cut a deal with Starscream to secure them a spot on the Nemesis. 

He should’ve, he should’ve, he should’ve.

Maybe then, Knock Out would be standing here, side by side with the only mech he’s ever trusted. 

Smokescreen nodded his helm mutely. “Thank you.”

Knock Out pulled his mind away from his swirling thoughts. He’d almost forgotten he was having a conversation at all. “For?”

Smokescreen shrugged, tangling his digits together in front of him. “Being honest. It’s surprisingly hard to find here at times.”

Knock Out snorted at the irony of it all. “Sure thing, Kid.” He watched the corner of Smokescreen’s lip plates pull up into a half weary smile. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow we have a fun day of rust removal.”

The smile immediately dissipated as Smokescreen groaned. 

Recharge eluded him. 

Knock Out spent the next several night cycles tossing and turning in his berth, his mind traveling to unspeakable places. Every time he’d shut down the thought tree, wiped the data from his short-term, his mind would be back on that path not 10 kliks later. Every time he cycled his optics shut, tried to force a hibernation, the visage of Breakdown would be staring back at him, mouth moving but not speaking. 

The day cycles provided him no relief. Work and Smokescreen’s company provided only a marginal distraction from his thoughts. 

The medbay had always been a place of control and power for Knock Out. It was his domain and his sole ownership. He had full control over its operations and visitors. It was his small kingdom. It was a home when his had long been swept away.

Now it felt hungry . The dark corners of the room were watching him, waiting, expecting . His empty medslabs haunted him. Every tool and every piece of equipment begged for use. His mind was eager to provide a subject to satiate. It felt like he was losing his grip, his control waning with fear and want and grief taking its spot. 

Knock Out hoped time would make the yearning pass, distance would quiet his mind. Instead, madness had dug its claws into his spark and every night as Knock Out bid his un-official apprentice away, he’d find himself rooted in front of his console with the data drive clenched in between trembling claws. 

He had never turned over the data to Ultra Magnus or Bumblebee and enough time passed that Knock Out knew he never would. He couldn’t fathom having to part with it. The very idea of letting go made his tanks turn and his spark ache. It was his last piece of hope, his last connection to a reality in which he could have his partner back. Logic and sense clung to him weakly, their resolve slipping with every sleepless night spent in the depths of research.

When dawn came and it was time to head to morning refuel, Knock Out hardly felt himself anymore. His plating felt too heavy for his frame to carry, his mind possessed by thoughts he now accepted may never fade. It was as if another inhabitant had snuck into his body the day they had found the chop shop and it was slowly pushing him out. It was the only way to explain the thoughts, explain the desires, explain the hundreds of schematics he drew in his mind throughout the night cycles since.

Even now, as he trudged through the base, he tried to rationalize his nightly endeavors and was fighting a losing battle. 

“Oh jeez,” Smokescreen greeted as Knock Out entered the communal refuel station. Arcee was there, watching him with critical optics while Ultra Magnus was reading through one of the several datapads he had neatly stacked beside him. “You look about how I feel.”

Knock Out could see a grogginess in the normally excitable speedster. Evidently, he too still was coming to terms with what he had witnessed even though nearly a week had passed.

“A rough night,” was the only excuse Knock Out could give as he all but collapsed in the seat across from Arcee. She passed him a cube with a patient look. One of the others must have clued her in and for once, Knock Out found the sympathy slightly bearable.

In a rare occurrence, Knock Out found himself eager for conversation, desperate for a distraction, anything to take his mind away from Breakdown and the vile desires of his spark.

“Ready for your shift today?” Knock Out teased slightly. “We have a very fun task today.”

Hope flashed across Smokescreen’s faceplates. “Really?” Kid had not enjoyed the tedious task of rust removal and was clearly desperate for anything different.

Knock Out nodded his helm slowly. “Mold removal. Very different from rust removal, I promise. You’ll love it.”

Smokescreen’s face curdled as he dropped his helm to the table top. “I thought you said fun .”

At this, Ultra Magnus turned his focus away from the datapad he had intently been reading. “Sanitation measures can be fun.”

Arcee quietly snorted into her cube and Knock Out bit back a grin as he watched Smokescreen try and fail to respond. 

Smokescreen was saved by the opening of the doors and the entrance of Bulkhead. The mech was bright and chipper this morning, a deep, rumbling hum coming from his chassis as he swaggered in. Knock Out raised an appraising optic ridge and turned to see Arcee doing the same.

“You’re in a good mood, Bulkhead,” Arcee nodded in greeting. 

Bulkhead grinned, his faceplates splitting in glee. “It’s a good morning.”

“Special occasion?” Arcee chirped back.

“It’s Jackie’s and mine’s anniversary.”

“One of them anyways,” Wheeljack said, entering a moment later. There was a smudge of oil on his cheek but the wrecker seemed to be as bright and energized as ever as he wheeled himself next to Bulkhead and bumped shoulders with him. 

“You have multiple?” Smokescreen asked curiously, optics darting between the two. “Which one is this?”

“Conjunx,” Wheeljack answered with ease, stretching his joints out as he spoke. “Not that we had an official ceremony or anything, but we made due.”

Knock Out swallowed the rush of staticky bile that threatened to come up from his tanks as he watched the two mechs smile at each other with soft affection.

“We did it during a refuel stop,” Bulkhead divulged eagerly. “‘Managed to get away for a cycle to make it special before rejoining our squad.”

“Thought we hid it pretty well but pretty much everyone knew the moment we stepped back on the ship,” Wheeljack chuckled to himself. “‘Said we were grinning like fools.”

Smokescreen fired off another question but it fell on deaf audials as Knock Out turned away from the scene, his optics focused on his half cube of energon. Suddenly any appetite he managed to muster that morning vanished.

“Come on, Doc,” Breakdown’s far away voice whispered to him, “We’ll get away from a few kliks and no one will ever know.”

“Breakdown,” Knock Out’s own voice purred back. “After the war. I’m not getting conjunx on this rust bucket. I…want to do it right. You deserve that.”

“All I want is you.”

Knock Out pushed his cube away harshly, droplets of energon dripping down the side. His tank flipped unsteadily as the memory came and went.

“You see, kid,” Wheeljack was speaking again, his smile faint but ever present as he spoke to Smokescreen, “as a wrecker and with our lives away on the line, we had to take every chance we could. I couldn’t wait. The second Bulk suggested it, we did it.” Wheeljack shrugged as if it were the easiest thing in the world. As if the choice was a no brainer. “The idea of something happening before we could do it,” Wheeljack’s smile flickered painfully, “I couldn’t live with myself. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him.”

Knock Out sat motionless as the words coiled around him. 

I couldn’t live with myself.

Hollowness had opened up in Knock Out’s chest, iciness feeding through his lines.

 I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him.

The hungry maw of loneliness was around him, threatening to snap his jaws and consume him. Knock Out forced himself to remain seated, forced himself to not draw attention, forced himself not to think about Breakdown, of his own loss, of his own failure.

“You can’t lose me,” Bulkhead laughed heartily, pulling the smaller mech closer. “I’d find you anywhere.”

“Sap,” Wheeljack shot back teasingly, his voice softening in fondness.

It didn’t take a stretch of the imagination to picture Breakdown there, beside him. Similar words said- not exactly the same but the sentiment identical. The memories washed over Knock Out, each one a direct stab in the spark.

“It’s you and me, K.O. Now and always.”

“You can’t get rid of me, Breakdown. You are mine.”

“Always together,” Breakdown chuckled into his audials, “never apart.”

“Even if you fall apart,” Knock Out cooed between kisses, “I’ll put you back together.”

Knock Out paused at that particular memory, Breakdown’s scrunched faceplates and soft smile haunting his mind as his own words echoed. 

I’ll put you back together .

He had promised that once. Promised that many times for that matter. At the time, it had all been in jest. Knock Out could never have imagined a future in which the pair would not be together. Breakdown had always been…invincible. Every scratch and dent had been lovingly cared for by Knock Out. He never would have thought that one day Breakdown just wouldn’t come back . 

A shudder wracked through Knock Out, his processor twisting itself. 

I can bring him back,  Knock Out thought, the datadrive of impossible promises and the schematics of possibilities so tantalizing that…why couldn’t Knock Out do it? 

The research was there. He’d combed over every single glyph and found the logic sound, but untested. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t work and Knock Out would never be able to forgive himself if he didn’t try.

I don’t regret anything I’ve done. The only things I regret are the things I didn’t do.

If there was a chance, however small, that it may be that he could have Breakdown back at his side, then there was no reason for Knock Out not to try. 

He truly had nothing left to lose. 

And just like that, all the grief and all the desperate earning and all the guilt over these treacherous thoughts evaporated, and in their place the soothing sensation of a plan, a goal, hope coalesced warm in his spark.

Knock Out picked up his cube of energon once more, a ravaging hunger he had not felt in decacycles clawed at his tank. He caught Wheeljack’s optics and raised his cube in a silent congratulations and drank.

Knock Out felt light as air as he went through the rest of the day. No amount of Smokescreen’s whining and the sharp stench of bleaching acid could dampen his spirits. After being alone for so long, there was hope on the horizon. A hope that relied on no one but himself and his own skills. There was a dizzying delight to it. He would be the one to bring back his partner; not Ratchet, not Optimus Prime, not even Primus himself. Just Knock Out.

He grinned wildly to himself as he scrubbed at the persistent splotch of mold clinging to the optic rinse station drain. 

Nothing could stop him.

He was practically buzzing throughout the evening refuel cycle. Even Bulkhead and Wheeljack’s obnoxious display of affection could not hinder his morale. It wouldn’t matter soon enough. He wouldn’t need to look at anyone else but his partner. 

And once he had his partner back, they would be out of there . They’d set out on their own, just like they should have from the start.

Knock Out downed his cube quickly and counted the kliks until it would be socially acceptable for him to leave. Tonight of all nights he did not want to give any of the Autobots cause for speculation. He nodded along with Wheeljack’s stories, chiming in when deemed appropriate. He shared amused looks with Smokescreen and occasional Arcee. He chuckled with the group as if he were one of them. It was all easy to pretend and fake it. Knock Out had lied, cheated and masquerade through the majority of his life. It was easy to fall back into a lie, all the while his mind plotted so he would be ready the moment striked. 

That time didn’t come until the dead of the night cycle. With the majority of the Autobots tucked away in their berths, it would be the optimal time for Knock Out to sneak out and begin his work. 

According to the diligently maintained roster, only Ultra Magnus and several newly instated vehicons were on watch duty. With such a small crew working the nightshift, it was pitifully easy to sneak through their blindspots and under their noses. Knock Out wasn’t sure if that was a sign of how woefully unprepared the Autobots were to operate without Optimus Prime’s leadership or a show of how trusting the Autobots were. 

Either way, it suited his needs perfectly and Knock Out was racing through the empty barren fields of Cybertron in a matter of kliks, the base dwindling to a speck in the distance.

It was remarkable how quick the journey was compared to when they had first visited the Decepticon bunker. Knock Out felt as if he had made the trip in a handful of kliks, though he knew the time on his chronometer would state otherwise. It truthfully didn’t matter as Knock Out all but rushed inside.

He was quick to disable any and all scanners he had equipped. He knew exactly what he wanted and where to find it. All he needed was a quick elevator ride down.

The tankformer was waiting ever so patiently, dead optic casings staring emptily at the doors as Knock Out walked in. The medic smiled in greeting. It looked nothing like his partner, but Knock Out would remedy that soon enough. 

“Hello, big guy,” Knock Out all but purred as he knelt down beside the large, rusting frame. “I hope I didn’t keep you long.”

There was no answer, but Knock Out wasn’t delusional in thinking there would be. He knew it wouldn’t help his case to be talking to the dead, but if his plan worked, then his big buddy wouldn’t be dead for long. 

“First, we got to get rid of you ,” Knock Out directed to the medic entangled with the tank. 

He pried his claws between the pair and peeled the medic away, stiff servos reluctant to let go of the other but in the end, Knock Out managed to separate them. 

“No hard feelings, hm?” he said as he pushed the medic away. 

He turned his attention back to the tank. It was time for step two.

“As lovely as the place is,” Knock Out sneered at the grime and decay around him, “I have a better place for us to get to know each other .”

While there was a lot of merit in keeping his project away from Autobot optics, the utility of the chop shop ended there. Privacy would do him nothing if he had no equipment or time to work on it. Sure, he could steal away into the night as he had done tonight, but the longevity of that was fraught with risk. Just the time it took to get from the bunker and back alone would eat up the scant precious hours he could be away without notice- and that was assuming he could keep up the act of sneaking away without getting caught. 

However, if he had his prize in his medbay, he could work with ease and comfort. He’d have all the tools necessary and constant access. He’d have a fully functional medbay and the entire Autobot knowledge base as his fingertips. It was an easy choice, even if it meant he’d have to hide his new friend. 

Luckily, the medic quarters were attached to the medbay and the Autobots of the past had the foresight to provide him with enough berths.

All he needed to do was get the big guy home.

“I don’t suppose you could make this easy for me and transform just this once?”

Not that he had any way of hitching the other to himself. But no matter, a little dragging along wouldn’t damage the plating too much. If anything, the arid sands would assist in buffering off that tacky purple.

“Small blessings,” Knock Out hissed through clenched denta as he dug his digits underneath the arm sockets of the tank and began to pull.

The fragger was heavy .

Strength had never been one of Knock Out’s strong suits. He was built for speed: armor plating thin with a slight flexibility to it, delicately curved for aerodynamics. He had always delegated the task of heavy lifting, lest he scratch his shiny finish in the attempt. He always had a partner more than strong enough to carry both their weight, quite literally.

But Knock Out didn’t have a partner. He had no one but himself to rely on. So for once, he couldn’t and wouldn’t care about the state of his paint job as he half dragged, half carried the tankformer out of the chop shop and into the elevator. 

There was a terrifying moment as Knock Out let his engines cool that the lift wouldn’t move, but it vanished as the elevator groaned and slowly began to ascend. When the doors opened, Knock Out let out a quiet sigh of relief before he began the dragging once more. 

He could feel his paint chipping as the body shifted in his grasp, but it hardly mattered. His goal meant far more than keeping up appearances. 

It took…longer than expected. Getting the tank out of the old, crumbling bunker was one thing but getting it all the way to the Autobot base was another. Knock Out had spent several kliks wrapping the tankformer in knots chains that he looped through his windows in order to pull his new friend home. He couldn’t risk going too fast- he didn’t want to risk the chains coming undone or digging into the fragile framework of his own body -so he kept a crawling pace, constantly vigilant of the clock ticking away.

Morning was quickly approaching as Knock Out finally returned to the Autobot headquarters. Keeping his distance, he wheeled around to the back where the emergency access was. It was the quickest path to the medbay and only guarded by two rotating vehicons. Knock Out had scoped it out earlier that day and already had the door rigged with his access code so he could enter without setting off the alarms. He also had left himself one of the rickety gurneies from the medbay. He figured dragging his companion through the barren fields of Cybertron was one thing, but leaving the deep grooves and paint transfers on the newly refurbished floors of their base might cause some questions.

It was a painfully impatient wait for the vehicons to rotate positions but once they did, Knock Out was quick to race forward and grant himself access. Once inside, he hastily loaded the tank onto the gurney. The mech was too big and his limbs spilled out from the sides, but Knock Out had no time to worry about that as he booked it through the halls, nearly bursting through the medbay doors. 

It was there the gurney’s life gave in. With a loud creak, the entire cart collapsed, the corpse of the tank dropping with a reverberating clank. Exhaustion finally took its toll on Knock Out and he collapsed not too far away as his fans roared in a desperate attempt to cool his overworked frame. With shaky limbs, Knock Out scooted himself back to lean against the nearest wall as his optics scanned the hollowed frame.

Under the crisp white light of the medbay, he could truly see the sheer work he had for himself. 

He’d have to scrap the tank’s wheel treads and most of its axle components. There was no chance in scrap Knock Out was trading in Breakdown’s alt mode for that of a tank so he’d have to rebuild much of the undercarriage structure from scratch. He wanted to race his partner again, to go out on the open roads and spin their wheels together. So, the treads had to go and the caterpillar tracks that rotated them. Finding the right axle shouldn’t be difficult, and it may take some work to get five matching tires, but he supposed the spare didn’t have to be an exact match and could always be changed out later when a better one came along. 

So four. Four matching wheels, or ones that were close enough.

At least most of the armor plating could be reworked. He could see now that the abdominal plating was a lot more segmented than Breakdown’s. In this case, it was actually a bonus. Knock Out could weld the pieces together into the right shape for Breakdown without having to do much cutting. It would leave his plating a bit fragile so he’d have to add some underlying reinforcement which would add a bit more bulk than Breakdown had before, but Knock Out didn’t mind. Breakdown had been too vulnerable before. He’d need more protection on his second chance at life and if Knock Out could ensure that in the design of his partner’s new body, then he would make every modification he could. Breakdown wouldn’t mind, not when they’d get to see each other again. 

Knock Out let that thought fuel him with the jumpstart he needed to climb back to his pedes. He still needed to get the body out of any possible view. Shame his gurney busted but Knock Out could drag him the last couple of meters. 

Digging his digits beneath the tread tracks, Knock Out resumed his dragging. It took a lot of effort but once he got the corpse through the doors, he let them snap shut.

Upon taking up the medic’s quarters, Knock Out had not really felt the need to decorate . On the Nemesis, his quarters had been filled with trinkets and baubles, most of them gifts from Breakdown or funny little mementos from their travels. His human movie collection had taken a large portion of the desk, as well as the flimsy little projector Breakdown had snatched for him. It had only taken a little tinkering to get it to work, converting its power source from the electrical voltage the earthlings favored to an adapted Cybertronian one. 

All of that had been left in the docked and sinking Nemesis. Bumblebee had offered Knock Out access to retrieve his old personal belongings but, in truth, all he had grabbed was the buffer and a few personal medical supplies, which now sat neatly tucked away in the corner of the sterile, empty medbay. 

Now , with the large tankformer’s corpse in the center of his room, no amount of decorating could liven the space up. 

Knock Out smiled to himself, his sparked pained but hopeful. Breakdown would have found that one funny. He would have to remember to tell it to him once he came through. In his HUD, he pulled up a memo and jotted it down for later. 

Knock Out stared down at the body sprawled in the center of the room. He would need to set it up on a proper slab once he actually started work. He eyed the large mega-berth he had been sleeping in and the decision was made easy.

What’s mine is yours.

[darlinandromeda]

Chapter 7

"FiraLume"

The weeks following Caleb’s confession had been… normal. Surprisingly so.

Deeia had expected things to change- to become awkward, tense or filled with more unspoken words but Caleb had kept his promise. He never pressured her, never asked for an answer she wasn’t ready to give. Instead, he was just there, like he always had been.

They still rode the bus to campus together, still shared snacks on the campus lawn while bickering over the silliest things. He still stole her soda when she wasn’t looking, still nudged her shoulder with his whenever she was deep in thought. The only difference was- he had become gentler and more attuned to her. He no longer teased her just to get a rise out of her but rather to make her smile. How his fingers would linger a little longer when he handed her something. The way he sometimes looked at her- not with expectation but with something softer, something that made her heart stutter if she thought about it too much. So she tried to ignore it, buried it deeper in her heart and made sure it won't burst anytime soon.

Especially not now, when the whole campus was buzzing with the excitement of FiraLume.

A festival of love, of silent confessions and quiet promises. Unlike the grand spectacles of other celebrations, FiraLume was delicate, intimate- where love was not shouted but shown.

She still remembered her papa told her about the legend behind FiraLume.

"Long ago, under a sky scattered with constellations, a mortal warrior fell in love with a goddess of the stars. He was a man bound to the earth and she was a celestial being who could never stay. Their love existed in stolen moments- secret glances, whispers carried by the wind. Then, when the world failed him, war called for the warrior, demanding his departure. So, he reached for her soul in the only way he knew how- weaving magic flowers into her hair. A silent vow. A promise that he would return. The goddess, unable to follow gave him something in return- a fragment of her own star, carved with their names. She placed it in his palm, knowing he would carry it into battle, knowing it would remain even when distance tore them apart. For three years, she wore his flowers, letting them wilt against her locks- a sign that she loved him too and for three years, he carried her star, holding onto the light of her love as he fought."

and now, people celebrate the beautiful love story by keeping the tradition alive for three days.

Men adorned the hair of the one they loved with flowers, waiting to see if she would wear them for three days. A quiet confession. If she kept them, she loved him too.

Women gifted a lucky charm- something small but meaningful and the man who received it must wore it with pride, carrying her promise close to him.

It was never spoken. Love was proven, not declared.

Under the grand maple at the heart of campus, Deeia and Nia sat shoulder to shoulder, their fingers idly tracing patterns on the damp grass. Late spring air, the smell of fresh blooms and earth, the season shifting into something softer, something full of quiet promises.

Deeia reached out, brushing the delicate pink and purple flowers woven into Nia’s braids. "From Rafayel?" she mused, though she already knew the answer.

Nia nodded, a tender smile curling her lips. "He sent me a picture of his bracelet too," she said, unlocking her phone to show Deeia. The image glowed between them- a silver-threaded bracelet, woven with care, adorned with a tiny star charm. "He said he won’t take it off for three days. He promised."

Deeia studied the picture, her hazelnut eyes flickering with something unreadable. "It’s beautiful," she murmured, tracing the screen. "You two are beautiful together." There was admiration in her voice, laced with something wistful. Long-distance relationships always seemed impossible to her, yet Nia and Rafayel made it feel like poetry- love spanning miles, held together by devotion and unspoken faith.

Before they could go any further, a sudden burst of energy disrupted the moment.

"I got them! Look! look!"

Tara plopped onto the grass, her hands dramatically gesturing toward the vibrant red flowers threaded into her braids. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned in, waiting for their reactions.

Nia gasped. "You actually got flowers? From who?"

Tara grinned, pressing a finger to her lips. "Secret."

Deeia arched a brow and smiled. "You’re glowing like the moon, and you expect us not to ask?"

Tara only giggled, clasping her hands together. "And I gave him a woven pouch I made! I hope he actually wears it for three days!"

Deeia shook her head, amused. "This festival has you both acting like lovesick fools."

Tara gasped. "Excuse me? and why is your hair all free and flowy, Miss Deeia?" She pointed at Deeia’s loose, unbraided hair, cascading like ink over her shoulders. “Don’t tell me you aren’t participating!"

"There’s no reason to," Deeia replied, nonchalant, plucking at a blade of grass.

Tara and Nia exchanged glances before simultaneously shifting toward her with predatory glee.

"Don't you dare!" Deeia warned.

"Oh, you are not escaping FiraLume anymore!" Tara declared. "Nia, hold her!"

Deeia’s protests were useless. In the next moment, their fingers were already threading through her hair, gathering strands, weaving them into something delicate and intricate. She groaned but she didn’t fight them. Not really.

Nia hummed as she worked. "You never know, Deeia. You might just get flowers."

Deeia scoffed, crossing her arms. "Honestly, they are just flowers. I can just put one, myself. Self love!"

Tara gasped again, flicking Deeia's forehead. "Blasphemy!"

"Ow! Tara!" Deeia groaned.

Nia only smiled, twisting the final strands into place. "Well, too bad. Now you’re ready."

Deeia sighed, feeling the weight of the braids framing her face. As the wind curled around them, carrying the distant sound of festival preparations, she wondered- what was worse? Having no flowers at all.. or receiving them from someone she wasn’t sure she could accept?

Because love, no matter how beautifully it was wrapped in tradition, still terrified her.

And yet deep down, her heart could sense it.

Something about today felt different.

Caleb strolled through the crowd with Gideon at his side, his violet eyes scanning the lively scene of people exchanging flowers and charms- only to be interrupted every few steps.

"Caleb! I made this for you!" a girl said, eyes hopeful as she held out a delicate woven charm.

Caleb smiled politely, his voice smooth and kind. "You’re really talented but I can’t accept this."

Another approached before he could take another step. "This is for you! I spent all night making it-"

He shook his head gently. "You’re really sweet and I know someone out there will treasure this. I can’t be the one to take it."

Gideon snickered beside him. "Damn Cal, you got these rejection lines memorized, huh?" He cleared his throat dramatically, quoting Caleb word for word. "You’ll find the right person. Thank you, but I can’t accept this. You’re pretty and you deserve someone who will cherish this lucky charm."

Caleb sighed, shooting him a side glance. "Shut up."

Gideon smirked. "I’m just saying. It’s crazy how you’ve declined every single one. What, you waiting for-"

Caleb wasn’t listening anymore.

His steps slowed. His heartbeat did something funny in his chest because from across the campus lawn, under the shade of the maple tree, he spotted her.

Deeia..

Sitting with Nia and Tara, her hands resting on her lap as she let the others fuss over her.

Wait.. Her hair..

Her hair. Braided..

for what?

His lips parted slightly in surprise. He knew Deeia. She never participated in FiraLume traditions. She always brushed them off, called them silly and said love didn’t work like that. But now, there she was- her dark, flowing locks woven into soft braids, framing her delicate features in a way that made her look… different. Softer.

And then he saw it.

Tara was holding a hairbrush, grinning like she had just accomplished something grand.

Ah.. they must’ve forced her into it. Haha..

Caleb exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. She looks cute. No- more than cute.

You look beautiful, Pip.

His smile lingered as he turned on his heel. "Be right back."

Gideon watched him go, rolling his eyes and smiled. "Oh yeah. Definitely waiting for someone."

The sound of Tara’s animated chatter filled the air as she and Nia laughed while Deeia smiling at their excitement. Caleb flashed a playful grin and slid into the seat next to Deeia with a charming smile.

"Hi guys, don't mind if we join!" Gideon sat next to Tara.

Deeia’s smile grew, the warmth in her chest spreading at the simple comfort of having Caleb near.

Tara’s eyes widened, noticing the bracelets, keychains, and the doodles of stars scattered across Gideon’s arm. "Wow! That’s a lot of... accessories," she said, blinking in surprise.

Gideon shrugged, looking completely unfazed. "What can I say? I’m loved by all," he said with a charming grin, totally basking in the attention.

Nia, clearly intrigued, tilted her head and looked at Caleb. "It’s honestly shocking to see you though, don’t have any, considering how famous you are among the men and ladies," she teased.

Caleb smiled. "They're not for me.."

Gideon leaned forward, grinning like a mischievous imp. "I think it’s because he’s waiting for someone special.."

The words hung in the air and a beat of silence passed. All eyes turned to Deeia, their expressions full of curiosity. Deeia, suddenly feeling her face heat up, cleared her throat. "Gideon’s just a playboy," she muttered, trying to downplay it, her voice a little softer than usual.

Caleb’s smile softened, nodding along in agreement. "Yeah G, playboy hundred percent." He then gave Deeia a side glance that made her heart skip again.

Tara and Nia burst into laughter, the sound bright and bubbly. Gideon sighed dramatically, raising his hands in mock defeat. "Rude, I’m not. I’m a lover who simply can’t say no to love during FiraLume."

Nia’s eyes lit up with excitement. "Speaking of FiraLume, there’s a festival tomorrow night at the town center. We have to go!" she exclaimed, already planning out the night in her head.

Deeia hesitated. "I have to take care of Hale," she said quietly, her responsibility to her little brother pulling her thoughts away from the fun.

Tara’s eyes sparkled. "Bring Hale along! It’ll be so much fun," she urged, her enthusiasm infectious.

Deeia felt unsure but just as she was about to voice her concerns, the bell rang and Tara clapped her hands in excitement. "Next class is literature! We’re all going, so let’s go!"

The group shuffled around, gathering their things and suddenly, Caleb was beside her, his fingers brushing against her hair. Deeia blinked in surprise, her heart beating faster as Caleb, with a cheeky grin tucked three gorgeous wildflowers-purple and orange into her hair.

Deeia froze, eyes wide as she realized what had just happened.

She could feel her face turning a deep shade of red.

Tara and Nia gasped, their faces lighting up in unison. "Aww!! Deeia got her first FiraLume moment!!" Tara squealed, rushing to turn her phone on to take some photos of the rare moment while Nia couldn’t stop giggling. The whole room seemed to sparkle with excitement.

Gideon’s smirk turned into a playful grin, and he raised an eyebrow. "Look at that. Looks like Caleb’s making moves," he teased.

Deeia’s heart was beating so fast she thought it might explode. She was definitely blushing hard now- no way of hiding it. Panicked, she reached up to pluck the flowers from her hair but Caleb was quicker. He gently caught her wrist, his hand warm and reassuring.

"You can’t take them out in front of the giver," he said softly, his voice full of sincerity. "It’s considered bad luck."

Tara immediately agreed, nodding enthusiastically. "Caleb’s right! You can’t take them out!"

Deeia felt a wave of warmth wash all over her. Caleb smiled, his eyes soft and teasing as he added, "Plus, you look really pretty with them in your hair."

Deeia’s heart did another flip. "Let’s go to class now!" she said, suddenly eager to leave before she spontaneously combusted from the blush spreading all over her face but Caleb didn’t let go of her hand.

Tara and Nia squealed again, unable to contain their excitement and began walking ahead, clearly enjoying every second of the moment. Deeia leaned in close to Caleb, her voice barely a whisper. "People are going to gossip about this, and think differently.. We’re not-"

Caleb turned to her with a hint of playfulness. "Just for today, can I please hold your hand Miss?" His tone was a mix of gentle teasing and something more earnest. "I’m tired of people trying to approach me Pip. I don't want to be late to class and i don't want to get lost in the crowd, not without you and-"

He continued giving her a million reasons why he needed to hold her hand.

Deeia could sense her heart fluttering. "Fine! Let's go!" she said out loud but not hesitating to link her fingers through his.

Caleb’s smile widened and his thumb brushed against the back of her hand, as if savoring the moment. Hand in hand, they walked to class with Tara and Nia still squealing infront of them and Gideon smirking with an amused shake of his head.

Every step felt magical to Caleb and as his fingers gently curled tighter around hers, Deeia couldn’t help but feel like the whole world somehow had just stopped, leaving only the two of them walking in their own little bubble of warmth and sweetness.

Why am i agreeing to this..? It's this feeling again..

The lecture hall buzzed with idle chatter, notebooks flipping open and the soft tapping of fingers on laptops as students settled in, waiting for Professor Josh- one of the most renowned english literature experts on campus. The air carried a sense of quiet anticipation but at their corner of the hall, it was anything but quiet.

Gideon, as usual, wouldn’t stop rambling about basketball to Caleb, his voice animated with last night’s game highlights. Caleb responded half-heartedly, absentmindedly spinning his pen between his fingers, his violet eyes flickering toward Deeia every now and then who’s listening to Gideon or daydreaming perhaps.

In front of them, Tara and Nia were huddled over Nia’s phone, scrolling through pictures, whispering excitedly about something neither Caleb nor Deeia paid attention to.

Then, it happened.

A voice, smooth and familiar, cut through the casual hum of conversations.

"Is this seat taken?"

Deeia looked up, her hazelnut eyes meeting green. 

She smiled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Oh! Hey Zayne! Sure.. you can sit with us!" she said, patting the empty seat beside her.

Zayne looked at the flowers stuck in her hair.

"Pretty flowers."

"Uh.. thanks..." Deeia was unsure if it's the right response.

The air shifted.

Caleb stopped twirling his pen.

Gideon went silent mid-sentence.

Nia and Tara exchanged a glance before subtly looking back.

Zayne slid into the seat beside Deeia with ease, offering her a small smile as he placed his books down.

Caleb’s jaw flexed as he watched Zayne offered her a mint.

Deeia smiled widely. "Hey, isn't this the one you bought the other day? You didn't finish them all in one go and yes, I think I need them today to focus!" she took it without hesitation and popped it in her mouth.

Zayne smiled. "Told you, you'll get used to it"

Caleb sighed loud enough for all to hear. It was awkward.

Deeia trying to ignore the sudden shift in energy, turned toward Zayne.

"I didn't know you’re taking this class."

Zayne adjusted his glasses. “I figured it’d be interesting. Literature is actually fascinating if you dive deep into it.”

Deeia grinned. “It is, isn’t it?”

Caleb sighed loudly again, leaning back in his chair and put one arm behind deeia's chair.

Professor Josh entered the room and the chatter gradually died down abit. It carried a quiet buzz, the kind that lingered before a class began. The overhead lights flickered slightly, casting a warm glow over the desks. Professor Josh, known for his unorthodox teaching methods leaned against the desk at the front, a thick book in his hand.

"Today." he began, flipping through the pages, "We're going to discuss the power of words. Literature has shaped history, moved hearts and even changed the course of the world but let's talk about something more personal first- how literature defines us. How it mirrors who we are."

He paused, scanning the room.

"Let's start with a debate to warm all of us up!"

The professor turned, his eyes settling on a familiar figure.

"Zayne. Tell me, do you believe literature should be rooted in realism, capturing the raw truths of life? Or should it embrace the abstract, the poetic, and the imaginative?"

Zayne sat up straighter, his voice steady. "Literature should be a reflection of reality. The best works- the ones that stand the test of time are those that expose human nature as it is, not as we wish it to be. Whether it’s love, loss, or injustice.. literature holds a mirror to life."

Deeia found herself nodding slightly. It made sense in some ways.

Then Caleb leaned forward, his fingers tapping against his notebook. "That’s one way to look at it but if literature only reflects reality, then where does it leave dreams? Hope? Fantasy? Some of the greatest works ever written weren’t about the world as it is but the world as it could be."

Zayne turned his head slightly, eyes sharp. "Hope is important but literature isn’t about escaping. It’s about understanding. If we don’t acknowledge reality, then aren’t we just running away from it?"

Caleb looked at Zayne then to Professor Josh. "And if we don’t imagine beyond reality, aren’t we just accepting limits despite our ability to break boundaries and walls?"

A charged silence stretched between them.

Deeia shifted in her seat, sensing heaviness in the air.

The professor, clearly entertained, chuckled. "Interesting points but let me challenge you both- what makes a love story great then? Is it realism? Or its ability to transport us somewhere else?"

Zayne pushed his glasses up. "A great love story isn’t about grand gestures or unrealistic fantasies. It’s in the subtleties- the moments of hesitation, the quiet sacrifices, the unspoken words. Love in literature should feel real even if it’s painful."

Caleb tilted his head slightly, a grin playing at his lips. "I disagree. The best love stories make you feel. They don’t just show reality, they make you believe in something bigger than it. Love isn’t just about pain or subtlety. It’s about intensity, about longing, about something larger than life."

For some reason, Deeia just froze and look up front but she could sensed Caleb is looking at her. 

Professor Josh sighed dramatically. "Well, I was hoping for an easy answer but you two seem determined to complicate it." The class laughed softly. "Alright then, we’ll leave it at that. Literature, it seems is both a mirror and a dream. Now, let’s turn to the actual text before this debate turns into a novel of its own."

As the professor moved on, Deeia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Caleb cleared his throat. Zayne was still composed.

And Deeia?

She was still stuck on something else entirely.

Because it didn’t feel like they were just debating literature.

It felt somewhat, more personal..

Throughout the lecture, Deeia felt the weight of the silence between the two figures beside her.

Caleb leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, his usual teasing demeanor replaced by something cold and moody. His violet eyes flickered toward Zayne every so often but he said nothing.

Zayne, on the other hand was fully immersed in his notebook, pen gliding across the page with quiet precision. Whatever thoughts he had during their debate, he was putting them into words.

Deeia tried to focus on Professor Josh’s voice, on the passages he read aloud, on anything other than the tension pressing in on both sides of her. She could barely take a deep breath without feeling like she was inhaling their quiet intensity.

She should have sat with Tara and Nia.

Let Gideon take her place.

The class finally ended with a light chuckle from Professor Josh. "Alright, before I let you all go, Happy FiraLume Festival! Try not to let the pressure of love declarations get to you- remember, rejection builds character," he teased, earning laughter from the students.

Deeia exhaled in relief as everyone began packing their things. She slung her bag over her shoulder, ready to ask Caleb if he's ready to go but before she could, a swarm of girls rushed past her.

"Caleb!" One called sweetly, holding up a bracelet. "I made this for you!"

"Oh! Me too- try mine first!"

Deeia barely had a second to react before she was shoved aside by the eager crowd. The hallway filled with laughter and excited voices as more girls gathered around, all presenting their lucky charms with hopeful smiles.

Nia and Tara, already at the exit, waved. "We’ll see you later, Deeia! We got another class to go to!" shouted Tara.

Gideon, standing near the edge of the chaos, peeked through the crowd with an amused grin. "Well, this should be fun!"

Deeia steadied herself, watching the scene unfold. Caleb now completely surrounded, ran a hand through his hair looking half-amused and half-exasperated. He tried to step back but the girls only pressed closer, each trying to get his attention.

Before she could decide whether to leave or stay, a gentle pull on her wrist made her turn.

"Come on." Zayne's voice was soft but firm.

She blinked up at him as he led her a few steps away, away from the commotion, away from the laughter and fluttering hearts.

Caleb, in the middle of rejecting yet another gift, turned his head just in time to see Zayne guiding Deeia through the exit.

His entire body tensed.

Zayne didn’t rush. He simply matched Deeia’s pace. When they finally stepped outside, he looked at her.

"You okay?"

Deeia glanced back at the buzzing crowd still surrounding Caleb. Then she turned to Zayne and smiled. “Yeah. Caleb’s one of the most wanted bachelors on campus. Not a surprise.” She joked lightly but something about it felt hollow.

Zayne didn’t laugh. He just studied her for a moment, as if searching for something beyond her words. Then, he asked, "You have any more classes today?"

Deeia shook her head.

“Good.” Zayne held her hand. "Let’s go eat."

Deeia blinked, surprised. "S..ure. Umm.. The café menu today has-"

"Not the campus café."

Deeia stopped mid-sentence, looking up at him.

Zayne smiled faintly. "We’re eating someplace else."

She blinked again. "Oh."

Before she could ask where, he had already started walking. She somehow just let him held her hand.

Caleb finally managed to break free from the crowd, only to look up and see Deeia and Zayne disappearing down the street, holding hands. 

Zayne led Deeia through the winding streets, past the bustling market and into a quieter part of town. The path grew narrower, flanked by old brick homes adorned with creeping vines and flower pots. Just when she was about to ask where they were headed, Zayne stopped in front of a small, hidden stall tucked beside one of the homes. The aroma of freshly steamed pau drifted through the air, wrapping her in warmth. Deeia blinked in amazement. How does he always find places like this?

The old lady running the stall turned and immediately beamed. "Ah, Zayne! You’re back," she greeted warmly, as if she’d known him forever.

Deeia looked between them, curious.

Zayne gave a small, respectful nod. "She used to visit the hospital often. Her late husband was my father’s patient." His voice was gentle, carrying a quiet familiarity. Deeia nodded, listening as the old lady carefully placed a steaming basket of pau in front of them. The scent made her stomach rumble.

"It smells really good," Deeia murmured, leaning in slightly, taking in the soft, pillowy sight of the pau.

Zayne smiled. "Go on, dig in."

Without hesitation, Deeia reached for a red bean pau and took a bite. The soft, warm dough melted against her tongue, giving way to the sweet, smooth filling. Her eyes widened with delight.

"It’s so good!" she said, her voice full of genuine excitement. She savored the texture, describing how perfectly soft and fluffy it was, how the warmth seeped into her hands as she held it.

Zayne watched her, his smile growing. "You still love red bean, huh?"

Deeia paused mid-bite, her expression softening. "Wait… you remembered?"

"Of course," Zayne said, resting his chin on his hand. "You used to wait at the corner of the middle school just to steal one while Caleb distracted the owner."

Deeia let out a small laugh, her eyes twinkling at the memory. "Oh, I definitely remember. One time, Caleb was sick and I made you do it instead."

Zayne chuckled, shaking his head. "And I did it so badly and because of that, you got caught too."

Deeia covered her mouth, trying not to laugh too loudly. "and you were so scared, you froze! The owner didn’t even need to chase you!"

Zayne smiled, finishing the memory for her. "I was grounded and so were you."

They looked at each other and in that quiet moment, laughter spilled between them- soft, full of nostalgia. It felt like the years had never passed, like they were still those mischievous kids sneaking around, hearts light and carefree.

As she took another bite of her pau, Deeia thought to herself- maybe some things never really change.

They lingered at the little stall, lost in conversation. Memories of childhood mischief turned into stories about campus life then into deeper talks about the charity hospital. Zayne spoke with quiet passion, his voice warm as he shared about the patients he met, the children he played with, the weight of expectations and the quiet moments that made it all worth it.

Deeia listened intently, occasionally sipping on the warm tea the old lady had served them. She liked this side of Zayne- calm, thoughtful, a little more open than usual.

After a while, they thanked the elderly woman and stepped out into the cool evening air. The sky was painted in soft hues of orange and pink as they walked back toward Zayne’s car.

As they reached it, Deeia turned to him with a small smile. "Thanks for today.. and oh! I still owe you a noodle date!" Deeia just remembered.

Zayne’s eyebrows raised slightly. "Date?"

The word hung between them. Deeia’s eyes widened as she realized what she had just said. "Wait- no! I mean.. like, a noodle dinner together. A- uh.. hangout!" She waved her hands as if she could physically take back her words.

Zayne chuckled, amused. His gaze softened as he watched her scramble for an explanation. "It’s a date," he said smoothly. "Just let me know when you’re free."

Deeia froze. The way he said it- so effortlessly and it made her heart stutter.

Before she could overthink it, Zayne held out his hand. "Your phone?"

She blinked then hesitantly took it out. He took it from her, tapped the screen a few times, then handed it back. "There," he said. "Now you have my number. I’ll be waiting for that noodle date."

Silence stretched between them. Deeia looked down at her phone, at his name now saved in her contacts.

'Zayney'

She used to call him that when they were kids.

"There’s somewhere I want to take you. Can we go?" asked Zayne.

Deeia glanced up, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Another surprise?"

Zayne’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile.

Deeia exhaled, shaking her head playfully. "You’re full of surprises today.. Zayney."

She was smiling too.

"Close your eyes."

Deeia frowned, shifting in the passenger seat. "What? Why?"

Zayne keeping his gaze on the road. "Just trust me."

She shut her eyes with a smile. "You’re not kidnapping me, right?"

Zayne let out a low laugh. "And where would I even take you?"

“I don’t know,” she grinned. "Some secret scientist lab, maybe?"

He chuckled, amused. "Tempting. But no. Just keep them closed."

As the car slowed down, a cool breeze seeped through the slightly open window. The scent of earth, grass, and something familiar drifted in. Zayne parked and stepped out, walking over to her side. He placed his hands gently over her eyes as she got out, guiding her carefully.

Deeia reached up, instinctively grasping his wrist for balance. "Okay, seriously- what is going on?" she laughed, excitement bubbling in her voice.

Zayne didn’t answer. He walked her a few steps forward, feeling the way she instinctively trusted him despite her curiosity.

And then, finally, he let go.

Deeia blinked.

Golden light from the late afternoon sun stretched across the open field, washing everything in a warm glow and dancing gently in the air were fireflies. Not as many as before but enough to make the moment magical.

Her lips parted in awe. "This is…"

Zayne stood beside her now, watching the flickering lights. "Our safe haven."

Deeia turned to him, her expression softening. Memories came rushing back.

She had almost forgotten about this place- the hidden field where they used to escape as kids, where they’d lie in the grass and watch the sky until the stars came out.

A gentle breeze swayed the tall wild grass, brushing against her fingers. She let them trail over the blades, feeling the softness between them. "We used to love coming here," she murmured.

Zayne reached for her hand and without a word, led her toward the large oak tree standing proudly at the edge of the field. They settled beneath it, the golden hues of sunset wrapping them in warmth. Deeia stretched out her palm, trying to catch one of the glowing fireflies. When one landed, she closed her fingers gently around it, keeping it safe. Then after a moment with her eyes closed, she let it go.

Zayne watched her closely- the way her long lashes fluttered as she closed her eyes for that brief moment, the way her freckles glowed under the fading sunlight, the way she smiled so softly it made something in his chest tighten.

"What did you wish for?" he asked.

Deeia exhaled, staring out at the endless field. Then, with a distant look in her eyes, she said quietly, "I wished for angel's wings."

Zayne tilted his head slightly. "Wings?"

She nodded, gaze locked onto the fiery orange horizon. "So I can fly away and go someplace far.. start new."

Zayne caught a firefly in his palm. He closed his eyes for a brief second, then released it back into the sky.

Deeia turned to him, curious. “And what did you wish for?”

Zayne met her gaze. His voice was quiet but firm.

"To be your angel that will help you spread your wings."

Deeia's breath catching slightly.

A moment passed, heavy with something beautiful.

Then, as if sensing the shift in the air, Zayne reached for the nearest white wildflowers. One by one, he tucked them into her hair. "Thank you," he murmured, "for spending the afternoon with me."

Deeia smiled softly. She let him continue, feeling the gentle brush of his fingertips as he carefully placed each flower and when he was done, he hesitated for just a second before his fingers brushed against her cheek.

Their eyes met- green and hazelnut, reflecting the soft glow of fireflies between them.

Deeia had always loved his eyes since they were kids. They reminded her of deep forests and quiet places but now as she looked closer, she noticed the faint shadows beneath them. He looked tired. Yet even with the weight he carried, he was still effortlessly… Zayne.

He leaned in slowly.

As if giving her time to pull away.

But she didn’t.

Deeia held her breath.

The fireflies flickered, glowing brighter around them.

Then-

Her lashes fluttered closed as his lips brushed against hers- soft, hesitant at first, like the whisper of wind through leaves. Then the kiss turned deeper, passionate and real.

Deeia felt herself melting into it, into him.

The warmth of his hand cupped her cheek, thumb grazing her skin as if committing the moment to memory.

Time seemed to stretch.

Then, gently, they parted.

Deeia opened her eyes, breathless. Zayne was watching her, half in awe, half unsure as if trying to decipher what this moment they shared actually meant. The air between them buzzed with unspoken emotions.

Breaking the moment, Deeia exhaled a soft laugh.

Zayne blinked, still caught in the trance of their kiss.

Deeia lifted a finger and bopped his nose, grinning.

Zayne blinked again- unexpectedly, blushed that his cheeks turned peach pink.

Deeia smirked. "You’re so cute when you’re flustered."

Zayne cleared his throat, looking away for a second before returning his gaze to her and saw something heavy flickering in her eyes. The fireflies continued their slow, glowing dance around them.

For a moment, everything else faded away.

The ride home was peaceful and comfortable. The soft hum of the car engine mixed with the mellow tunes playing through the speakers, blending seamlessly with the cool night air. Deeia rested her head against the window, watching the streetlights blur past.

Her heart still felt light- almost too light like it might just float away.

When they pulled up in front of her house, Deeia unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to Zayne with a small smile. "Thank you… for today," she said softly.

Zayne met her gaze, his green eyes calm but deep. "No worries," he said. Then, quieter, "Thank you.."

Deeia hesitated for a second, then dug through her bag, pulling out a black sharpie. "Hold out your hand," she said.

Zayne raised an eyebrow but did as she asked, his wrist resting on the center console. Deeia leaned closer, her brows furrowing in concentration as she carefully drew tiny fireflies and two stars on his skin. Zayne watched her, mesmerized- not just by what she was doing but by her beauty. The way her lips parted slightly in focus, the soft glow of the streetlights reflecting in her hazelnut eyes.

Once she finished, she capped the marker with a satisfied nod. "There," she said. "It’s my first time celebrating FiraLume and… I don’t actually really believe in it much, but…" She trailed off then smiled a little. "Today, I felt happy.."

She looked up at him, her expression gentle. "So… it’s my way of saying thank you. For bringing me there again."

Zayne stayed quiet. He stared at the little doodles on his wrist and without thinking, Deeia leaned in and kissed his cheek.

"Goodnight, Zayney," she whispered, before slipping out of the car.

Zayne didn’t move. Barely breathing.

The warmth of her lips lingered on his cheek, setting his skin on fire in the cold night air. He barely registered Deeia closing the door behind her. He just sat there, staring at the tiny stars and fireflies on his wrist, completely stunned.

Inside, Deeia leaned against the front door, her face burning.

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.

She buried her face in her hands, groaning softly.

What was that?!

She hadn’t planned it. It just… happened.

"Dede, why is your face so red?"

Deeia snapped her head up to see Hale standing in the hallway, clutching his stuffed bunny.

"It’s not!" she blurted.

Hale squinted at her. "Did you eat too much spicy noodles again?"

"Y-yeah!" she stammered. "So spicy! I’m gonna.. uh.. go wash my face!"

She dashed past him, leaving Hale confused.

Meanwhile, in the car, Zayne finally let out a slow breath. He traced the ink on his wrist again then lifted it to his lips.

And smiled.

Caleb had been staring at his phone for hours.

His thumb hovered over Deeia’s chat. He wanted to text her. Where was she going with Zayne? But he knew her too well. If he pushed too hard, she’d shut him out again. Instead, he found himself walking to her house.

It was late. The air was crisp. His steps were slow like his body was trying to stop him from doing something stupid.

But then he froze.

Zayne’s car was parked in the driveway.

And then- Deeia.

What are you doing Pip..

Then she stepped out, her expression soft, her smile lingering as she waved toward the car. She didn’t even seem to notice Caleb standing across the street, watching.

That smile. That soft, glowing smile.

He hated it. He could feel his heart shattering into sharp pieces.

Caleb clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists inside his hoodie. It was irrational, maybe but it burned.

because she never smiled like that at him anymore.

Yeah, it has to be Zayne. Who else if not Zayne..

TheAndrom€da©

[jeejyboard]

canst thou tell us about your use of bodysharing / linked bodies in you just aint receiving ? what gave you the idea for it, what did you want to explore with that trope, what other bodysharing stuff were you bouncing off of? was it just to destabilize harrow with unexpected 'gasms and force her & gid back together or was it deeper than that (or both tehehehehe) ok, signed, your biggest fan, [my name] ^_^

wahooho!!! i sure can!!

I loooove any kind of examination of mind/body splits in fiction, and tlt is full of that… soul/body/thalergy stuff… i like it when thoughts/feelings are distinguished, too, but i think its a lil too common in the west that people make them like… two halves of a container. white meat, dark meat. we love a binary. but i like to think of them more like a horse and its rider where both are distinct but pretty meaningless once you separate them from each other. If the horse (or the id, or the unconscious, or the shadow, or the pink diamond or Wario w/e) is overrepresented, it can overreact to a menacing candywrapper and take tearing off without listening to reason or direction, oops. but if the rider (or the superego, or the executive self, or white diamond or ‘surface pearl’) is too powerful it creates repression or delays in protecting the self or could stall the ride altogether. 

I love seeing that tension play around within a character!! You can have very striking responses on either end of the spectrum, which i think is a good fit for gh. That kinda duck season/wabbit season seesaw tends to be fave whenever I see it come up in media (pink/white diamond [and pink and rose honestly] conflicts in SU come to mind, or helly’s innie/outie fight in severance, cannibal girl in raw 2016, possession/haunting stories, etc). 

A recent add is an anime called Kaiba (where i got my discord icon) where all your memories can be downloaded as this gloopy yellow stuff and then ‘uploaded’ into a new, blank body whenever you want (if you’re rich)! So essentially you can live forever!! Right?? Maybe? I guess that’s the case if we really just boil down to recorded information and ideas, but do those things behave differently in a different body? When you think back on a previous self, does the body you’re currently in impact how you access and feel about those memories? Does it affect which parts you remember? (and oooooh buddy the gender stuff you can get cooking in there) Maybe your old body would be an entire ‘ghost limb.’ Brrrrr! What if your body remembers something that your brain doesn’t, or at least believes that it does? 👻

Ok now mix that with ‘you got your chocolate in my peanut butter/peanut butter in my chocolate’ with a bitch you hate but grew up with like a bad skin graft!! yeehaw!!

I also like porous/bodyswappy things for gh in particular because it feels fitting for their whole… mess. Like they know WAY too much about each other superficially (the extreme detail that they both read each others' body language/habits with in Gtn comes to mind), but at the same time they have no emotional understanding of each other at all. It’s so out of whack. Imbalanced but impossible to ignore. Just enough information to know 'ow fuck you, did you really stub the SAME toe in five minutes? Wtf are you even doing?' They know what the other one is feeling, but clueless about what she’s thinking. All she does is muddy the water, but you can’t just shuck her off. You can’t section her off in your psyche and amputate. She is indelibly cootied up in your shit and under your skin like permanent ringworm. fuck!!!!! 

And then with your mysterious, unhealthy, miles-spanning codependent connection with another girl that you can’t fully acknowledge or explain, say things start shifting around… like suddenly your chronic condition begins impacting her when it didn’t before, or her sensory needs become very particular (just like yours), or suddenly it seems like you’ve swapped libidos, or your body has such an easier time falling asleep (and has been deprived of sleep for so long) that it happens when you don’t intend to… that would be crazy

thank youuuuu that was fun!

[shares-a-vest]

@flufftober Spring Edition Day 9: Daisies

wc: 612 | Rated: T for Alcohol Consumption (Not Excessive - Wayne is sipping on a beer) | cw: Alcohol Consumption, Food Consumption

Tags: Claudia Henderson, Wayne Munson, Grandparents, Backyard, Found Family, Family Lunch, Steddie Being Silly in the Background

'Daisy Chains'

“Pa!” Joanie shrieks, waving wild and big.

Wayne chuckles at the sight of his granddaughter, sitting barely a few paces beyond the back porch, gesturing as if they are miles apart. He remains on the deck, watching over the backyard as he quietly sips from a chilled afternoon beer. Beside Joanie is Claudia Henderson, concentrating on the daisy chain in her hands that cascades off her lap in a long line off to the side.

They have been working on it for a good while now, ever since Wayne roused them outside so he could do the dishes. But Joanie appears as if she is growing distracted. A four-year-old’s attention span only goes so far, he thinks.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, setting his beer down on the glass patio table, hurried along when Joanie sits back on her haunches and frowns.

“Come here!” she whines, allowing herself to fall against Claudia’s shoulder with an oomph and a startled “ah!” despite him very clearly making his way over.

“I’m here,” he says, lowering to the ground not a few moments later.

He only just manages to stretch out his left leg (and his bad knee) when Joanie plops onto his lap.

She haphazardly brushes her hair off her face, revealing sun-kissed flushed cheeks as grins up at him, all toothy and excitable.

“Ganma is making me a daisy chain,” she nods.

Wayne had watched the pair from the kitchen window as they gathered the flowers, all scattered around the backyard where they grow wild.

“That so?” he asks, humouring Joanie as he looks past her to Claudia’s handiwork.

She picks up another daisy and makes an incision with her bare thumbnail, splitting apart the stem enough to loop the next flower through.

“Thought you were helping me, Missy?” Claudia jokes, threading and splitting another flower like she has worked up a practised rhythm.

“You do this,” Joanie begins to instruct, breezing past her Ganma’s quip entirely as she picks up another flower.

She is rough, pinching her index finger and thumb together to rip a hole in the flower’s stem rather than Claudia’s delicate tearing motion. It reminds Wayne of Eddie at that age, sitting on the patchy grass of the Forest Hills trailer park all those years ago – looking a lot more lonely but nonetheless doing the exact same thing.

His heart pains at the memory of that kid, uncomfortable in himself, quiet and secluded.

Eddie, now older and happier, is sitting under a tree on the far side of the yard with Steve sitting impossibly close by. He looks a sight under the tree, shaded and wearing all black despite the springtime sunshine.

Meanwhile, Steve looks to be devouring another admittedly, delicious sandwich courtesy of Claudia’s elaborate Family Lunch. A smorgasbord of choices. Deli meats and breads, salads and dressings. All of which she insists on preparing and bringing over herself.

Something falls out the bottom of the thing and the sandwich collapses completely. Eddie throws his head back and cackles before offering to help with the cleanup. A task that somehow involves licking his partner’s face. Steve splutters, leaning away as he attempts to pick at the mess that has spilled down his yellow polo shirt.

“Stevie…” Eddie whines through giggles when the other boy leans away with a frown.

Wayne rolls his eyes, knowing full well that at any moment, those two are going to say or do something a little too inappropriate for a family afternoon out in the sun.

But he will leave them be he thinks as he turns his attention back to his beaming granddaughter who is holding out a daisy ready for him.

More of my Flufftober Spring Edition posts here

[aphroditestummyrolls]

26 + wesper? 💌

Hello! Sorry this took so long— the holidays are always a more difficult time to focus on writing, and then with Covid, jetlag, and the leftover annoyance of my sprained ankle, I’ve just been off my game.

Thank you for participating, though! And being so patient. These little prompts are really helping me get back in the saddle. And I LOVED writing this one. I think I might even continue it and make it a little oneshot.

Enjoy ❤️

Jesper Fahey couldn’t sit still. This wasn’t something that he was bothered by or defensive about when people mentioned it— not most of the time, at least. It was just a fact. As much of a fact as him having charcoal grey eyes, being devilishly handsome, and being able to shoot a coat button from a half mile away and around a corner.

He had a permanently restless mind— his thoughts raced from one thing to another, and his body was constantly fidgeting. He couldn’t keep up with himself sometimes. And he’d fiddle with his guns, or chew absently at his fingers, desperate for something to occupy him whenever he was idle.

Jes didn’t do idle. And if there was one thing smaller than his attention span, it was the likelihood that he’d been listening in the first place.

It wasn’t his fault his brain was so loud. So constant.

Unless it was a target, focus was just not a Jesper talent.

That particular night, though, Jesper had never stayed still for so long. It took effort to keep his mind in check, but luckily for him, his loud, hectic brain was only thinking about one thing: Wylan Van Eck.

A fluff of half singed curls tickled at the underside of his jaw. There was a puff of a pained whimper across his collarbone. The tip of Wylan’s sooty little nose nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

Thank the Saints you stopped by to walk him home, he thought, his fingers twitching restlessly over his lover’s smaller frame. He was pressed to his side, a solid, grounding weight where they laid in the workshop's grotty old bed. If it had been worse, he could have…

Well, Jesper would’ve felt terrible for all the cracks he’d made about losing fingers. That was for certain.

He stroked his thumb along the knuckles of the hand he held— one, two, three, four, and a thumb curled loosely by Jesper’s palm. They were all present and accounted for under the fraying edge of the bandage tied there. It probably wasn’t the best patch job, but he was a bit rattled at the time. It would do until Wylan had slept off the worst of the headache— then they could find Nina and beg her help.

For now, it was just them. Just Jesper, really, listening to his own loud mess of overlapping thoughts while Wylan slept, curling in impossibly closer.

He works too much. These long days are too long, and he probably forgot to eat again, and I was too busy to stop by—

It left a pit in his stomach and a twitch in his muscles— to move, to pace, to do something more, even if there was nothing more to be done.

Wylan snuffled against his chest, and Jesper felt the clench of something desperate and warm wrapped around his heart. He pressed his lips to his merchling’s forehead, getting a nose full of his smoky curls while he did.

They’d need a bath when they got back. In a big way. The stench of the chemicals was more than the ventilation shafts could handle. Still, Jesper only held him tighter, feeling a little insane.

He would never forget walking into the workshop that night— the reek of burning chemicals in the air, the thick cloud of bitter smoke that made his throat sting and his eyes water. He was blinded by the dark plume of it, blinking rapidly as he fought to adjust to the dim lamps somewhere in the chaos. Still, Jesper ran down the stairs.

When he called Wylan’s name, he got nothing but stomach-churning silence.

It took a long moment of Jesper shouting himself hoarse, covering his nose and mouth with his— probably now ruined— pocket square, before he picked up the first signs of movement in the wreckage. There was a rattling cough, and then I’m here! He croaked out the words before dissolving into coughs. I’m- I’m alright, just wait—

With a sudden gust of wind, the vents were cranked open as wide as they could go. The noxious fog thinned and, finally, there was the slim silhouette of his lover. He was hunched over with one hand braced against the workbench. The other was cradled to his chest.

Jesper was at his side faster than he knew he could move. With the reassurance of that standing, awake, alive merchling in his arms, Jes’s brain immediately filled with a hundred shouted questions— what happened? Where does it hurt? Let me see your hand—

In the end, he didn’t need to say a word. Which was a good thing, because not a single word could seem to make it from his brain to his mouth. Wylan was leaning heavily into his chest, his knees wobbly enough that Jesper had to steady him with an arm around his waist. The other was nothing more than a blur, flitting uselessly across the smaller man’s frame like he could scan him for injuries.

My… he swallowed with an audible click, a breath from Jesper’s ear, my head. I hit my head.

Sure enough, there was a bloody mat of hair at the back of his head. His fingers came away stained red. Sucking his teeth nervously, Jesper’s brain got louder, but he didn’t say anything for the moment. Wylan’s eyes were glassy, but focused, and he took that as a good sign as he stroked lightly over his wild hair, trying to assess the damage better. It was so tender that even Jes’s barely present little probe was too much. Wy hissed.

Jes, please.

Okay— okay, Love. He carefully removed his goggles from the top of his head, and plucked the plugs from his ears. I’ve got you.

By the time he shuffled him over to the bed, the smoke had cleared. Jesper sighed at the state of it all— the workshop and the mad scientist included— and let himself revel for just a moment in sheer relief.

It wasn’t nearly as bad as it seemed.

Snagging a roll of bandages and a half-assed first aid kit from a shelf near the bed, Jesper could see that the smoke was much worse than the actual explosion. There was a splintered gouge in the workbench that would need sanding— as if anything ever got sanded in the Barrel— and a sooty stain where it all happened, but other than a few broken bottles and vials, it was no worse for wear.

Wylan must’ve been right there when the blast went off. The support beam behind the workbench had a small blood stain at just about head height for his merchling. He was sooty and singed, with only two perfect circles of clean skin around his eyes— at least he’d been wearing his gear. All that was hurt were his pretty little head, and a messy looking red burn on his right hand.

Alright, Jesper nodded, trying to remember what his da did to gauge Jesper’s head injuries growing up. Head first, merchling. D’you know your name?

Wylan’s lips twitched like he might laugh. A good sign. Wylan Van Eck.

Mhm. And where d’you live, Wylan?

The Slat, with- with my boyfriend.

He never got tired of hearing that. You’ve got a boyfriend? That’s a shame. Wylan managed half a little smile when Jesper winked at him. Come here often?

Jes, he sighed, my head hurts.

He cooed sympathetically, cupping his cheek as softly as he could with one hand while he used his sacrificial pocket square to smear away a little bit of the soot with the other.

I know, Love— you gave it a good, hard smack. But you’re not slurring, you’re not disoriented. So, that’s a point in your favour. Are you nauseous? Dizzy?

Jesper had had enough concussions to at least remember how they felt. Wylan nodded. A bit— the dizziness was pretty bad at first, I… I think I’m fine now, though.

Just in case, it was best not to move him yet. And by the time he was finished dabbing a burn salve into the raw skin of his hand and was tying off the bandage, Wylan’s pretty brown eyes were halflidded. He was swaying just a little where he sat at the edge of the bed.

Jes kissed the top of the bandage.

He supposed a little nap couldn’t hurt. The clock tower was striking 8 bells, and Kaz was sure to be wondering where Jesper had gone— he’d mentioned something about a meeting? He’d never given him a time, though, so he had no right to give him his disappointed face when they got back.

At least, Jes didn’t remember a time.

Well, something more important came up.

The most important thing was Wylan’s poor beleaguered head, pillowed on his chest. His steady breaths were leaving little puffs of warm air across Jesper’s chest. And with that bandaged hand held loosely in his own, his brain finally felt a little quieter.

[sasster]

Blow Out

Can you believe no one asked who his doctor is?

[Here’s the doc!]

--

Trollkind is remarkably advanced across a variety of fields, but all that galaxy-spanning innovative thinking must have stopped just outside the doors of every medical waiting room. The one the purple blood sits in is no different than any other one on or off of Alternia.

The fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling buzz in time with a bare gray wall that seems to pulse with the heart rate of a patient circling the drain. If not for a television that droned on some news channel rattling off its heavy dose of fleet propaganda, muffled by distance, and the sheer veil that covered his face, it would have all been entirely too much for Retcon to handle. It is all quite the scene for the waiting room’s three denizens; The one receptionist and the two worse for wear psions awaiting their teal blooded savior to deliver them from their respective agonies.

In the furthest possible seat from the other two, Retcon fidgets idly with a loose string that juts out from the uncomfortably firm chair he occupies. He works hard to focus on the diluted voice that comes from the television, but can’t seem to make the information fit into his head in a way that even pretends to make sense. To say nothing of the tinnitus like ringing that has plagued his ears for the last handful of days.

In some attempt to prevent feeding into his migrane, which interestingly throbs at the same pace that the lights and wall move, he delegates his attention to the loose thread that he twirls around his index and middle digits. He allows this to be his tether to the breathing waiting room.

Across the room, suddenly louder than the droning of the news channel, the receptionist belts out an unintelligible string of words. Through the filter the ringing in his ears has become, it sounds more like someone in the middle of drowning calling out for help.

Retcon’s attention stays on the stray string. He coils it around his fingers tight enough that their tips begin to pale from the lack of blood flow.

The receptionist speaks again, an even louder version of her best impression of a fish out of water, but an anchor on the TV says something about a rebel syndicate taken down a few days ago and issues a warning to anyone that has ever rubbed elbows with them.

The lights buzz louder.

A door opens.

A conversation joins the choir of noise that slams into him like a truck, about five hundred miles away, at the receptionist’s desk.

Now someone somewhere in the room sighs.

Not being paid enough for this, the woman then says something that sounds suspiciously like someone shouting “Webcam,” from the bottom of a well.

He winces at the sound and focuses instead on the light gray the tips of his fingers have become.

Miraculously, a familiar voice strikes through the white noise that the world has become.

“Ten forty-nine?”

Within a second of his identification numbers hitting his ears, Retcon’s attention snaps up to find the source. Partially obscured by the sheer of the veil, he can just make out the shape of the doctor, staring directly in his direction with a smile on his face.

“There he is, come on back with me.”

He stands.

Somewhere between ten seconds and three hours pass in how long it takes him to traverse the twenty-five feet that separate him from the doctor.

Alaska waits patiently; his unwavering smile makes it impossible to tell how long that wait actually is. In the meantime, he does turn his attention to the news broadcast very briefly before giving a thoughtful hum and switching the channel to something a little easier on the brain.

Soft instrumentals fill the waiting area, quickly alleviating some of the pressure building up behind Retcon’s eyes.

When he does get to the doctor, a hand claps gently over his shoulder and leads him the rest of the way to the examination room and onto a table.

The doctor takes his own seat on a very lively rolling stool that he scoots over to the counter his bag is on and starts to dig into it for his equipment. “Talk to me, Retcon,” he says from within the depths of the bag.

“It’s too loud in here.” The psion manages, indicating the harshness of the much brighter light in this room than the previous one.

“I can’t exactly work in the dark here,” he replies, wheeling back over to him to hand off a pair of light filtering glasses. “Did you lose the last pair?”

Retcon nods and lifts his veil just long enough to put the glasses on and drops it again.

“Is that better?”

“It’s better.”

“So, I take it you overdid it again?” The question is more like a statement of fact delivered with a soft chuckle.

He does not wait for a response as he starts to set his instruments in a prep tray next to him. Odds and ends Retcon wouldn’t be able to name in his right mind, let alone his current condition, clang into the metal tray despite the doctor’s best efforts to lay them in gently.

Retcon winces.

“I think I broke it again.”

“You think?”

“I definitely broke it again.”

Alaska nods, his demeanor does not shift. He takes a second to inspect the blade of a tool that Retcon does not know the name of before turning to fully face him again. “Do you remember what I told you that your limit is?”

“Twenty, twenty-five. Depending. I could get away with thirty if I don’t do them all at once.” He recites what must have been his mantra for the last couple hundred sweeps as easy as breathing air. “More if I spread it throughout a week.”

“Right. How many did you do this time?”

“Fifty.”

“Fif--” The doctor swipes a hand over his own forehead, the motion largely conceals it if his expression shifts on any perceptible level. “Fifty? All at once?”

He nods.

“You definitely broke it.” Alaska echoes his earlier sentiment.

Retcon swings his legs idly and watches the floor pulse toward and away from his feet, choosing the nausea that comes along with it over tuning in to the lecture he is about to receive.

The chiding will no doubt be a gentle one, but when you’ve been someone’s patient for long enough, after the first half century, the lectures start to sound the same. They always seem to sound to the tune of: You’ll fry your brain. The device does not have the memory for that. We really need you to stick to these restrictions. Are you listening?

Are you listening?

Are you listening?

Retcon is brought back by the doctor snapping his fingers just within his field of view.

“Ten forty-nine, can you hear me? Remind them of your limits next time.”

“Can’t you just make it stronger? That’s what they want.”

Alaska’s gaze turns into a sympathetic one.

“We’d both like it if I could just slap a fifty petabyte block of memory in your head, but the technology’s not there yet Retcon,” he starts, gentle hands moving to assist him in laying back. “Frying your brain every couple of perigees doesn’t look good on applications for funding towards it, either.”

The doctor wheels his chair over to the usual blindspot, and quips something obligatory to Retcon before pushing a needle into the soft spot behind his earlobe. Retcon hardly reacts as the sharp pain starts and then subsides, his head flooding with a numbing agent he must have heard the name of some sweeps ago.

“I need you to help me help you, alright? Now, hold still.”

[dingbatnix]

Venture

Chapter 7

Yeah not much to say here, other than the fact that I'm super excited. The story is finally gonna start picking up! Yes! Anyway, enjoy!

Chapter 1

Chapter 6

Dream + Tommy reference

Word Count: 4,800 (exactly!)

Warnings: Spiders and yeah that's about it.

Tommy hit the ground hard. He managed to bring his arms up in time to cushion his head, at least, but his knees and chest and elbows cracked painfully against the unforgiving stone ground. The world swirled for several moments as his mind caught up with his body, and after about a minute or two, he pushed himself upright with a groan and a wheeze. His body hurt, accumulated scrapes and bruises throbbing in random intervals all throughout his skin.

Despite his aches and pains, the teen clambered back up on his feet. Tommy glanced behind himself, at the ledge he had fallen off, and grimaced. It was slanted heavily towards him, leaving an outcropping high above his head, and he didn’t think he’d be able to climb back up. In reality, it couldn’t have been higher than a foot or two, but when you were only three inches tall…

Tommy turned away from the cliff, assessing his options. There was a way forward, thankfully, a yawning void that spanned for what seemed miles and miles.

“Hello?” He called, and his voice echoed for a long, long time before it petered out. The teen swallowed, glanced back up at the ledge he had fallen from, then started walking again.

As before, he stuck close to the wall, occasionally brushing a hand against it to make sure he was going in the same direction. He didn’t know how long he walked in the never-ending darkness, but a gnawing hunger grew in the pit of his stomach, and his mouth was dry.

Tommy kinda wished that he had grabbed his quilt before he made a break for it. The cave system was cold, and his worn, stained shirt was not doing its job in keeping him warm. The fact that he was wearing shorts wasn't really helping, either. 

Up ahead, there was the faintest glow of light. Tommy picked up the pace despite his aching legs, eager to be able to see his surroundings. In his rush to reach the light, he may have tripped over stray rocks and scraped his bruised knees more than once, but nobody needed to know about that. 

Nobody needed to know that being alone, in the dark, was making him panic, just a little.

As Tommy grew closer to the light, he noticed shapes pushed up against the walls, lumps of crushed up rock, coals, and even a rusty old pickaxe that he had to climb over. He finally got close enough to see the area clearly, blearily blinking his eyes in the light and gazing at his surroundings.

Massive wooden beams were set into the walls, bracing against the thick stone. Impossibly high over his head hung massive lanterns, the source of the warm illumination, suspended from the wooden rafters. Tommy’s neck hurt if he stared at them too long, the angle painful and awkward, so he set his gaze back down.

Not too far away, the stone floor was set with wooden flooring, which gave Tommy little issues when he had to climb up the slight ledge the plank made. The flooring spanned the whole way along the tunnel, and there looked to be offshoots of tunnels spaced along the walls.

Was he in an abandoned mineshaft?!

If that was the case, then that meant that there had to be another way out. No human would have fit through the hole he’d crawled through, so that meant that Tommy had some hope of escaping this massive cave.

He eventually came up to a chest, over a dozen times his own height. He stared up at it with wide eyes before his expression darkened into a glare. There was no way he'd ever get it open on his own, no matter how much he wanted to see what was inside.

Something hissed behind him, making him jolt with a yelp. He whirled around, heart stopping at the sight of the massive arachnid creeping up behind him. Tommy shrieked and bolted, sprinting away from the gigantic spider. 

He could hear its legs clicking against the wooden planks of the floor as it skittered after him, which only spurred the blond to run faster. Tommy glanced over his shoulder and saw eight red eyes blinking one-by-one as it took casual steps after him. Tommy clenched his jaw. He wasn’t even fast enough to run away from the thing when it walked! How the fuck was he gonna survive when he couldn’t even outrun the damn thing?

His foot suddenly met air, and he fell for the second time that day, still screaming.

…

..

.

°°°°°°

Dream was…Dream was panicking, just a little bit. He had made a mistake, turning his gaze away from Tommy for just those few seconds to dig up a clump of yarrow (it was good for infections, and he liked to collect herbs he could use in place of healing and regeneration potions,) and in the next second, when he glanced over at the teen to check on him, he was gone.

He called out for the teen, and then cursed when he didn’t get an answer. He hadn’t heard any animals approach, nor any screams from a teenager being mauled by a raccoon or something. There weren’t any animal tracks that Dream could see, which meant only one thing. Either Tommy had wandered off, or he had run away. Dream was willing to bet the teen had done the latter. He didn’t seem like the type to just wander off without a purpose in mind.

The assassin swallowed down a swell of anxiety and crouched to the ground, scanning it for any sign of where Tommy had gone to. If he was lucky, he would catch up to the teen before anything bad happened. If not…Dream didn’t want to think about what would happen if not. He cared about Tommy, and he’d be crushed if anything happened to the loud-mouthed teenager.

It took him nearly an hour of meticulous nose-to-the-ground searching, but he finally found a trail of tiny, smallfolk sized footprints leading away into the undergrowth. From there, it didn’t take Dream long to follow them and find a small cliff blocking the path not even thirty meters away. There, the trail took an abrupt left turn along the wall for several paces, where it stopped at a crack in the stone about as wide as Dream’s hand. 

He crouched down on his hands and knees to peer inside of the crack, hoping that he would spot a miniature teenager huddled up inside, but he had no such luck. Instead, a gaping pit of darkness met his gaze, making Dream’s brow furrow behind his mask.

“Hello?” He called into the hole, voice echoing through the small entrance. “Tommy? Hello?” There wasn’t any answer other than the reverberation of his own words. Dream bit at his lip before shoving his arm into the hole. It didn’t get very far, about a third of the way up his forearm, and the rough edges of the stone caught on the wrap around his skin, but it was enough for Dream to tell that it opened up into a wide space behind the wall of stone.

Dream pulled his arm free and sat up, casting his gaze around in search of something to break the crack open further. He didn’t usually carry a pickaxe with him (he wasn’t exactly The Blade, he was more skilled with an axe or a sword) so he had to find something he could use in place of the aforementioned tool.

His eyes settled on a branch of a tree that looked sturdy enough, relatively thick along the whole length and low enough to the ground that Dream could break it off safely. He pushed himself to his feet and made his way over to the tree, reaching up to the branch and giving it an experimental tug. It didn’t budge, so Dream drew his sword and reared back, winding up to chop at the base of the branch. It took several heavy blows for the limb to be loose enough for Dream to break it off. He wiped the oozing tree sap from his blade, sheathed it, and snatched up the dismembered tree branch with a huff.

Dream wedged the thicker end of the branch into the crack and shoved against it, wood scraping against stone as he strained to break open the wall of the cliff. It only took a couple of harsh shoves to break the crack open wider, and then it was only a matter of leveraging the branch against the edges to make the hole large enough for him to squeeze through.

The assassin dropped the somewhat-mangled branch to the side, panting slightly, and ducked inside of the gaping, dark hole he had made. It took a bit of shimmying, but he managed to stumble out through the other side into an open space. He wrinkled his nose, breathing in the familiar scent of stale, musty cave air. He wasn’t a fan of being underground. It brought up unpleasant memories that he’d rather not dwell on.

He rummaged in one of his pockets for a moment before bringing out a torch and lighting it in one swift motion with the flint. Light flared up, flickering and illuminating the relatively large cavern. Dream examined the ground, searching for any more obvious trails to follow.

Unfortunately, Dream’s demolition of the stone wall had erased any evidence of anything passing through the cave. The flickering torch light wasn’t helping either, casting down shadows that danced and jittered against the jagged rock of the ground.

Humming slightly, Dream straightened and glanced around. He could always try calling out again…

He did so, voice echoing in the small cavern, worry evident in his tone even though he tried to suppress it. "Tommy? Hey, are you in here?”

The faintest echo of a scream was the only thing he got in reply, bouncing off of the walls and piercing into Dream’s ears. The sound, barely even a whisper, broke the heavy silence of the cavern and spurred the man into motion, legs already striding towards the origin of the noise. Worry flared in his chest, and he actively had to stop himself from sprinting through the cavern, lest he run past Tommy, or worse, run him over.

As he walked, the evidence of past mining began to appear. Lanterns illuminated the way, thick support beams braced into the walls, planks of wood bridging across gaps and ravines, even the occasional abandoned minecart or chest passed by as he moved. A part of Dream wanted to stop and search through the chests for any forgotten valuables, but he pushed that part of his mind aside. Finding Tommy was exponentially more important, especially since the teen might be in danger.

A short dropoff spanning a few feet ended the path abruptly, and Dream slid to a halt, glancing down at the short ledge. Down below, a massive tangle of spiderwebs was strung out between the stone walls, blocking the way forward in a sticky, inconvenient mass. Had Tommy slipped past the webs…? Shit. If the teen was in immediate danger, it would take Dream too long to cut through all of the spider silk to get to him in time.

“Tommy…? Can you hear me?” Dream called out, searching for the least dense section of webbing. He could burn the silk, if he needed to, but he’d use that as a last resort. If Tommy was underneath the mass of webs, that would only end badly.

“Dream!” A tiny, breathless voice shrieked, so close that it made the man startle. Dream sucked in a gasp, eyes searching for the source of the small noise. Tommy? But where the hell was he? All he could see were the spiderwebs, bathed in an orange-yellow glow from his flickering torch and the distant amber light of the lanterns overhead. 

It took him longer than he’d like to admit, but finally, his eyes settled on what must have been Tommy. The poor teen was so tangled and twisted in a mass of webbing that he blended in with it, clumps of sticky silk globbed up around his tiny limbs and body. Dream breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Tommy!” He called down, sinking down to his knees to get a closer look at the borrower’s predicament. He braced his free hand against the edge of the drop, bringing his torch down closer to Tommy’s position to see him better. “Are you alright?”

Tommy’s miniature face was screwed up in panic, and he writhed, tangling himself even more in the spider’s silk. “Do you fucking think I’m alright? I’m fucking stuck, and there’s giant spiders down here!” His voice was shrill and full of terror, and his breathing seemed short. 

Dream chewed at his lip again, already trying to puzzle out a way to get down to Tommy. The teen was too far down for Dream to reach, so he’d have to drop down into the pit of webs. He grimaced.

“Stay there, I’ll get you out. Just give me a moment,” he assured the teen, who shot him a dirty look. “Where the fuck am I gonna go? The market? I can’t move, you twat!”

Dream bit back the grin that formed at the blond’s remark and shifted so that he was sitting on the edge of the drop. His torch was set down on the edge, slightly hanging over the precipice to provide light. Dream slung his legs down, sitting on the ledge, and eased himself down until his feet met the ground. There was some resistance as his boots broke through the spiderwebs, but he weighed more than enough to easily snap through the thin strands. It was moving through them that was going to be the problem. 

The webs came up to about mid-thigh, sticky strands immediately clinging to his pants and boots. Dream grimaced, pulling out his sword and slashing through the webs in front of his path. Tommy was just a few feet to the side, so it wouldn’t take long to reach the teen.

“Dream!” Tommy yelped suddenly, and there was the slightest shff of movement behind him. The assassin’s body reacted before his mind could. His sword was buried in the black exoskeleton of the spider’s body before he realized, instantly killing the arachnid. Its eight legs twitched in its final throes, and then it fell still.

“Damn,” Dream murmured, yanking his sword from the spider’s carapace with a sickening crack. He shook the blood from his sword while holding back a gag. He wasn’t a big fan of spiders, either, big or small.

Further down the mineshaft, a cacophony of angry hissing echoed, and dozens of furious red eyes flickered open. Dream choked, eyes widening as the sound of many, many legs skittered into the light from various cracks and crevices in the walls. Crap! They needed to get out of the cave!

He lunged for Tommy, wrapping his fingers around the teen’s little body and yanking him free, webs and all. Tommy screeched in surprise, struggling in Dream’s fist, but the assassin was too preoccupied with the wave of spiders skittering towards them to care.

Dream thought fast, heart pounding and adrenaline rushing through his veins. He had a pocket, a very, very safe pocket on the inside of his cloak that he could put Tommy in, but he didn't think he'd have the time. The spiders were barely a dozen yards away, and we're closing in fast.

One of the forerunners of the pack, faster than the rest by a mile, broke free of the group and charged at them. It hissed, red eyes blinking one-by-one as Dream leveled his sword at it, a ferocious expression decorating his face underneath the mask. The arachnid made a false lunge, Dream's sword swiping the air where one of its legs had been moments prior.

Dream curled his fingers a little more securely around Tommy’s small, fragile form and backed up a pace, bringing his hand closer to his chest. Shit. He did not want to fight while he had Tommy in his hands.

Webbing tangled and clung to the backs of his legs as he stepped further away, slowing him down an alarming amount. Dream bit his lip, tossing a quick glance at the ledge behind himself. It shouldn’t be too hard to climb…

The sharp hiss of another spider growing closer spurred him into action. He turned and threw first his sword, then, much more gently, Tommy, onto the ledge that rose an arm's length above his head. The web-bound teenager shrieked, unable to even flail as he fell the short distance through the air and hit the stone ground.

Just as he felt spindly claws snag his boot, Dream leapt and caught the edge of the rock, scrambling wildly to clamber upwards, hooking his elbows over the shelf of stone and heaving his body upwards. Tommy came into view, nearly directly underneath Dream, and the man had to throw himself to the side before he hit the ground and crushed the miniature teenager. His shoulder hit the stone first, a dull impact that would leave a slight bruise in the morning. 

Dream rolled onto his back, shooting a hurried look back at the dropoff. Already, black, shining claws were poking up over the edge of the drop. Dream scrambled to his feet, snatching Tommy from the ground in one hand and grabbing his sword in the other, then took off in a dead sprint, mind already whirling with plans. He could head back to the entrance he had made in the side of the cliff, but the gap was small, and he was afraid he wouldn't be able to squeeze through it in time. On the other hand, he didn't know how likely the possibility of finding the mine entrance would be.

The appearance of more cave spiders crawling out from one of the side tunnels in front of them made his decision for him. Dream shoved his sword into its scabbard with little regard for the strands of webbing still clinging to it and booked it through one of the paths on the side of the wall, sprinting away from the sounds of the two masses of spiders crashing into each other.

Dream spared a glance down at Tommy, worried. The teen had been cursing the whole way, wriggling and trying to break free of the spider silk wrapped around his body. The blond seemed fine, but Dream was still incredibly worried. A bite from a cave spider, while non-lethal to bigger folk like himself, would be fatal to an inchling. He had to hurry.

The entrance of the old tunnel spewed out at him suddenly, the bright wash of light nearly blinding him. Dream threw his free arm in front of his face and dove through the opening, blinking rapidly to try and get his eyes to adjust. He didn't stop running for a good long while, wanting to put some distance between himself and the cave.

“Fuck,” Dream finally groaned as he stumbled to a stop. He slapped his free hand over the eyes of his mask and slumped against the rough bark of a tree, chest heaving. Despite his wishes, his hands were shaking, and he couldn't get them to stop. Dream hated being underground, more than anything in the world, and the adrenaline and fear induced by the spiders had done him no favors.

Taking in several deep, calming breaths, he turned his attention to Tommy, who was cursing up a storm and still attempting to struggle out of the mass of cobwebs that were roping his limbs together. Dream brought his curled hand away from his chest and flattened out his palm, scrutinizing the blond to make sure he didn't have any injuries. When he was satisfied that the teen was fine other than a few new scrapes and bruises, it was like a switch was flipped, and a hot seed of anger sparked in his stomach.

"Don't run off like that! You could've died, Tommy!" Dream scolded as he oh-so-gently picked at the gossamer strands that bound the teen. Tommy sent a displeased scowl up at Dream's mask, little hands shoving angrily at the human's fingertips

"Well, nobody told me that there would be huge-ass motherfucking spiders wandering around!" He snapped, grabbing a strand of webbing with his free hand and yanking at it. It didn't even budge, souring his mood even further. Dream's lips twitched beneath his mask, and he nudged the teen's hands away from the webs with a careful fingertip.

While Tommy groused and grumbled, Dream worked to pull the sticky silk away from his body. After several minutes of meticulous work, Tommy was web free. Dream still had webbing that clung to the backs of his legs, but he'd worry about that later. It's not like it would inhibit him like it inhibited Tommy.

“I've told you not to run off. You should know, most of all, how dangerous everything can be for somebody your size.” Dream chided, lifting his hand up to his shoulder. Without a word, Tommy leapt from his palm and latched onto the fabric of his turtleneck. Dream tried not to twitch at the feeling of tiny limbs tickling at his skin. 

"The spiders would have ignored you, anyway. You're too little for them to bother eating." Dream grunted, pushing away from the tree and gingerly stepping through the underbrush of the forest. He didn't recognize where they currently were, but that would be fine. He could figure that out later.

“So I would’ve just starved to death in the webs, that’s so fucking reassuring, Dream,” Tommy grumbled, sliding down against the human’s neck and settling against the arch of muscle connecting the human’s head to his shoulders.

Dream sighed, rolling his eyes and turning his gaze to the sky. “It’s getting late. I’m, I’m gonna go ahead and strike up a camp. I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking tired.”

Tommy couldn’t help but agree with the bigger man’s statement. Failed escape attempt aside, the day had been rather exhausting in its own right. Tommy wanted to wrap himself in his quilt and doze off, but unfortunately, it was still in Dream’s satchel, far, far out of reach for the tiny teenager.

It took Dream maybe five minutes to find a good place to build a fire and begin cooking their dinner. Tommy stayed seated on the man’s shoulder, clinging to the side of his neck by the fabric of his shirt. The teen was about ready to drop dead, right then and there from the fatigue of the day. Too much stress and anxiety in too few hours, he figured.

Absent-mindedly, Dream reached towards the blond to pluck him up from his shoulder. Tommy stumbled back with a yell, shoulders hitched up and arms thrown up in front of his face in a readily defensive position. The massive hand faltered at Tommy’s sudden reaction, and the line of Dream’s back slumped down as he realized that he’d scared the teen. Again.

“I have…you-sized swords, if that would make you feel better,” The human offered, slowly pulling his hand away from Tommy. Tommy perked up immediately at the offer, before suspicion clouded his face. He squinted up at Dream, but was unable to discern anything past the blank smile on his mask. 

“Why do you have so much smallfolk stuff?!” He snapped, punching the side of Dream’s neck in a sudden flare of outrage. The skin beneath the dark fabric twitched, and Tommy scowled. “Normal people barely even fucking know we exist, and yet here you are, pockets full of items you shouldn’t have, not even the slightest bit curious about me or my kind, what we are, and what we fucking do. That’s not a goddamn normal response, Dream!”

Tommy was shaking, heart thrumming in his chest for about the third time that day. Many more of the ways Dream just was had been bothering him for a while, and he took the opportunity to spew his frustrations out at the human. At the very least, he was getting the words off of his chest.

"Um, well…" Dream trailed off, glancing up at the dusking sky, then slowly, he brought his hand up to his shoulder in front of Tommy, palm flat. “C’mon, let me set you down first.” He murmured, fingers twitching absently. Tommy frowned but obliged anyway, carefully hopping from his perch on Dream’s shoulder and onto the gloved palm. Tommy nodded when Dream asked if he was ready, the human settling down on the ground in front of the fire before lowering his hand to the dirt beside himself to let Tommy down as well. 

"I like to help you guys, y'know? Like, if I come across one of you in trouble, I'll help 'em out." Dream finally started with a small shrug. "And sometimes they give me stuff, and others…" He paused, before continuing morosely. "Sometimes I get there too late."

"Why, though? What good does it do you?" Tommy demanded, plopping down on the ground and crossing his legs. He crossed his arms and puffed his chest out, sending a firm look up at the towering form of the older man.

Dream's body seemed to loosen, and his voice went sad and vacant. "I…I had a friend, once. A smallfolk friend. A long time ago. He—I-I, uhm…" Dream bowed his head, looking to the side. "I-I'm hoping that I'll maybe find him again. One day. H-hopefully." The human fell silent, staring solemnly at the dirt and grass of the forest floor. The muted crackling of the fire filled the strangely mournful air, leaving Tommy to stew in the new piece of information.

Dream had a smallfolk friend…? He opened his mouth to say something, then, glancing back up at Dream's bowed figure, thought better of it and closed his jaw, pensively turning back to the brightly burning fire.

Considering, well, everything, it did make sense. The way the man behaved, the gentle, well-practiced manner he had when he had to pick Tommy up or walk with the teen on his shoulder, even his actions when Tommy was freaking out just a little��too badly, everything pointed to a great deal of experience with smallfolk.

The teen could even accept the fact that the smallfolk items had been gifts and… findings that weren’t forcefully taken. Despite the fact that some of the belongings obviously hadn’t been willingly parted with (Tommy’s quilt came to mind, that thing was way too valuable to simply give away) the idea that the previous owners had passed, while still upsetting, was more comforting for Tommy to think about that the fact that maybe Dream had killed them himself.

Tommy exhaled silently from his nose, clasping his hands over his mouth and gazing into the bright, dazzling light of the fire. If…If Dream was telling the truth, then Tommy shouldn’t have to worry about being safe around the man. Tommy would really, really like that to be the case. He was tired of being scared, of Dream, of other bigfolk, of the world. If Dream was a good’un, and Tommy dearly hoped he was, maybe…maybe he wouldn't have to worry so much.

Maybe Tommy could get back home…

…

He did end up getting a sword from Dream. The human even spent a few hours teaching him how to use it (most of which Tommy already knew, thank you very much!) and had promised to continue the lessons in the future. Tommy had been ecstatic, swinging the inch-long blade with a slightly-less-than practiced hand. He’d never actually owned a sword before, (they’d never had any small enough) but he’d practiced enough with splinters of wood and slivers of metal to know how to wield it.

The sun had set, not too long after that, and Dream told them that they needed to get to bed. Tommy had agreed, physically and mentally exhausted from the day’s trials. Dream had held open his satchel for the teen, and closed it securely behind him after Tommy stepped inside. In the warm, nearly oppressive darkness, Tommy found his quilt and sank to the ground, already half asleep by the time he managed to drag the blanket up over his shoulders.

Outside there were the sounds of Dream settling down for the night, the slight sound of the movements amplified by the giant of a man that was causing them. 

Tommy drifted off, lulled to sleep by the drag of gravity, the heavy, rhythmic whoosh of Dream’s breathing and the low, muffled sounds of the night critters outside.

Taglist:

@brick-a-doodle-do @i-am-beckyu @da3dm @kayla-crazy-stuffs @local-squishmallow @skullsnbruises @munchkin1156 @gt-daboss

[spencerthespender]

Seeing how my other scotomaphobia post went so well, I feel like I need to highlight one of this game’s most incredible moments, and that is a simple conversation held on a balcony with you and Kindness.

“This city. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Even without lights or people. And it goes on for miles. I would love to explore it, and try to piece together what everything means.

Do you think they’d have the same things as us? Like barbers, corner stores, and malls? Or would they just have rooms full of weird cocoons that make them live forever or some other weird sci-fi junk.

I… They’re so advanced compared to us. It’s scary. It’s like we’re just ants, being sent down here to die. And we can’t do that, even though we want to.

…

I miss eating… Especially my sister’s homemade apple pie. I swear, she should’ve gone to culinary school instead of becoming a doctor, it was amazing… Trying not to drool now just thinking about it, ha…

…

I still try to eat from time to time, just to relive the sensation. But I almost always just puke it back up. Oh well, I guess that’s the price of… this. I heard it’s painful to starve to death.

…

I wish I had your tenacity, but I think this is where I stop, at least… until I feel ready. Maybe I can find someone else who doesn’t want to kill me. At least not on sight, heh. But keep that radio handy. Maybe we can keep in touch? Though I guess, it might not even work because of the distance…

Still, as a keepsake.”

The dialogue just hits me here. Call this headcanon, but the further he talks, I swear, you can slowly feel him break down quietly on that balcony. If not for the infliction, he’d definitely be crying silently.

And I don’t blame him for crying because when he talks, I think thats when the reality of everything sets into him. Mankind Earth, in its entirety, has fallen. And if that wasn’t enough, he’s been forcefully stripped from his families to go on some… stupid journey. He’s been isolated for so, so long in the dark, and just when he finds a way out of his void-like prison, he finds himself in a place built by aliens. There’s been so much for him to grapple with, and so little time.

It must have been hell with him knowing he’s been robbed of closure from his sister. He will never know what’s happened to her since the expedition, he will never get to speak another word to her, and he’ll never get to have that simple, human part of his life back.

His humanity. He’s been robbed of that too, but not just from his sister. He’s been inflicted with this impossible disease. The body becomes more crystal than human, his speech has been permenantly hindered with that cough of his, and he can’t even eat. He can’t even die. Is he even human anymore? If some stupid cure even was found, would Earth ever be the same? What about the aliens? Would they just go away once everything’s solved?

He is so small in this situation, so unimportant. The entire god damned planet itself is dealing with a crisis, aliens somehow are involved, and among that is a single man. There will not be any major help for him.

Despite being broken and broken and broken several times over, experiencing a myriad of emotions all in the span of a few minutes, he remains standing and somewhat cheerful. I know Kindness compliments our tenacity here, but nobody seems to acknowledge his tenacity here.

In two and a half minutes, we not only get insight on Kindness’ personality and life, but we get to see his current thought process, how he’s handling the situation, see how most people have probably reacted to the infliction, and experience him slowly break down mentally.

I know I’m not in this game’s discord server (assuming it has one), but I really hope people understand just how good this dialogue is. It’s incredible.

[siremasterlawrence]

Payback Is A Bitch (Literally)

Revenge is best served cold where that ne family, friends or foes then there is the Hart Von Al family my worst enemies through out my history.

Who knew exactly eighteen years and three months exactly since they ruined my life back in collage him and his stupid horde of children.

Of course I had I known they would book my illustrious hotel on the sandy Florida resort of my creation which I did by the way the plan is perfect.

The moment I saw them walking onto the the fiery hot sandy beach radiating down on me when I came across them meeting my eye lines.

All I can do is take a deep breath before in order to calm myself down at the sights of the two of them being bitches as per usual to the core.

They enter back into the hotel to utter lack of function everything is in disarray It is in particular when the father Jack steps up to press the elevator panel.

The button lights up racing down the cart hit the first floor opening up with a lard whoosh sound something is off as his feet tilt falling forward.

His body hits the cart with the door closing on him enclosing him in a safe line spot that surrounds him in darkness the lights begin to flicker.

His two kids start to pound on the steel door screaming for him to escape but he could not hear them as a piece of classical music airy and mysterious burst through the speaker.

“The hotel is completely in dysfunction”

“The elevator shaft is in ruins “

“Five star hotel my ass”

“SET ME FREE”

“NOW”

“PLEASE “

“Fuck!”

“I am going mad in here “

“Shit! I am stuck in this shit hole of a hotel”

In the pent house suite miles above in the gigantic floor a young man watches his first major nemesis literally going insane trapped in plan he concocted.

If he had half a brain he while he slid by way of the wall onto the floor he might attempt to remember when he did that to me with Ill intent.

“Revenge is sweet is it not?”

“Who the fuck are you “

“Oh! The bitter taste of your demise “

“I will find you and”

“You will find me and then what?”

“Mwahahahahaha “

“Don’t worry you won’t go insane in fact you will be like brand new”

“A factor reset after all you are a bastard “

“FUCK YOU!”

Andrew Lyle is his eldest shifty son a twisted two time face brat with model physique built like a hanger, pretty smirk and clothes that match.

The helicopter lands on the roof top tower in a tier of gold, white and silver spanning the area and the door slides as he walks off and on to the helicopter pad.

There is state idiot smile plastered on to his face he removes his sunshades he closes one end of glasses brim and leaves it on his lapel.

One of my many hotel employees arrives to greet him taking his bags as they descend the staircase and exit the roof top area he thinks he is going to his room.

It is really quite impressive how he manages

to trick the world into believing he is some sort of God among men and I am about to put him in place.

The hallway empties leaving him in a naked white wall hallway the lights fade to black he starts to panic calling for help when he can hear foot steps approaching.

“Hello? Anybody here? HELP ME!”

“Answer me”

“Speak”

“Say something “

“This is creepy”

“Turn on the lights”

“I said quit it”

“What is going on?”

“How can this be happening?”

“I tell you mwahahaha “

“You are scaring me”

“Oh Well!”

“This is some strange shit”

“Asshole “

The man laughs happily snapping his finger the hallway spins in circular fashion sending Andrew into a tale spin of lust, fare and his inner desire.

The bitch thinks he has his way jumps from the top of the staircase he leaps on to the stairs below making his way attempting to escape.

“Where are you going?”

“I am about to break this place apart “

“How so? You don’t want to vacate this hall”

“I don’t “

“It’s is lush, comfortable and safe “

“So pretty”

“Why would you leave?”

“I don’t want to”

“It’s impossible to even ignore me”

Tom Harry Parker races up to the hotel room

in a passionate moment he slams the door placing his back on it in a panic pounding his fist on the door. His heart beat hitting

his chest he cries loudly sliding to the floor he resumes his dramatic fit then proceeds to shut the window and pulling done the shade.

“He can’t find me “

“I am safe here “

“Right? Right?”

“I am going crazy “

“Not as much as you think “

“In panic mode right?”

“I hate you all “

“So you think”

“You might want to kneel”

“Give up and obey “

“You will fall pretty to me eventually “

“You wish “

“Don’t worry soon you will”

“I will what?”

“Eating from my ass”

“Disgusting”

“So you say come to me”

“What do you want?

“Your total submission “

“Fat chance in hell that will happen “

“Why don’t you shut up and see?”

“Why I oughta “

“Kiss me then you alright destroyed me”

“Succumb to me”

“Inside you already have “

“Like a moth to a flame “

The end

[ultrakdramamama]

To size up the impact South Korean superstars SHINee have had on music is a difficult task. With a panorama that spans both K-pop and the world’s stage, the band’s dominance has grown exponentially since their debut 15 years ago. With their latest album, it’s also clear that SHINee’s future could only get even brighter. 

When someone goes around muttering, “Hard like a criminal, hard like the beat” under their breath for about two months straight, it’s bound to attract a few stares at the workplace. Especially when you yell, “We go HARD” when your colleagues enquire about your state of mind. But that’s SHINee’s effect for you. The lyrics from the title track of the legendary band’s eighth Korean language studio album, fittingly titled HARD, tend to imprint themselves on the listener’s temporal lobe. But this isn’t a new phenomenon for SHINee. Fifteen years since the band’s debut, it’s safe to say that they have created K-pop’s (and pop in general’s) most satisfying earworms and anthems, from Replay (2008) to Ring Ding Dong (2009), and Amigo (also 2008) to View (2015), to name a nanoparticle of songs off a daunting discography. ONEW, KEY, MINHO, TAEMIN – and the late beloved JONGHYUN – together form one of the finest, most well-rounded groups to emerge from South Korea’s competitive music industry, and their longevity speaks volumes about their talent and relevance. This includes solo projects, too – each of their individual offerings is a class apart.

So, how does one even begin to dismantle SHINee’s hypnotic hold on both their Korean and global devotees? To be honest, there is no need to divide them because once a ‘SHINee WORLD’ (the name given to the band’s beloved fanbase), always a SHINee WORLD regardless of age, gender or geographic distinction. With their vocal prowess, stage mastery, and dexterity of movement, they’ve filled stadiums worldwide through the course of a 15-year-long juggernaut. ONEW possesses one of the most iconic voices known to this oeuvre, with a dominant baritone and operatic tenor. KEY’s aura and presence is impossible to translate into words. MINHO’s a towering personality in terms of both talent and charisma. It’s also not hyperbole to state that TAEMIN is the king of movement – an unparalleled dancer, and a star. Together, they’re extraordinary. Solo, their personalities jump off the screen too. They’re each lovable matrixes of sass, humour, gravitas... clumsiness (the fans will attest to this). If one were to sum them up, ‘real’ would be the word to choose. Even though they’re revered in the industry, and active in all its different aspects – variety shows, musicals, performing on OSTs, solo projects, etc – they’re as humble as the day they started.

In this email interview, three of the band members dive into their music, providing perspective on the landscape they inhabit. ONEW, the leader of the band, is currently on hiatus for health issues. (However, he did send out a message to fans to reassure them of his rest and recovery and his imminent return.) One thing is for sure – it’s SHINee’s world, and we’re happy to be living in it.

You’ve always been completely ahead of the curve when it comes to genre, often blending several sonic elements in one album. In this album, for instance, you have wobbly drum and bass and soulful vocals on The Feeling, a really fresh take on the clear drum breaks of ’90s hip-hop on HARD, and dance-pop on Identity. Yet, you can tell a SHINee track from a mile away. How do you connect so many diverse sounds to the SHINee colour, and what – in the first place – would you say is SHINee’s colour? KEY: Rather than defining SHINee with one colour, I believe SHINee’s colour consists of all the colours each one of our fans sees us as. MINHO: SHINee is quite an interesting team because we have the ability to make any song into SHINee’s own colours. It’s our biggest weapon. We’ve built up this skill since our first album, and it only strengthened as we tried out various genres and concepts. Now, all our members know how to make any track SHINee-like. TAEMIN: SHINee’s colour is a combination of the various music styles we’ve experimented with. Without being limited to a specific genre, we capture several different colours and find SHINee’s own way of uniting everything into one.

Having said that, can you reveal the most “SHINee” song on this album for you, and explain why that would be your pick? KEY: For me, that would be the title track Hard, because it shows best all the efforts we’ve put into the visuals, performance, and recordings to demonstrate the genre of hip-hop. MINHO: It’s hard to select just one track. Many might say The Feeling but, rather than selecting one, I’d like to say this album in itself is “SHINee”, and it opens up our new chapter. TAEMIN: I’d say Satellite, because it shows the harmonious vocals of SHINee.

SHINee has a way of tapping into a collective sense of nostalgia – whether we go back to View, Married To The Music, or 1 of 1 even. Yet, you somehow manage doing this in a future-forward way with both your look and sound. How do you access and communicate a wide spectrum of emotions for people across borders and gender? KEY: Songs and melodies are very effective in expressing emotions and conveying messages to different people and genders. Though the lyrics might be interpreted differently depending on one’s culture, I believe a melody has a relatable power for everyone. MINHO: We try to convey emotions directly instead of hiding them. One of those characteristics is being upfront about how one feels and not hiding one’s emotions. TAEMIN: Even if we do not speak the same language, it’s the energy we’ve poured into this album that makes it possible for us to connect and communicate with those who listen to it.

Often, when you’re with a group of people who end up knowing you inside out, it helps you to see yourself more clearly. How would you say the close bond that exists between all of you has affected or changed you? TAEMIN: I was able to learn a lot from my (fellow band) members since they are all very talented. The bond we’ve formed through our time and experiences together is such a valuable gift to me.

People say there is always one side of the brain that’s more dominant. The left brain vs right brain – largely the analytical vs the creative. The artistes in you must make use of the right brain, but, to navigate this industry and learn from it, the left brain has to come into play. Given your successful ongoing careers, how do you balance the two sides? KEY: Balance is something I’m constantly thinking about not only as SHINee’s KEY, but also as an entertainer on variety shows so that I can continue to better myself and grow. MINHO: This is an interesting question that I’ve never thought of before. I probably use my left brain more since I’m always thinking about things that others might not have done yet or tried before. TAEMIN: When I tested myself, I found that my right brain functions better than my left!

Is it possible, as an artiste, to be happy and satisfied at the same time? MINHO: I’m not quite sure if happiness and satisfaction can be felt at the same time, though it’s different for each person. Even if I’m happy, I might not be satisfied, but I think that’s because I’m a bit of a perfectionist [laughs].

Can you talk about how the performance aspect of music has evolved for you over the years? Does it feel more poignant being on stage together again after a break? [The members of SHINee fulfilled their mandatory military enlistment duties, staggered, over the last five years.] KEY: I’m not sure if this properly explains it, but I’d like to think of our growth as ‘still strong’. As the years add on, there is a sense of pressure from wanting to show our best selves and great performances but, through this album, SHINee was able to show persistence and strength. Whenever I step on stage, it’s an overwhelming feeling. MINHO: You can see just how much we’ve grown through our performances. Compared to before, we’re more experienced so there’s a sense of ease. Yet we do feel more nervous when we return to the stage after a long time. ‘Will I be able to perform well on this stage? What if I make a mistake?’ These are the kinds of thoughts that run through my mind but that’s what brings out a perfect performance. The most important thing in all of this is to look as if you’re not nervous! [laughs] TAEMIN: The K-pop market has grown, and we’ve also benefited from that. The lifespan of K-pop idols has also increased compared to before, but I believe it’s (everyone’s) hard work that’s made this possible.

What sort of music are you gravitating towards right now? Do you connect music and movement given how proficiently you link the two? TAEMIN: I usually listen to calm music. I also enjoy humming or dancing along to whatever I’m listening to.

Fifteen years down the line, what is something you know now that you wish you had known then? KEY: That I don’t need to have any regrets because I’ve done my best throughout. MINHO: There are many things I wish I had known but, since I didn’t know anything at that time, I’d want to keep them a secret [laughs]. TAEMIN: What we’ve learned throughout holds greater value and meaning because of the process. If I were to say one thing to my past self, it would be to travel around the world more and study English.

Does the desire to experiment and the ability to actually be able to follow through with ideas become easier with time? KEY: It becomes harder with time but that’s why I make sure to put in more thought and effort to bring out the best I can.

As the world evolves at an almost breakneck speed, music evolves with it; you’ve also been witness to the shift in the influence of K-pop. How would you say the K-pop industry has also changed over these years as it has become a global phenomenon? KEY: From training to performing, everything has become very systemised and specialised. There’s also a wider variety of messages that can be delivered through performances. MINHO: K-pop has changed rapidly and, as a part of the generation that has seen that process of change, it is quite fast. The best development is the fact that the whole world can see what I’ve uploaded in seconds! TAEMIN: As a person who has been in this field for quite some time, I am amazed by K-pop. There have been a lot of changes through the years, changes that I did not realize at the time!

Looking back to when you started, would you say you are where you want to be as an artiste at this stage of your life? MINHO: I’m getting closer to where I dreamed I’d be when I debuted, but there’s still quite a way to go to get there.

How does the future look? KEY: SHINee will always remain the same. MINHO: The future will always be SHINee. TAEMIN: I’d like to live a happier life by giving back to our fans with good music and maintaining the precious relationships we have together. And I hope to perform overseas more often.

Would you please send a message to SHINee WORLD in India – any thoughts you’d like to share? KEY: I’m very much looking forward to the day we’ll get to meet our fans in person. Thank you for always showering us with love. MINHO: I’ve been to India before, but have not had the opportunity to perform. I hope that chance will come sometime soon, so please wait for us! TAEMIN: I really want to meet our fans in India and I’m sorry we haven’t been able to visit. I promise you we will create precious memories together!