#Beneath the Lemon Trees
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essvagon · 2 months ago
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Book Review: Burstall's descriptions transport readers to an idyllic setting
Author Emma Burstall wrote Beneath the Lemon Trees, which may be a reference to the main character’s sour life choices. However, a more fitting title might be Beneath the Olive Trees, given that the single love scene takes place there, reflecting the story’s ending. Burstall’s descriptions transport readers to an idyllic setting, with vivid imagery of the main character’s trip to the Greek…
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teencopandthesourwolf · 15 days ago
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edited version can be read on ao3 HERE
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“Need a hand with that, wolf?”
Derek didn't drop the tire he was carrying, but it was a close thing. He'd recognise that voice anywhere—would know it in a sea of a thousand others.
He slowly turned on his heel to find its owner sat in Derek's favourite tree.
Stiles.
“You're here,” he breathed, not bothering to hide the mix of shock and relief that coloured his own voice and features.
Stilesʼ lips twitched. “I'm here,” he confirmed, just in case Derek needed to hear it.
“Hey,” Derek said, eloquent as ever.
“Hey yourself,” Stiles grinned back.
Shifting his weight on the tree branch, Stiles then pulled himself up to standing. He wiped his hands on the ass of his jeans before proffering one towards Derek.
“I'm Mieczysław Stilinski. It's really nice to meet you, dude.”
Stilesʼcheeks flushed an overwhelmingly pretty shade of pink, and Derek wanted to eat him.
Reaching out to take the hand in one of his own, the pads of his fingertips brushed the familiar Jack rabbit pulse at Stiles's wrist, for just a second, and it was both a calling card and like a huge sigh of relief.
He turned the name around in his mind.
Mieczysław. Mieczysław Stilinski.
It was unexpected, and very Polish, and Derek sort of adored it.
Looking a little antsy, Stiles said, “It, uh, means 'sword' in Polish. If you go in for that sort of thing.” He blushed some more and then snorted at himself. “But yeah, I know it's kinda... ʼSʼobviously why I go by Stiles—which was my Grandfather's nickname too, by the way.”
Derek's heart swelled in his chest.
This was what they could've had if things had gone differently for them.
He cleared his throat, took a deep intake of woodsmoke-laced air into his lungs, then said, “Broderick Seth Rodman Hale, third son of Talia and Seth Hale of the Hale Pack of Beacon Hills county, North California, and I'm very pleased to meet you're acquaintance. Oh, and do not call me dude, by the way.”
“Broderick? Are you shitting me right now?!” Stiles blurted, trying and failing to not laugh.
Derek rolled his eyes and it felt like breathing. “Seriously? I think you'll find you don't have even half a leg to stand on, Mieczysław.”
“Actually, I have two, Broderick Seth Rodman Hale, and I diligently used the both of them to come out here to Bumfuck nowhere to find you.”
He shot Derek with ridiculous finger guns then blew away imaginary gunpowder smoke, and if it wasn't for the kid's beard it could've easily been thirteen-years ago.
Not a kid anymore.
Stiles looked amazing. A little broader, and a little fuller in the face, and the beard really, really suited him. At once, Derek had the desperate urge to sink his claws into it and paw at the pale skin beneath. He wanted to back Stiles into the bark of the tree and bury his nose in that long, mole-peppered neck he still had dreams about, to breathe in pure unadulterated Stiles.
He swallowed thickly, licking at his dry lips and wishing they were Stilesʼ. Had to force himself to unclench the fist not currently grasping Stiles's hand.
Derek had to try his best to pretend that he wasn't very aware of the fact that they were still very much holding onto each other.
“Broderick means 'brother' in Old Norse, if you go in for that sort of thing,” he offered, borrowing Stiles's banter.
Stiles's smile was easy, albeit tainted with a hint of sadness for that piece of information. He was sort of—looser. More relaxed, and definitely less agitated than he used to be. Though he smelled exactly the same as he always had: Of strong coffee and Bath & Body Oak shower gel and wild cinnamon and lemon sherbet dip, and that particular warm smack of something that Derek had always struggled to place—the very essence of Mieczysław 'Stiles' Stilinski.
The familiar tang zinged over his taste buds like popping candy, and his wolf took up its routinely impatient pacing at his core as if they had seen Stiles only yesterday.
“I'm—uh, I don't—you look good, Stiles. Really good.”
This human was the only creature on planet earth that had Derek Hale fumbling his words.
Stiles was smirking his signature smirk—only there was something new pulling at the curve of that life-ruining mouth of his.
Unerring confidence.
Derek sniffed at the air and licked at his lips again so he could taste that, too.
“You're look pretty fine yourself there, Sourwolf,” Stiles divulged, mirroring Derek again by licking his own lips. He shamelessly looked Derek up and down and said, “Your edges aren't quite so sharp, and you're little softer ʼround the eyes, like maybe you're—I dunno. Something closer to being happy?” His eyes shone like the full moon in the dark when he told Derek, “And, dare I say it, maybe not even all that sour anymore?”
Derek huffed a breath out through his nostrils that was in the proximity of a laugh.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Looks good on you, man. Really good.”
Stiles was borrowing Derek's words, and if he kept saying things like that to Derek while looking at Derek the way that he was, Derek would have to restrain himself from picking the guy up by the scruff of his very nice sweater and kissing the words right out of his mouth.
Then everything sort of stilled, somehow, including the wind, and the birds, and them, as if the whole world had just halted for something incredibly important.
They stood there, just gazing at each other. Like there wasn't anything else they could or would possibly be doing right now.
Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.
It was obvious to even the blades of grass on the ground that they both still felt it.
Slowly, slowly, they caught back up to reality.
Derek took a breath and found his voice again.
“Might've taken a few pointers from a kid I used to know,” he smiled, eyes never leaving Stilesʼ.
Then he thought in for a penny and admitted, “I hoped you'd come looking for me—and I want you to know that I'm really, really glad that you did.”
Stiles squinted at him through the sun's afternoon rays that broke through the Colorado cloud cover like the heavens had suddenly appeared. In that moment, he reminded Derek of the beautiful golden Aztec Sanvitalia shrub that grew down by the little stream behind his cabin. He wondered briefly if that was the missing base note in Stiles's scent, and felt a little insane with it all.
“Well, I knew I'd find you,” Stiles shrugged, “because one: I'm like a dog with a bone, and two: You left a trail of breadcrumbs so fucking vague only a genius like yours truly would be able to follow.”
He then shielded those big brown doe eyes of his from a particularly bright sunbeam with a still-bony hand, and the squinted look on his face was so fond Derek had to sink his canines into his lip to hold in the pitiful whine that threatened to climb up and out of his chest and escape him.
He stepped closer to the tree; closer to the boy who runs with wolves, who was definitely not a boy any longer.
“You make it sound as if we're in some sort of fairytale, Stiles,” Derek said as he attempted to blink Stiles's beauty from his eyes, knowing it would be a fruitless endeavour.
Finally, Stiles reached out to pull Derek down and into his lap, and Derek went like a force of nature.
He dropped the tire this time.
Stiles smelled like love when he said, “Weren't we always, Der?” right into Derek's mouth.
And Derek knew.
As Stiles leaned in and kissed him softly, and he kissed Stiles softly right back, he knew they both understood that although they had to travel far from Beacon Hills to find it, they had both—at long last—made it home.
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on ao3 HERE if you'd like to leave me a comment <3
i saw the new dob shoot and my brain remembered the hoech one and went ping! this is for @wulfnerd seeing as they came up with the wonderful Broderick as Derek's full first name in the tags of a post of mine who knows how long ago...
unedited, please be forgiving <3
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romanteacism · 3 months ago
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Knight Aemond x Princess Reader Please
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Synopsis: You've come to learn the fact that your sworn protector has a hard time denying your requests. Warnings: None (yet), Aemond and Reader coming some realizations, ¿infatuation?, Aemond Concerned, Fluff PREVIOUS PART / NEXT PART
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“How much further?” You asked, voice louder as you peeked your head out of the moving wheelhouse so you could speak with your knight who rode atop his horse beside you. “A few more hours, princess— we shall arrive before sundown.” Ser Aemond replied, watching as a pout formed on your lips as you were growing bored with the endless hours on the road. “I’m bored,” You sigh, trying to make conversation with your knight whilst half of your body dangled on the edge of the wheelhouse. 
“Princess, you must sit down— you might hurt yourself,” Aemond said, concerned the roads were quite uneven, and he was certain that with just one bump, you’d fall from the slot. “But my legs are numb! Can we not rest for a moment?” You questioned, trying to look for Ser Aemond’s eye through the slats of his helmet. Widening your own eyes, imploring him to agree. “The princess is right; we had been riding since first light. We could rest for a moment.” Ser Adam then intruded on your conversation, riding faster and abandoning his post that was behind the wheelhouse. “Return to your station, Ser Adam.” Aemond gritted as the knight rode beside him. 
“Ser Aemond, please! Just an hour, I’m certain the drivers are weary from travel as well! We could all use rest.” You implored, clutching tightly upon the window frame as the wheelhouse jostled, making Aemond take in a sharp breath as he was overly concerned that you might harm yourself. “Fine, just half an hour, princess. Your brother gave strict orders that we must arrive before sundown.” He sighed, motioning for Adam to tell the drivers to halt and rest by the side. “Thank you!” You sang and finally complied with your knight’s orders to sit back down. When the doors opened, you were met with the muddied ground, and before one of the squires could place a cloth over it, Ser Aemond took hold of your waist and lifted you off the ground into the grass. “Come, Theo,” You called, and the jingle of your cat’s collar could be heard as he leaped from the wheelhouse and found his place by your side. 
“Have we brought enough food for them?” You asked Ser Aemond as the drivers and footmen rested by the distance. Ser Aemond assisted you with a blanket placed under a tree where refreshments were served. “Yes, princess,” Aemond nodded and stood by your side, your pet cat suddenly hissing, making your knight reluctantly take a tiny step away from you. “Would you like some Sers?” You asked, offering them some custard tarts and lemon cakes as well as tea. Ser Adam was ready to agree, but Ser Aemond spoke. “No, thank you, princess, we are on watch.” He gritted, glaring at his fellow knight, who defeatedly sighed. “Oh, come now, there are no dangers here— we are quite literally in the middle of nowhere. Help yourself, Ser Adam,” You smiled, and it took no further convincing for Ser Adam to take a lemon cake into his hands. 
You took a custard tart onto a napkin and raised it to Ser Aemond, who shook his head. “Stop being stubborn; I’m well sure you are famished as well. Just eat, Ser Aemond,” You sighed, but your knight was hard-headed. “Please,” You said once more and waited as your knight sighed and reluctantly took the pastry from your hand. You hindered your smirk as you were coming to realize that one specific word had your knight succumbing to your requests. 
You were chatting with Ser Adam, and as always, Ser Aemond stayed silent, only speaking when you directly asked him a question. Ser Aemond moved to stand directly behind you as he noticed you were constantly readjusting your posture because your back was already sore. He stood behind you as a silent message for you to use his legs to rest your back, which you gladly did. Perhaps it was beneath or too much of him to do such actions, but he could not help but to— it did not sit well with him when you were in discomfort, and besides, you were always so grateful for him and his actions. 
“Princess, we must go— rain is about to come,” As the words left your knight’s lips, a clap of loud thunder sounded out, making you jump. “Yes, of course,” you say and hastily stand as the footmen quickly pack away the blanket you sat upon along with the refreshments you were served.  Ser Aemond once again lifted you off the ground so you would not step on the mud, fast with his actions as he mounted his horse and yelled towards the driver to move. 
The rain was punishing. It did not cease even for a moment, and luckily, the roads did not prove cumbersome, and you arrived at your destination without much hassle. “Are you well?” You asked your knight quietly as he, in his armor, was soaked. “Yes, princess. It was just rain.” He said, but both of your attention was caught by Ser Adam, who had a sneezing fit and was quick to grow unwell. Aemond rolled his eye at the sensitivity of his fellow knight. It was just water— weakling.“See to it that Ser Adam is brought to a Maester,” you said softly as your brother came towards you to greet you. “Yes, princess,” Ser Aemond nodded and let go of your arm as you headed towards your brother. 
“Finally! Father was growing restless! We thought you would be stranded in the rain.” Your brother sighed as he kissed your cheek in greeting. “We’re fine, but why is it raining? It is not supposed to be summer?” You questioned as the sole reason why you and your family ventured to your summer palace by the sea was because the heat in the capitol was unbearable. You did not expect to be greeted with such great amounts of rainfall. “No one can explain it— anyway, come, supper is served.” He said and ushered you inside the castle walls, leaving your knight behind to dry himself. 
Aemond shuffled through the halls as the summer palace was unfamiliar to him. It took him half an hour to find the great hall where you and your family ate, and luckily, as he arrived, you had just finished your meal. “Should you not rest, Ser Aemond?” You questioned as you guided your knight through the halls of the castle that was unfamiliar to him. “I am well, Your Highness,” He replied, memorizing each turn you would take. “But you still need rest— Ser Brandon could take the watch.” You suggested halting your steps. “I am fine, princess, truly.” He sighed, but you shook your head. “I insist you rest. Ser Adam was already taken by sickness— please, you must rest.” You said, taking hold of his arm, imploring him to do as you say. You hear his reluctantly sigh again, and you bite the insides of your cheeks. “Very well then, if you insist… but I shall return at first light.” He said, apprehension heavy in his voice. You smiled and nodded. “Of course. Good night, Ser Aemond,” you nodded and walked a few steps toward your chambers, but your knight waited until you disappeared, and he was certain that you had bared your door before he left and called upon Ser Brandon.
When morning broke, it was as if the rain had never came. “Good morrow, Ser Aemond,” You chirped as you exited your chambers, silently noting the absence of your second knight, much to the relief of your first. “Good morrow, princess.” He bowed and followed you as he was still to learn the routes of the castle. “Have you ever been to the ocean, Ser Aemond?” You asked as you guided him towards the path that led to the sea, where you would take your meals during your stay. “Only once, princess. When my family and I attended a funeral,” He answered. “Oh,” was all you could say at the rather sad fact. “I’m sorry,” You say quietly, and Aemond nodded. “Well, I hope your stay here will be more cheerful,” You added as he assisted you to your seat. 
Aemond did not care for the sea. It smelled of fish, and the sand that blew in the wind always landed on his eye and clung to his boots. He found the sound of crashing waves vexatious and the shrill cries of seagulls irritating. He, however, observed that you were happy as a clam. You slipped off your slippers and buried your feet into the cool sand; your eyes followed each crash of the waves, and you hummed along to the cries of the seagulls. He never thought of you as someone who would love the sea, which was an oversight on his part, for he had seen you countless times painting seascapes during the afternoon. 
“What did the masters say about Ser Adam’s condition.” You asked as your knight escorted you as you walked along the shore. He was holding your parasol and the slippers that you had discarded. You, as well, noticed he forwent his usual metal armor and instead wore a simple leather tunic. “He has a cough and is bedridden with fever. The maesters say it would take him a week or two to recover.” Aemond answered, resisting the smirk that was twitching on his lip. He was not joyous about his fellow knight’s ailment but rather his absence, leaving you and him just as it ought to be. “That’s a shame,” you say, and Aemond only nodded, though he did not wholly agree.
“What are you doing, princess?” You saw the deep frown on your sworn protector’s face as you sat on the sand. “Building a sand castle,” you smiled as your hands moved to gather sand, piling them high. “Come, join me.” You say, motioning to your side, wanting your knight to experience one of your favorite pastimes whilst you stay in the summer palace. Ser Aemond shook his head, looking at you oddly though he tried to make his face blank. “Come now, it’s fun!” You urged as you formed the sand in your hands; Aemond was mesmerized at how quickly molded the sand to your will. “Please,” You sang, begging him with your eyes, counting inwardly until Ser Aemond would let out a reluctant sigh. You reached the number five, and eventually, Ser Aemond crouched across from you, humoring your request and helping you build a structure with the sand. Who was he to deny your requests anyway? 
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Taglist: @anukulee @ladyriverasafespace
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sepherinaspoppies · 8 months ago
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Only If For A Night (i/?)
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pairing: Dark! Book Aemond Targaryen x Modern! Reader
summary: In Dia De Los Muertos (Day of the Dead), she gets forcefully transported to Westeros and meets her favorite book character, Aemond 'One Eye'. She asks and begs for his help to send her back home after realizing this was a world she did not want to live in. Unknowingly to her, her favorite fictional man had already grown too attached to fully let her go.
warnings for this part: profanity, tea drugging, blood magic, sexism, I think that's it... more dark stuff later. READER IS LATINA !
wc: 4,027
series masterlist
my masterlist
pt2
notes: originally I was gonna have this fic be a one shot but it is sooo long that I decided to split it into three. this is an introduction part, aemond will be on the next (I'm half way done with that part).
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Chapter 1: Only If For A Night
She knows she is screwed when Doña Maribel broke the news to her that the last of the cempasuchiles were completely sold out in her shop. Making it five flower shops in the span of an hour that she walked to have fully run out of the bright orange flowers she needed for her ancestral altar that she and her abuela worked tirelessly on for the past few days. (marigolds, grandmother)
She wonders what to do next or perhaps where to go as she plays with the gravel beneath her shoes. Sure, she could walk another mile or so to another flower shop and try her luck there just as Doña Maribel suggested but she finds herself too tired to venture deeper in her small pueblo by herself. (town)
Even the walk back to her abuela’s was not something she looked forward to as of now. This was the time where she wished she had the ability to drive but alas she could not for even the streets of Mexico were more hectic and nerve wracking than back at the states. (grandmother’s)
She sighs in defeat. The cempasuchiles were the last thing on her abuela’s list of things she required for tonight’s first day of Dia de Los Muertos. The bright orange flowers illuminated the path of those who died, back into the land of the living and enjoy the offerings their family’s set up for them. (Day of the Dead)
Maybe for just tonight she could spare them.  
She sets her three mercado bags beside her as she sits down on a bench right next to a bus stop that could lead her directly to her abuela’s home. The smell of citrus of the lemon tree above her eases her disappointment and feels that this is the perfect spot to reread one of her favorite books. (shopping)
George R. R. Martin’s, Fire and Blood Vol. 1. She wondered what it was like to reside in a world of dragons (before they were all extinct), dire wolves from the North, red priestesses from Volantis, and mysterious yet powerful witches. To live inside the walls of the Red Keep and tour around the secret passageways and to fight for the rightful Queen of Westeros, Rhaenyra and the other members of the Blacks during the Dance of Dragons.  
Sadly, even if it was possible to venture deep into alternate fantasy universes. It all was pure fiction. Not real. Impossible. 
‘And so one-eyed Aemond the Kinslayer took up the iron-and-ruby crown of Aegon the Conqueror, “It looks better on me than it ever did on him,” the prince proclaimed.’
“Excuse me, do you happen to know when the bus is due to arrive?” She snaps her head up meeting the most beautiful and enchanting woman she’d ever seen. Eyes round and greener than the trees itself during spring. Hair long and black like ravens in the night sky. She was tall, taller than most of the women here with skin like porcelain that had not seen a day of sun, a rarity here in Mexico. 
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It was her mischievous tight lipped smile that made her feel loss of words. Unknowingly, this mysterious woman was the first person who spoke to her in English, not Spanish.
“Umm… I- I’m sorry?” 
The green eyed woman smirked as if she knew the small effect she had on her. Gods she was beautiful. 
“The bus–” 
She shook her head out of her revere, coming to reality. “Oh, I’m not sure. Perhaps a few more minutes.” She informed, pulling her mercado bags closer to her side, allowing the green eyed woman to sit, not wanting to be rude. 
She murmurs a quick thank you as she sits exceedingly close to her, shoulder to shoulder, flesh to flesh with her. Jeez, talk about personal space! However, the woman doesn’t seem to care or acknowledge that she has enough space for her own person. A feeling of uncertainty rests below her gut, telling her to be vigilant around her presence.    
“How long have you waited?” She asks, breaking away the long silence between them. She almost shivers at the intensity hue of her eyes that bore right through her. 
“About ten to twelve minutes.” She replies, looking anywhere else but her. 
A satisfactory look sketched around the woman's youthful yet elderly face which she found odd. What could be so pleasing about the bus not arriving? The woman said nothing, only sitting rather straight, almost elegant in her simple long green dress. Though, in the back of her mind, she wondered if she felt hot underneath the heaviness of the velvet fabric. She sure as hell did.
“Wait, how did you know I spoke english?” She asked as the hairs on her arms stood up straight in some kind of chilling fear. 
The woman’s eyes lowered and centered on the object sitting up on her lap. “Your book gives it away.” She snickered softly, tilting her head reading the bold letters of her very worn book she got at the thrift store for just two dollars. “An interesting read.” The green eyed woman said whilst her face held no sincere fondness of it for someone who found it interesting. 
“You’ve read this before?” She asked curiously, little taken back, that she finally found someone else who read Fire and Blood Vol 1. Or anything by George R. R. Martin. 
“Yes, almost like I've lived through it” 
She opens her mouth to speak but the green eyed woman beats her to it. “I don’t mean to pry but where are you headed?” The smile falls off her face as she remembers the warning of stranger danger she learned as a kid. 
The woman must have noticed the dubious look upon her face as she threw her head back in a laugh. “I ask because it seems a storm is coming our way. And it looks like an angry one.” 
Sure enough, as she looked up the sky had turned into a deep gray with heavy clouds ready to pour any minute. Well this wasn’t forecasted in the noticias this morning, otherwise, she’d carry an umbrella. Or better yet, she wouldn’t have walked all this way if a storm was brewing. (news) 
“My cottage is not very far from here,” the green eyed woman revealed, standing up from the bench, overlooking the seriousness of the clouds. “It is just around the corner. Would you like to come?” 
She wanted to say no, that she was better off walking an hour back to her abuela’s house, even if it meant that she’d catch a cold in the pouring rain with blisters all over her feet. Besides, she did not know anything about this woman. Every bit of her mind screamed stranger danger! Don’t go!
But as she glanced between the heavy clouds and the green eyed woman with her hand extended out, all that doubt and worriment went away. 
“I don’t even know your name,” she pointed out. If all goes bad, at least she had a name to tell the authorities.
“My name is Alyssandra Riveras.” The green eyed woman smiled, bowing at the waist. 
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Though still somewhat skeptical, she walks alongside Alyssandra to her cottage. She makes small mental notes in her head, counting the red stop signs, right and left turns and any other landmarks of important significance. 
She was almost positive she could point her way back home. It did not help that five minutes into their journey, it started harshly pouring out of nowhere like a bucket of water had been poured all over, blanketing her vision. 
Alyssandra’s cottage had sat on the outskirts of the pueblo, isolated from all civilization, hidden around tall and green pine trees. A faint voice in the back of her head screamed to run and never look back. She ignored it.
From a close distance, she was able to distinguish a small window with overgrown vines and branches wrapped around the perimeter of the cottage. Bones, bells, and crystal windchimes hung from the roof and windows, mostly likely put up for some kind of spiritual protection. 
She was no stranger to the craft. Although raised catholic, both her mama and abuela had hung an old broom above their doorway to keep away unwanted guests and negative energies as well as pinning the mal de ojo sigil around the walls for the look of evil and envy against their family. (evil eye)
“Cempasuchiles,” she murmured in awe when Alyssandra’s small garden came into view. It was the most of the orange flowers she had ever seen, all bright and lively and huddled together. 
���When the storm is over, you can grab as many as you’d like,” Alyssandra offered, peering over her shoulder, unlocking the door to her cottage. She nods following her inside whilst giving a grateful smile. 
The interior of the cottage was small, meant only for one person to take residence. The same size as what a studio apartment would be back in the states.
In no way was the inside minimal, in fact it was the opposite. Almost all of the walls were covered with shelves with small trinkets adorning inside such as little statues, crystals, herbs and other supplies. 
In the center of the room lay a huge stone like table, old and antique bearing the resemblance of something medieval. And something about it, sent shivers down her spine along with the same faint voice, telling her to run. 
She ignored it, again. 
“Give me your belongings, and change into this,” Alyssandra says, tossing a strappy white chemise. She exchanges her poor-soaked mercado bags that contained pan de muerto, churros, and tamales for her ancestral ofrenda. (bread of the dead, offering)
She turns around to protect her modesty, seeing as there was no other room to change nor did Alyssandra point her to the bathroom, so she lifts the drenched garment over her head and sheds away the last clothing she had on her body, leaving her completely bare in her birthday suit. 
She couldn’t help but to feel Alyssandra’s eyes watching her very intently, examining every inch of her body as if it met her standards or so. She knows she should use her hands to cover up and give Alyssandra a piece of her mind, or better yet introduce her to a knuckle and hand sandwich for the way she was looking too closely.  
Yet her body feels frozen, unable to move under the green eyed woman’s gaze. 
“Would you like some tea to keep you warm?” Alyssandra asked, moseying to the kitchen. 
She blinks, whatever paralyzing feeling she had dispelled away. “Um, yes thank you.” Alyssandra nodded, pulling what looked to be a kettle on the stove. Meanwhile, she slipped on the white chemise in a hurry to not feel as exposed anymore. 
She takes the time to analyze the rest of Alyssandra’s cottage as she hears the droplets of rain hit the rooftop harder and the sound metal being filled with water. Various of the same purple flower plants were placed near the entrance, she notes to herself that these couldn’t possibly be lavender but another species or something within the same family. 
A small cot laid in the corner close by the hearth, with multiple open ancient books and scrolls spread on top of the bedspread. She almost wants to look through the pages and read Alyssandra’s interests but she doubts she could as she observes the handwriting is unreadable from where she stood. 
She walks forward to where the hearth is, feeling slightly warmer as something immediately catches her eye. Above the mantle, hung on the wall was a medium sized portrait of a small boy, appearing no more than three years old. He stood straight, almost regally with his hands behind his back. His face held no gentleness or warmth like a child should have. 
Gods forgive her, but the child looked cruel like the gueritos who bullied her in elementary school when she was just trying to make new friends. (white boys) 
Though, for an evil looking child, he sure was beautiful. The most striking thing about him was his set of eyes. Wide with his left eye a dark violet and his right a dark green similarly to Alyssandra’s. His hair was straight and cut short right below his ears. She looked closer at the portrait, thinking if her eyes deceived her as she noticed the peculiar color of the boy’s hair. 
Silver. 
Curiosity takes the better of her as she asks, “Is that your son?” 
Alyssandra turns, holding two mugs of steaming tea. “Yes, that’s my beautiful little boy,” She places both glasses on the stoned table before she sits adjacent to her. It doesn’t go unnoticed by her the sad look on Alyssandra’s eyes. “He looks like you,” she points out though it’s somewhat of a lie in hopes to lift up Alyssandra’s spirits.
Alyssandra throws her head back in a chortle, “For all my hard work and labor, I had hoped he looked like me but nature loves to play its cruel jokes. He is a replica of his bastard father.” The thought of her son’s father left a sour and disgusting taste in Alyssandra’s mouth. 
Alyssandra focused her attention back to her, “What about you?” She asked, sitting rather too straight. 
“Do you mean if I have kids? Gods, no.” 
Alyssandra smirked, “I take it you don’t like the idea of children. I did not either but after years of solitude, I changed my mind. I had other children before my son, but all of them died before they were due. You, however, are still young. Your mind can still change.” 
She shifted in her seat anxiously, sipping the odd taste of the herbal tea Alyssandra provided. It wasn’t like she did not like children. She respected children and found them quite cute with their little tiny hands and feet and infectious laughs. But besides the point of appearance, children were a tremendous amount of responsibility that she found herself not ready for.
Not now. Not ever. 
She could barely handle taking care of herself. Much less care and provide for a child for eighteen years or so. 
“I don’t—” 
“Oh but you will,” Alyssandra fired back without so much as blinking an eye. 
She grimaced, knowing where this conversation was heading. And it was about to be a not so pretty one. She glanced at the window by the door, the rain was still heavy if not more.
“I thank you for giving me shelter. But I really must go. I was only just supposed to be out for some groceries and my abuela is probably wondering where I am.” Polite and respectful enough just as her mama taught her.
She grabbed her belongings that were hanging by the fire and stuffed them inside her mercado bag. Her hand was on the cusp of prying the door open when Alyssandra rushed to her side, wrapping her hand around her wrist. 
“Wait. Please don’t go.” Alyssandra pleaded, “It’s just that you remind me much about myself. I didn't mean to cause offense, I’m sorry.” 
Run. Say no and run now, While you still can…
There it was again that same paralyzing feeling closing in on her feet, preventing her to move. It was strange like a shield gluing both her legs down. 
She nodded, murmuring ‘fine’ under her breath as Alyssandra slowly led her back to the woven chair with such gentleness as a porcelain doll. “I still need to call my abuela, so she can know I’m alright.” 
Alyssandra twisted her face in a wince, “I’m afraid we’re too far out for any signals to catch a telephone call.” She held back the overweening snicker to herself, it was why Alyssandra chose her cottage to be settled this far out in this very modernized realm; so no one could find her. 
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Alyssandra wasn’t lying. No matter how hard she hit her Iphone against her palm or moved it around, there had not been a single signal bar glowing. She wondered if her abuela had started to grow worried and perhaps began to search for her. She hoped she didn’t and that her cousins kept her preoccupied with the rest of the decorations to notice the duration of how long she’d been out. She also wondered if they were still going to the cementerio, to clean and decorate the graves of their loved ones but with the amount of thunder and rain, she’d doubt it was still on the agenda. (cemetery)
Alyssandra prepared some more tea as the fire gradually faltered down. This one had a different taste than the previous one with tiny purple petals floating around. Alyssandra watched very intently as she sipped every last drop while she scarcely touched her own mug.
The green eyed woman began asking her multiple personal questions, mostly about where she was originally from (due to the fact that her vocabulary deemed to be more vehement in English than Spanish), her family, and if she had any siblings. She had answered them all. Letting her know that she was just visiting from the states to celebrate Dia de Los Muertos with her family she had not seen since the death of her sweet abuelo. (grandfather)
Alyssandra’s eyes glimmered even more when she explained how strangely, her very stern and overprotective mama had suddenly let her travel by herself to a country she had never been to in years since she was small. Her mama preferred her to be where she could keep a close eye on her because ‘uno nunca sabe’ especially if you’re a woman. (one never knows)
It was odd, alright. Especially when her mama gave her money that she didn’t have, and enthusiastically wished her good fortune on her travels. Yup odd…
But not to Alyssandra.
Alyssandra sat down after cleaning both mugs ready to ask the hard hitting questions she’d been warming her up to. “Have you ever been with a man?” Her eyes widened before breaking rounds of deep laughter that made the sides of her ribs ache and cramp. 
However, there wasn’t an ounce of amusement displayed on Alyssandra’s face, but rather annoyance. What was so funny? It was a simple and uncomplicated question that meant no harm. At least not to her. He couldn’t harm her any more here. Alyssandra guessed perhaps it was the side effect of the tea making her humoristic. 
“No,” She replied, wiping the humoristic tears at the corner of her eyes. “The opportunity has never presented itself?” Alyssandra asked.
All the humor that previously lingered had gone swiftly away, realizing that Alyssandra was indeed asking something so personal to her. “No,” She shook her head, feeling her face hot and red. “People don’t look at me as someone they want to be with. They’d rather be with someone exciting, adventurous, and outing. And I’m neither of those things. I’m a homebody who’s idea of fun and adventure is living through fictional books.” She answered truthfully, too truthfully. 
Alyssandra watched her face transform into a deeper shade of red. “What is it?” She questioned, taking a hold of her hand, taking in the role of someone empathetic. 
“I want my first time to be special. Like the fairytales I grew up reading about with the grand Prince sweeping the young maiden off her feet and taking her to his castle…” The way her eyes reflected small flashes of light made Alyssandra almost feel guilty for her true intentions once the repercussions of the tea ran out. 
She remembers when she too wished for a dashing knight in shining armor to take her away, far away from the shit she had been through; the pain, the suffering, and the poverty. All of it. As Alyssandra grew well into her womanhood, she realized there was no knight coming to save her. Instead, there was a selfish Prince who spared her for his desires and her many talents beyond the acts of the flesh.  
But Alyssandra needed her to go. She needed that piece that was stolen from her. She didn’t want the risk of going back and facing him again and repeating through the hell and agony he put her through. So sending her for it seemed like the better alternative. 
“I know you probably think it sounds stupid–” She stammered, her face still beet red. 
“I don’t think it sounds stupid,” Alyssandra softly smiled, giving her hand a light squeeze. Judging by the serene look upon her face, it was a good lie that she seemed to believe. 
She smiled. Finally, someone who didn’t think of the idea of waiting for the right person was silly and unrealistic. 
Her smile deterred, sensing something trickle down her nose, dropping against the skin of her hand. 
Blood. Her blood. 
Run! 
“Alyssandra?” She whispered, puzzled at the sight of more blood spilling out of her nose. Every strand of hair in her arms stood, sensing a new type of alertness course right through her. She glanced at a very blurred Alyssandra with what looked to be a smirk written on her face. 
“W-What’s happening?” She stood from the chair, but that soon turned out to be a bad idea as her knees gave out, sending her straight to the stoned cold floor. She glanced up, watching as Alyssandra sauntered in front of her, and as much as she wanted to crawl away her body was glued to the floor. 
“Look,” Alyssandra said, crouching down at her level before she took her in her arms like a newborn baby, weighing little to nothing. “We don’t have much time. When you wake up, I need you to retrieve something of mine…” 
She felt her back collide on top of the stoned table, “What was in that tea?” She questioned but Alyssandra was quick to shush her. “It doesn’t matter now. You drank it all willingly.” There was no argument there. 
Alyssandra pulled out a jar with overflowing cempasuchil petals inside and circled the petals around her. Almost like a ritualistic circle she used to watch the brujas next door do. (witches)
“You need not to be afraid. You will not be harmed as long as you do what I say. Exactly as I say.” She gulped, nodding seeing as she had no other choice. “Bruja.” She spat but Alysssandra only chuckled, “I’ve been called much worse, little dove.” (witch)
Through the corner of her eye, she saw Alyssandra holding out a small knife. “I am in need of a sapphire. It was stolen from me many years ago. It is one of a kind, which is why when you see it you’ll know it is mine.” 
She momentarily shut her eyes as the dark haired woman rapidly cut the middle of her palm spewing her blood on top of the petals. “Once you’re successful, you’ll come back here with the sapphire and gather some of my materials. The marigold petals with your blood coating them; The blood of whom you took the sapphire from and lastly you’ll lay on top of my precious table here to be transported back.” 
There was an evil smile on her lips that she desperately wanted to punch it off. “And if I don’t get the sapphire?” She questioned. 
Alyssandra combed away her unruly braided hair, “Then I won’t bring you back and you’ll be stuck there forever.” 
Fuck. 
“Stuck? Stuck where? Where am I going?” 
Alyssandra clicked her tongue, “A place where fairy tales do not exist, my little dove.” If she wanted a Prince to sweep her off her feet. Alys would gladly give her one. 
She attempted to wiggle herself out of this pendeja’s spell but whatever Alyssandra mixed in the tea it was compelling her body to still and her eyes to slowly falter shut in a peaceful sleep. (dumbass) 
“However I should warn you, this spell is only valid until tomorrow. Until Dia de Los Muertos is over and even if you do achieve in retrieving the sapphire but it is after November second, you'll be permanently trapped with him.” 
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painted-flag · 4 months ago
Text
Snow White and the Seven Bandits - Jacaerys Velaryon.
Story I of Between the Pages: a HOTD x fairytale series.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ series masterlist here. main blog masterlist here. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ pairing: jacaerys velaryon x reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖ warnings: depictions of violence and use of poison. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ word count: 11.4k .𖥔 ݁ ˖ note: this is a long one. the others in the series will be the same, perhaps even longer for a few, so would you be interested in me dividing them into parts for the future or just keep them as one text around 10k and release at once?
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“It is imperative that you both exhibit the best of manners,” The voice of the kingdom's Queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen, carried throughout the carriage. The wheelhouse held her, Jacaerys, and Lucerys. The youngest, Joffrey, had stayed in Kings Landing with their father Harwin - as he is the prince regent and can act in Rhaenyra’s stead. The carriage rocked as it made its way down a country road. 
“Mother, we are always on our best behaviour,” Jacaerys responded, though it seemed his attention was somewhere else in pure boredom. Lucerys, who had been sitting across from him, sent a look of doubt his way. 
“Be that as it may, the Lady of Stonehill is… sensitive. The Lord of Stonehill lost his previous wife on the birthing bed. A few years after marrying a new wife, he passed. His daughter followed him in death a month afterwards. So please, do not bring up any subjects around Lady Alicent that may offend her. It may have happened years ago, but those scars do not fade.” Rhaenyra pressed the importance of their behaviour for their visit to Castle Stonehill. 
“Yes, mother.” Lucerys gave her a wide smile, the candied lemons he was snacking on made his cheeks puff out. 
Rhaenyra leaned to the side to enter Jace’s field of vision as he stared out of one of the wheelhouse windows. She raised her brow and waited for an answer. 
Jace broke out of his trance and smiled at his mom, though it did not reach his eyes, “Yes, we will be on our best behaviour.” 
⋅───⊱༺ 🍎 ༻⊰───⋅
The afternoon sun shone down on the walled-in garden of Castle Stonehill. The white quartzite with streaks of gray reflected the sunlight, casting glittered specks of light across the garden. Songbirds chirped as they flew from tree to tree. The abundance of foliage covered every open area in green. The types of flowers present filled all of the colours of a rainbow and butterflies flew from patch to patch to suck the nectar from the plants. 
It was an area of peace and safety which you frequented often when not working. After the arduous hours of work throughout the morning, you relished the break of rest you got in the afternoon. They were spent in the garden, tending to the flowers that grew there. It was the only place in the castle that your stepmother, Alicent, never touched. 
Your birth had caused your mother to pass, leaving you with your father. He was a kind and gentle man, who often spent more time with you than he should have given his lordly duties. He did all he could to raise you on his own. His gentle voice and demeanour rarely fit his appearance, for the man looked strong enough to snap a log over his thigh. Many years after the loss of his wife, he married again. The woman, Alicent, had presented herself as nothing but a dutiful and godfearing wife - a trick most wicked. While your father had lived, she treated you with kindness. It was a veiled sweetness that covered up the foul taste beneath; jealousy, want, and animosity. 
Never was there a facade more barbarous than a woman who cut another woman down. 
Upon the death of the Lord of Stonehill, Alicent’s cloaked contempt compounded. The inheritance of the castle would pass to you once you came of age, an outcome most ardently rejected by Alicent. She spared your life under the guise of benevolence, should you fake your death and take up a job as a scullery maid in the castle. It was merciful, in your stepmother’s words, to keep you alive. However, the pain of losing your father and your previous life stung the heart that lay in your chest. A torture disguised as mercy.
Through the years your resolution did not sway. There was a resilience in your kindness, both inwards and outwards, that you displayed to the world daily. What had angered you at first became nothing but a small sting. There are worse fates that people could meet. 
The day had been ordinary, inexplicably so. You found yourself in your usual routine, picking flowers and singing in your few moments of daily rest. The knife in your hand cut the stems of some of the flowers and you placed them in a wicker basket on the ground next to you. Upon turning your gaze to one of the hedges, you saw that it appeared down, as though lacking water. You put down the knife and walked over to a well placed at the centre of the garden. 
Your voice continued to carry a tune as you pulled on a rope to lower a bucket down. As you went about your way, your voice carried over the walls and into the courtyard next to the garden. 
Now, Jacaerys had not wished to go for a walk, but quickly upon their arrival at the castle he and Luke were sent away. The adults were talking, and therefore the youth must let them be. A total disgrace, in Jace’s mind, as he was set to become king and therefore felt he should be included. Alas, the stern gaze of his mother had led to him walking aimlessly in a courtyard with his brother and hoping that the day could finish. 
Jace was walking with Luke beside him and the younger brother had not stopped talking. He was explaining his thoughts on everything they had seen during their trip, waving his hands around to emphasize certain points. Jace nodded along to his observations. It was during a particular rant about the knights of the castle's armour that Jace heard a voice in the distance. The tune carried over the gentle wind, gracing his ear in sweet pleasantry. 
“Do you hear that?” Jace interrupted Luke’s rant. 
Luke halted, “What?”
“That voice… it sounds like singing.” Jace did not wait for any response before he picked up his pace, marching across the courtyard. He followed the wall to his right until the voice got louder. 
“What in the seven hells are you doing?” Luke had been confused by his brother's actions. The whole trip he had been unusually bored, often unfocused and inattentive. Now, it seemed that life was breathed into him again. 
“Don’t you hear that?” Jace looked at the thick growing vines on the wall, rapt by the singing. 
“Someone is singing, does it matter?” Luke responded, “We should go back to mother.” 
“In a moment,” Jace spoke. He stepped forward and grabbed onto one of the vines. His gaze swept across the wall as if he was unsure of his movements. Deciding not to question it, Jace tugged on the vine to test its strength. Upon finding the results he wanted, he began to climb.
When Jaceaerys reached the top, he took in the sight. It was a flower garden. Despite the countless different flowers all mixed around, it looked organized and well-maintained. The singing that he heard came from a woman by a well. She was fetching water and dressed like all the maids, in rags made of cloth. However, Jace was not a blind man and could clearly see how beautiful she was. He paused for a moment and debated on whether or not he should disturb her. His mother taught him better, that a proper man should have manners and not disturb a lady. However, there was an enchanting allure from her. 
“Well,” Luke began, “What do you see?” At that point, Lucerys had become intrigued by his brother's actions. 
“She’s beautiful,” Jace muttered. Luke was unable to hear his brother's response and watched as Jace moved to climb down the other side. He stood there, agape at his brother's impulsive nature - a trait he knew he would never get used to. 
“What an idiot.” He muttered.
You were oblivious to the pitfalls of steps coming from the other side of the well; too lost in your song to care. You were pulling the bucket of water up and had it settle on the edge when an unknown voice broke you from your daydream. 
“Hello.” It was not a very deep voice, but the timbre notes were warm, like the sun's rays on a hot day. 
“Seven Hells!” You shout in fear, the pail of water falling back down the well when the rope in your hands is dropped. The man in front of you rushed to the well wall on the other side. 
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He assured. 
You looked back and forth across the garden, scared that Alicent would be looking in. She did not like it when you talked to servants, and you had no idea how angry she would be if she found out you were talking to the prince.
“I am fine,” You did not wish to prolong this conversation any longer than it had to be, so you hoped a curt response would be a hint for him to leave. 
“I’m Jacaerys Velaryon,” The man spoke, “Who are you?” 
You froze at his words. He was the prince. Oh gods, you had just rudely tried to dismiss the prince. There was a moment of rushed thinking, wondering how you could get yourself out of this situation. There was no shame in running, perhaps. Maybe wish for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.
“Nice to meet you, my prince,” You bowed lowly and kept your gaze lowered to the stone on the ground, “I am simply a maid.” Your hands smoothed over the scratchy fabric of your gown, inwardly cringing at how underdressed you were in front of him. 
“Yes, but what is your name?” Jacaerys stepped around the well to be closer. He was dressed like a prince. Rich, finely woven fabric of dark blue matched the silver embroidered embellishments on the ends of his sleeves, around his collar, and down the front of his surcoat. The garments themselves were sure to be made by a multitude of servants, a look of divinity next to the one-colour floor-length dress you wore, which was accompanied by a light beige apron stained slightly from the dirt of cleaning and tending to the garden. 
“I must go, my prince.” You grabbed the sides of your dress and held them out as you moved down in a short curtsey. He looked confused at your insistent need to be away from him, something you were sure he was not used to considering his status. You turned and began your way to a servant's entrance at the side of the castle.
“Wait! I’m sorry if I scared you, truly,” Jace spoke up and positioned himself in front of you, “Please, I just wish to talk.” He looked as though he wanted to reach out but refrained from doing so. There was a certain glint in his eyes that was unrecognizable. You were used to the way men would threaten you with their gaze, an unsaid selfish want, but Jace did not have that look. It was something kind, an emotion you had not been on the receiving end for many years. 
“There is nothing a servant can say, my prince.” You curtseyed again - a signal of a final dismissal - and moved to the small oak door. The heavy metal of the hand felt cool under your grasp. You yanked it open and closed it behind you. The transition from the warm sun-soaked outside to the cold and damp servants' hallway gave a temporary shock to your body. 
Back in the garden, Jace stood defeated. He felt horrible for scaring a woman - something his mother would sharply scold him on if she ever found out, of which Harwin would sure to join. That was not how you were raised… to corner a woman like that, what were you thinking?
At a window far up on the castle, Lady Alicent stood looking out, having watched their meeting transpire. 
He retreated to the wall he had scaled and grasped the vines in his hand. Lugging himself up, he returned to the top of the wall to his brother standing on the other side. Lucerys was close to going for help because of how long his brother was gone. 
“What in the seven hells was your reasoning for that? Mother told us to be on our best behaviour, yet here you are scaling the walls of Lady Alicent’s castle!” Lucerys scolded as Jace dropped down next to him. 
Jace adjusted his clothing as he huffed to catch his breath from the drop, “You should have seen her, Luke.” 
“Seen who?” Luke had his arms crossed and a look of vexation moved across his face. 
“The lady in the garden.A servant. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone like that.” Jace looked sort of dazed. 
“So… you saw some random servant?” Luke said. 
“I’m telling you, there was something about her… she did not act like one.” Jace marched along the courtyard path and to the nearest entrance to the castle. Luke followed closely behind. 
“All the servants here look the same. Rags and all.” Luke dismissed his brother's whims. 
“Rags cannot hide her gentle face.” Jacaerys’ tone left little room for further resistance from his brother. 
⋅───⊱༺ 🍎༻⊰───⋅
You sat in your room and skillfully embroidered a patch of fabric. The wooden loop was clutched between the fingers of your left hand as the right held the needle. It was a patch of vines being woven, like the ones the prince climbed to get into the garden. It had only been a day since your encounter with Jacaerys Velaryon, yet the memory clung to your mind and refused to let go. He was kind, uncharacteristically so compared to the people you have met in your life. 
The sudden opening of the door to your small chambers had you rushing to get up. The sewing fell from your lap and to the floor. You were frustrated by the sudden disturbance but swallowed it once seeing who was at your door. 
“Lady Alicent,” You bowed to your stepmother and watched as she stood in the doorframe of your room. Her judging eyes moved around the small space, cluttered with books and other belongings - the few you were allowed to keep. A look of disgust twinged at the corner of her mouth. She stepped into the room, her emerald gown glimmering in the small streak of light from the tiny window placed well above viewing height. Your room was ultimately like a cage but disguised as a servant's quarter.
“You have done well with your chores as of late,” Alicent began, “Good work should be met with rewards, I am generous that way.” Her words were short and snippy like it burdened her to even speak to you.
“Thank you, my lady.” You bit back the array of insults boiling within. 
“Ser Erryk will escort you to the woods, where you can pick wildflowers. Perhaps there may be new ones you can add to your garden.” Despite the kindness of her words, the tone dripped with false sincerity. 
“You are very kind, lady Alicent.” While there was an unsettling nature to her gaze, you were excited to go out in the woods beyond the castle. Since your father's death, you had been kept secluded in the castle walls, unable to even venture into some of the halls. 
“Yes, well, you best get ready then,” Alicent muttered before vacating the room as quickly as she could. The door was open still and a guard stood where she once was. 
“Good morrow, my lady,” Ser Erryk was perhaps the only guard in the castle who clued in on your identity. He was only a young man when your father died and his memory of your face stayed with him. When you were allowed to leave your room many years after your staged death to pose as a scullery maid, he instantly clocked into your true identity. He kept it a secret, for fear of what Alicent would do to him if she found out that he knew. 
“Hello, Ser Erryk. Let me just get my basket.” 
⋅───⊱༺ 🍎༻⊰───⋅
You hummed away as you tended to the wildflowers on a hill. You were taken on a carriage ride deep in the woods. It had been the most excitement you ever had, for the feeling of freedom rippled through your body. Ser Erryk stood by the carriage a few feet away, watching as you went about digging up dirt and roots of pretty colours you have yet to add to your collection. 
A shadow loomed over where you sat, and your head turned to see Ser Erryk had gotten closer. He stood above you with his sword raised in the air. You did not have it in you to scream, for a wave of hopelessness crashed over your body. A sense of betrayal seeped into your bones. One of the only men who had yet to treat you with antagonism or lecherousness had hidden their evil deep below the surface. 
Ser Erryk’s arms had stopped with the sword raised. They shook ever so slightly in his frozen position. His face was twisted, pain and uncertainty carved across the skin. He stumbled back and threw the sword to the ground, curses flung from his mouth. His breathing was laboured and his chest rose up and down. 
“Run.” His gravelly voice hitched slightly. 
You paused, unsure of his display of goodwill, “What?” 
“I am sorry I ever tried, my lady. Alicent has my brother… she said she would kill him. Go, run far from here.” Ser Erryk spoke. 
“And your brother?” You questioned. 
“I will think of something,” He responded. He reached to his side and pulled out a long dagger, holding it out to her, “Take this and go, my lady.” 
You got up on shaky legs and slowly grasped the hand of the dagger. It felt awkward in your hand. There was never a point in your life where you ever held something sharp besides a kitchen knife or sewing needle. It was heavy and unnatural. 
“Thank you, Ser Erryk. I will never forget this.” You nodded to him. You turned to the woods, looking into the looming dark depths. The fear you had felt towards him had now moved to the woods. The dark trunks stood like knights on the ground, their looming presence instilling dread. Whatever nocturnal beasts lurked within the murky bowels of the forest suddenly seemed less frightful than the beast that would be waiting should you return to the castle. 
Death in the woods felt more merciful than whatever Alicent would do to you. 
Steeling your emotions, you surged forward. Your jogged movements quickly picked up to a steady pace. You leapt over each root and bush in your way. There was no path you followed, only faith to guide you from this terror. The trees surrounding you morphed into figures like monsters. The winding branches twisted around and appeared as hands reaching out to grab her. 
Your feet carried you beyond the winding hills and scattered foliage. Tears stung at your cheeks as the cool wind dried the saltwater on your face. What felt like hours, but had only been a single one, passed as you stumbled over a branch and fell. The choked gasps of your sobbing echoed in the forest. You were hunched over and crying. 
When you pulled back to sit on the ground, you looked up and spotted a decrepit cottage in the distance. You had happened across an open space in the forest. A stream cut through and there was a small shoddy built bridge over the water and a path leading to the cottage. It was a plaster and wood building with a thatched roof. A single chimney was seen going from the bottom of one of the sides to the top of the roof. It appeared to be two storeys high. 
You approached cautiously, wondering who may be around. 
“Hello?” You called out and then waited, but no reply came, “Is anyone there?” There was no response. You moved to one of the windows and saw it covered in dust, you tried to wipe it away, but it only smudged. The cottage had been left a long time ago. Your hand reached for the nob and turned. Surprisingly, the door opened. 
You peered in to see the state of disarray inside. What little furniture could be seen was covered in a layer of dust. When you moved inside the cottage, the dust made you cough violently. 
“Oh, this place is dreadful.” You mutter. There was a broom placed beside the fireplace, also covered in dust. You picked it up and shook the dust off, with only one thought in your mind. This is going to be a nightmare to clean. 
You had spent the next few hours cleaning the cottage from top to bottom. Countless tasks were completed as time went on. While it was exhausting, it felt like a piece of freedom. Here, you were cleaning because you wished to and for yourself, not to the demands of Alicent and any of her friends. 
Earlier, in the upstairs area of the cottage - which was more of a loft space - you found seven beds placed beside one another. It filled you with sadness. At one point in time, this cottage had been full of a loving family, something you had little experience with. You could not help but wonder what could have happened to them.
You finished the last of your tasks and sighed loudly. Your hands rested on your hips as you scanned around the open living space. It looked like an entirely new place as if you tore down the old cottage and built a new one. Your exhaustion was something never felt before. The events of the day finally came down on you; the early morning picking wildflowers, Ser Erryk sparing your life, the run through the woods, and lastly your cleaning of the cottage. The beds upstairs in the lofts seemed comfier than ever. You pranced up the stairs and plopped on one of them. The soup stewing over the fireplace could be left unattended for a good long while, so with that worry out of your mind, you drifted off to sleep. 
⋅───⊱༺ 🍎༻⊰───⋅
It was in the deep stage of your sleep that the door downstairs opened up. A figure stood in the doorway with their sword raised high and scanned the room. Once they entered, six other figures followed behind. 
“The whole place is… clean.” One of them spoke in a sleepy voice. 
“I thank you for your astute observation, genius.” The one in front wielding the sword grumbled, his grumpy countenance exacerbated by his lack of patience. His free hand moved up to adjust the eyepatch on his face. The group moved as one. They surveyed the ground floor and found nothing except the almost extinguished fire and a cast iron pot strung over it. 
One of the men reached forward and pulled the lid off, exposing the wonderful smell of stew. It simmered just barely. Before they could inspect it further, the man sneezed loudly and dropped the lid back on the pot. The clattering sound emanated around the room. 
They all hunched slightly, ready to attack, but nothing came. The one who sneezed rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment. They migrated to the wooden stairs and one by one made their way up the steps. Upon reaching the lofted area, a figure underneath the covers of one of the beds was spotted. 
“What the fuck?” The grumpy one spoke in a hushed whisper. He separated himself from the group and approached the bed cautiously. He adjusted the sword in his grasp. Once he stood at the foot of the bed, he reached out with his sword and nudged the covers. The figure shifted. 
Your state of unconsciousness began to wear off. The exhaustion you had felt earlier depleted. A yawn left your mouth as you moved to sit up in the bed. The covers fell to your waist and you stretched out your arms. After stretching your arms, your hands rubbed the sleep from your eyes. Blinking a couple of times to clear your bleary vision, you opened them to see a man at the foot of the bed with a sword pointing at you. Six men stood behind, all with varying faces of curiousness to skepticism. 
There was only one reaction that seemed fitting, which was to scream. When you did, the six men standing at the top of the stairs screamed as well. The one with the sword, who had silver hair and an eyepatch over his left eye, groaned with frustration. 
“Who are you?” He demanded. 
Before you could answer, a man behind him spoke up, “Stop pointing your sword at a bloody woman!” The man had a bashful expression on his face. 
“We don’t know her, Addam.” He responded to his friend and turned back to face you, “What are you doing in our house?” 
“I… I thought it was abandoned.” You responded. Shock still froze your body. It seemed as though wherever you would run, men would always follow. 
One of the men laughed at her words. He looked to be old, with silver hair and a beard. “Well, you’re not wrong about that assumption.” The man stepped forward and to the man with the eyepatch, grabbing the sword from his hands and placing it on the floor, “I apologize for scaring you. My name is Viserys, but most people call me Happy.” 
“Happy?” You questioned. 
“They are our cover names,” Happy answered, “My friend with the patch here is Aemond, but he goes by Grumpy.” 
“Not willingly,” Aemond complained. 
You mulled over their names in your head and thought on it for a moment. For some odd reason, the names felt familiar. They settled at the back of your mind, poking at your consciousness. A heartbeat passed before it struck you. The two names and the fact that there were seven of them in total.
“As… as in the seven bandits?” You gulped a bit of air after you spoke. 
“You’re corre-” The man who spoke up sneezed abruptly, “Correct. I am Laenor, but my nickname is, well, Sneezy.” 
“Let us just all reveal ourselves. Might as well just tell her all of our secrets while we are at it.” Aemond crossed his arms and stared her down. He looked at her as though she was a threat; some hidden weapon made to kill them. 
“You suck the joy out of everything, Grumps.” Another man stepped forward and nodded to you, “I’m Aegon.” 
“Dopey,” Aemond added on. 
Aegon glared at him and crossed his arms, “At least I’m not a killjoy.” Aemond squared his shoulders and stood chest to chest with Aegon, domineering over his frame.
“Well maybe if you were smart for once-” 
“That's enough.” Viserys spoke and placed himself between them, “Both of you can leave if you won’t get along. Stop crowding around the poor girl.” They backed off and joined the other men a few feet away. 
“I’m sorry, truly. The place appeared empty and I thought that I could stay for a while. I will leave.” You push the covers from your body and maneuver off of the bed. 
Viserys raised his hands in a peaceful motion, “Please, do not feel rushed. If I may ask, who are you and why are you here?” 
⋅───⊱༺ 🍎༻⊰───⋅
Over the seven jewelled hills and beyond the seven falls, you happened upon a home of seven bandits a half year ago. Upon revealing your true identity, they had taken you in - much to the chagrin of Grumpy. However, you provided the skills learned as a maid to contribute to the house and were allowed to stay permanently. After a few weeks of asking, the men had begun to train you in the ways of the sword. 
You were beyond skilled at it, having nicked yourself and a few of the others many times over. It was a learning curve you gradually got over, though you had a long way to go. Despite all your learning, you have yet to join them on their missions. Happy assured you that your talent with the sword was enough, but truly did not feel good to have a woman join them, for he was worried about your safety. 
It was in this group of misfits that you found a family. While Grumpy was still not too keen on your presence, the others welcomed you relatively quickly. You got to know them all on a personal level and truly understand how fitting their cover names were. Aemond fit the Grumpy name. Viserys was always happy, Aegon consistently had a dopey look on his face, while Laenor sneezed near constantly. Addam had the nickname Bashful. He always blushed when you were around and got incredibly flustered when spoken to, but he was very loyal to his friends. Harrold, another one of the older men, was called Sleepy; something he proved nearly daily because if he was not training, he would be found anywhere around the cottage taking a nap. Corlys, or Doc, seemed to take up an almost leader-like role; even though they all worked together as a collective team.
Doc and Happy built you your own room in the cottage. There was a lot of open area on the downstairs level, so they picked a corner and set up walls for your privacy. That was a month after you agreed to stay permanently, and it felt like the final moment in truly becoming family. 
It was the early hours of the morning. You were making breakfast with the help of Dopey. While he was not the brightest, he followed directions well and seemed just pleased to help. The two of you were working diligently. He went to set the table as the others started to wake. They made their way down like clockwork, each settling down in their designated seats. 
When everyone sat and had a plate of food in front of them, Happy spoke, “We think it is time for you to join us on a mission.” His gaze was directed at you. You lowered your fork and tilted your head. 
“Really? I can come?” You held back the excitement that brewed within. 
“A short raid, you will stay back and only interfere if necessary. It is just so you can watch.” Happy reiterated, but you were already smiling widely. 
“Thank you!” You shot out of your seat and walked to his, wrapping your arms around him in a hug and kissing his forehead. Happy turned a shade of bright red. 
“Yes, well, don’t expect to do much,” Grumpy spoke up, “These rich folks always hire terrible guards. There won’t be a need for you to fight.” You walked back to your seat and rolled your eyes. 
“Rich folk aren’t always bad.” You tried to defend. 
“Like that prince you met?” Bashful asked. You groaned internally. A few months prior you let slip of your encounter with the prince and the kindness he showed, regardless of the rudeness you shoved his way. Since then, the men have teased you about him. 
“Not that. I am rich… well… I haven’t been for a long time.” 
“Once a rich girl, always a rich girl,” Grumpy mumbled. 
The morning was spent preparing for some scout work on one of the main roads. The group would wait for a carriage to pass, one that was obviously belonging to a rich person, and they would rob them. Half of the earnings would be distributed to one of the nearby towns, while the other half would go to supporting themselves. 
You now find yourself halfway up a tree that lined the main road through the forest. All of the other men were scattered among other trees, each within view of one another but not from any on the ground. Multiple people had passed, but all appeared to be townsfolk. It was after a few hours that a carriage began to pass. The wood had been carved delicately and embellished with gold. It was beyond a doubt that the person was rich. The only thing that threw her off was the amount of guards on horses surrounding it. 
There had to be no less than twenty men and you were unsure how your friends would handle this. You had never seen them in action before. They all shared looks and communicated through bird calls. You were still learning the meanings of the calls, but one immediately got your attention. It was the call for an attack. 
You watched as your friends descended from their hiding spots in the branches of the trees. They fell like lightning on the soldiers. Upon a closer look, you recognized the armour of the guards and almost gasped. They are royal guards. 
A figure emerged from the carriage with a sword in hand and prepared to fight. You immediately recognized who it was. There was no way you could forget the face of Jacaerys Velaryon. His unruly dark curls fell to his sharp jawline. His stature revealed how strong his form was. The sword in his grasp caught the light. 
You had to intervene. His soldiers were exceptionally trained and you could not leave your friends unaided. You swung from the rope that helped suspend you. Landing on the ground a few feet from Jace, you were intercepted by a guard. Your sword had only ever been used for practice combat, not a skilled soldier. You unsheathed it and blocked the guard's attack. 
The two of you went back and forth. Each time you struck he blocked it, with the same happening to his strikes. He pulled you in and turned your back to his chest. Just as he brought his sword up to plunge into your neck, you elbowed his face and kicked his groin. Once the guard was on his knees and more on your level, you used the hilt of your sword and swung at his helmet, effectively knocking him out. 
When his body fell to the ground, you looked up to see Jace standing there, having watched the whole thing. 
“It’s you!” He spoke. The two of you stood still, each grasping your weapons and unsure how to proceed. You did not wait to respond and swung first. He stepped back and dodged. 
“You’re that maid!” Jacaerys never swung at you but rather deflected your hits. The two of you were engaged in some kind of dance. 
“I’m her,” You responded. Your strikes got harder and Jace pushed back a few times. 
“I don’t want to fight you. Call off these men and we can go our separate ways.” Jace tried to reason. 
You wanted to do that, but knew it was not possible with your friends, “No can do, my prince.” 
The two of you were so focused on the fight, that you failed to notice one of the guards throw a dagger your way. It lodged itself into your shoulder and you cried out in pain, stumbling in your spot. It was then that Dopey called out your name. You watched as realization swept over Jace’s face. He quickly processed the words. 
“Wait, Lady Stonehill? You’re supposed to be dead!” Jace recognized the name as the lady who was said to have passed a mere short months after her father years ago. The name was unique and he pierced it together with you also having been at Castle Stonehill.
Dopey came up on the back of a horse he stole from a guard. He leaned down to lift your injured self onto the horse. Your stomach lay on the saddle behind him. You and Jace had yet to stop looking at one another. There was an underlying force to look at him that would not yield. You wanted to stay, to make sure nothing would happen to him, but it seemed with your injury your group decided to retreat after seizing everything of value. The point was not to kill, that was something that had been emphasized in your training. 
It was always reiterated that the jobs are a swift robbery of goods and nothing else. With that goal achieved, you repositioned yourself on the saddle and wrapped your arms around Dopeys waist. All of the others had clambered to other horses and swiftly fled down the road. The horse you were on followed. You looked back over your shoulder to see the other guards recovering and Jace staring you down. He did not look angry, but rather confused. You hoped he could forgive you. 
⋅───⊱༺ 🍎༻⊰───⋅
“I humbly apologize for the raid while on your travel here, my prince.” The words of Lady Alicent rang out through the great hall of Castle Stonehill. “Those miscreants have targeted these parts for years, it is time my men put a stop to it.” 
Jacaerys had arrived at Castle Stonehill for a momentary visit to discuss taxes for the Crown, but the interception on his travel seemed to be the only topic of focus. None of his men were gravely injured, but he had lost a few pouches of gold and jewels. 
“Thank you for your kind words, Lady Alicent,” He paused for a moment, “May we speak in private?” Jace asked. 
Alicent waved off her guards and the hall cleared, “What is it you wish to speak about, my prince?” 
“I mean no offence, but there seems to be no other way to inform you of this. Lady Alicent, I believe your stepdaughter is alive.” Jace informed. Alicent’s face shifted from curiosity to something bordering on indignation and distaste. She blinked rapidly. 
“What, um, what makes you say such a thing?” Alicent’s hands placed themselves on her stomach in an attempt to keep herself calm. Jace interpreted her actions as reminiscing of grief. 
“The visit I made with my mother months ago, well I ran into this girl who I thought was a maid. When the raiders attacked my travel company, she was there as well. One of them called out her name and well, I believe it is your stepdaughter. She matches the description as well. Maybe-” 
“I am sorry, Prince Jacaerys, but I cannot hear anymore. My stepdaughter is dead, that is final.” Alicent stood firm on her words. 
Jace nods, “Yes, I understand. I am sorry for the distress I have caused.” He nodded to Alicent before making a hasty exit from the great hall. He kept thinking back to his encounter with the woman. He finally, after months of thinking about her after their encounter in the garden, had a name to match her face. 
⋅───⊱༺ 🍎༻⊰───⋅
You shifted uncomfortably to try and grab a broom propped in the living space. The bandages on your shoulder moved and you hissed in pain at the sharp feeling hitting you. In the days following your injury in the raid, none of the men had let you lift a single finger. While months ago that would have been a horrible thing for the chores, you had whipped them into shape and they were able to clean properly. However, you still wished to contribute to the house. 
The group marched down the stairs with weapons in their arms. They were going on another raid, as the last few days they opted out so they could watch over you. You stood by the door and opened it for them. One by one, you hugged them goodbye on their way out, giving each a kiss on the cheek for all the help they had given you. The last one, Grumpy, stood in front of you with his arms crossed. 
“You don’t have to worry, I won’t hug you.” You joked. 
Grumpy tilted his head to the side and hummed, “What I said about rich women that day… you’re one of us, not them.” It was the closest thing to an apology you would ever get from him, to be sure. Instead of acknowledging his apology, which would surely elicit a huff of annoyance from him, you chose another option. 
You move forward and wrap him in a gentle hug. His body went stiff, unfamiliar with such kindness. One of his hands went up to put your shoulder awkwardly. After a moment he huffed as a signal to let go. You backed off and flashed him a smile. 
“You secretly care for me, I know it.” 
He moved out the door and began to walk away, “Whatever makes you feel better.” 
You closed the door and looked back at the empty cottage. Making your way to the kitchen area, you decide that you should get started on making food for them when they get back. With your injury, it was bound to take longer than usual, so the sooner the better. 
Hours passed of you prepping pies with one arm. The other would sting in pain each time you tried to use it, so it would be best to get used to your current predicament in hopes it would speed up the healing process. While rolling out the dough, a knock sounded on your door. You stopped your movements and backed from the table. When you walked to the door, you reached for a long knife placed beside it. 
You opened the door while clutching the weapon behind your back. A man stood in a hooded cape. He carried a cane in one hand and a basket in the other. His leg appeared to be in some bandage, but something about it did not look like a temporary injury. 
“Forgive me, sweet girl, but I seem to have lost my way.” The man smiled, “My name is Larys. Could you help me find the right path to the local market?” 
“Oh, I can help you with that,” You notice the man looked bleary and most likely dehydrated, “Come inside and rest for a while, I can get you something to drink.” You ushered him into the cottage and to a seat while stealthily placing the weapon back in its hidden place. Once you served him a cup of water he thanked you immensely for the help. 
“No need to thank me, sir. Kindness always goes a long way.” You sat across from him at the table. 
“I have nothing to repay you.” The man muttered. 
“Oh, you don’t have to.” You spoke. 
He lifted the lid of his basket that was on the table, “Here, at least take one of these apples. I grow them back home.” He reached in and pulled out an apple. It was the most deep shade of red and covered in a shiny gleam. His hand held it out to you and you decided to pick it up. Holding it in your hand you inspected it. 
“Well, I was starting to get hungry. Thank you, sir.” You took a bite of the apple and relished the taste. Some juice dribbled down your chin and you wiped it away. “Oh, you’re low on water. I’ll get you some more.” 
Just as you get out of your seat, your body swayed oddly. Tingles made their way across your limbs and the edges of your vision dimmed. You stepped forward but stopped when your sight blacked out for a moment. It felt like you were losing control of your body. A sick feeling developed in your stomach. The apple fell from your hand. The sound it made when hitting the floor was muffled as if you were underwater. Your knees buckled under your weight and you felt yourself falling to the floor. Before you even made it there, your vision went black. 
⋅───⊱༺ 🍎༻⊰───⋅
The band of men strolled merrily down the path to their home. It had been a successful day and they had just given half their share to one of the nearby villages. They joked with one another. Sneezy held Dopey in a headlock and began to mess up his hair, much to Dopey’s protest and Grumpy’s amused smile. 
Doc went to open the door and noticed it was unlocked and slightly ajar. He raised his hand to signal the men to be quiet. They all hushed up and saw what Doc spotted. All of them pulled out their weapons. When Doc opened the door, they funnelled in. The cottage appeared empty. Grumpy took charge and moved in further, but dropped his sword in shock upon reaching the other side of the dining table. 
The other men rushed to him and had similar reactions. Your body was on the floor, collapsed and unresponsive. Doc rushed forward and flipped you onto your back. He placed his hands below your nose but felt no air. He fell back from his crouched position as grief struck him. 
“She… she’s not breathing.” His voice came out in a helpless whisper. While the words were light, their meaning felt like iron chains on the men. They all stood around her body, both shocked and driven to hopelessness. Grumpy moved first, his eye having caught something peculiar. He reached down under the table and came back with an apple in his hand. A single bite had been taken out of it. 
After a moment, Grumpy spoke, “It was Alicent.” 
“We don’t know that for sure-” Doc began but had been caught off. 
“Seven hells, even I know it was her doing,” Dopey chimed in. 
Grumpy placed the apple down and marched upstairs. They followed him to see him rummaging through one of their large chests. Second after second he pulled out varying types of weapons and placed them methodically on the ground. 
“What are you doing?” Happy questioned. 
At first, he did not respond, not until everything from the chest laid out on display, “We are going to Castle Stonehenge and we are killing her for this.” 
“Grumpy, we don’t kill.” Bashful interjected. Some of them shifted in their stances. 
“So Alicent gets away with it?” Grumpy raised his voice, “We stick up for our own, and she was one of us.” 
Dopey crouched down and picked up a longsword, “I’m with you.” 
Grumpy looked at all the others with the hope they would join in. One by one they assembled their own collection of weapons. She may be dead, but there was no way they would let her memory die with her. Now, more than ever, they would fight stronger than they have in the past. Only one mission was left in mind, to avenge her death and spread her story - so that she would never be forgotten. 
⋅───⊱༺ 🍎༻⊰───⋅
It started as a warmth building in your stomach. It spread throughout your body further, and the more it did the more that heat increased. It clawed its way through your veins, burning the capillaries and tearing through your muscles to burn the bone beneath. Your lungs worked in opposition, for every breath you took seemed to only increase that cursed fever that took hold. It was in your ceaseless torture that dreams spread forth; wicked and wild. 
Taunts of your lost childhood flickered on the backs of your eyelids. What-could-have-been’s propositioned like a devil's deal of a promised future, staked on the trade of your soul in exchange. Given the chance, you may have been persuaded to pray for such a deal. Your father's voice rang through your mind, but it was so faint and muffled you could not make out the words. Truthfully, to the regret and pain of every fibre of your being, you had forgotten his face and voice over time; even more so your mother. 
It was cruel, beyond any punishment that could have been warranted for transgressions in your past lives. Surely, the gods could be cruel, but to be so minacious in their plan for you bordered them on the side of the cursed souls in the seven hells. Perspiration covered your body as it fought off the fever. No amount of ice in the world could aid your affliction. Your mind fought for control, or really for any semblance of consciousness beyond that of the haze plaguing your mind. 
You could feel the thrashing of your body and the hands holding you down. They felt cold in comparison to the heat of your skin and you welcomed it. A voice, as foggy as the meadow outside your cottage and refreshing as the dew on grass in the morning, spoke through your haze. It was familiar, but you could not place its origins. 
“Come back to us, my lady.” 
The depths of the boiling ocean you were swimming in gave rise to creatures below. Faces of evil men in your past voyaged through those depths, like sharks surrounding prey. However, the most fear you felt was in the memories of your stepmother, Alicent. Her cruel sneer and wicked tongue that always seemed to be ready to fire a quip of the most vile of insults coated in a thin veil of sugar; sweetness afflicted with poison, her greatest weapon. 
Time was an illusion. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, and weeks made no sense in your haze. For all you knew years could have passed suspended in this torture. It would not surprise you. But just as quickly as hopelessness seated itself in your soul, the heat was doused in water and you felt yourself clear again. Your muscles ached and your head pounded, but the relief of no longer being under such a curse took priority. 
Your eyes blinked open and struggled to see through your blurry vision. When you managed to get a hold of your sight, the roof of a canopy bed was all you could see. The engraved wood was familiar. It took many minutes to get up, but once you were sat in the plush bed you recognized where you were. 
Your childhood bedchamber appeared to have gone through no change at all since your father's death. You could not even remember the last time you were in this room, having been cast out and forbidden to go in. Perhaps you were dead and this was your afterlife. You had no idea if it was heaven or hell. The happiness of being in this room was undercut by the pain you felt for what could have been. 
It was then that your memories came like an opened floodgate. The man you helped and the sudden feeling of blacking out. The apple… it had to have been the apple. You understood that it must be a plot construed by Alicent. Your placement in the room was not a gift, but one last taunt she made before killing you for good. You’d be damned if you went out without a fight now that you’ve learned well enough from your found family. 
You scrambled out of bed and searched around the room, looking for anything that could be of service. In a drawer in a random dresser, you found a sewing collection with some shears. This will have to do. 
You positioned yourself on the side of the door that would be covered when open and waited with bated breath. Shuffled footsteps sounded from outside and you prepared to strike. The door creaked open and the person walked in. You surged forward with your hand preparing to plunge the knife into them, but a hand caught your wrist with the shears. 
“It would be regrettable to stab me, for killing the crown prince is the most heinous of crimes. I would hate for you to meet such a sudden end on your twice emergence from the dead.” The voice of Jacaerys Velaryon shook you from your adrenaline-filled mind. You dropped the shears. 
“Prince Jacaerys?” He released your wrist from his grip and took a step back to give you space. 
“It’s a relief to see you awake, my lady,” Jace spoke. 
You swayed in your spot, the fear your body ran off of ebbed away, “What…” You stumbled forward and Jace moved quickly to catch you. One of his hands wrapped around your waist while the other supported your back. 
“You should still be abed,” He uttered. Jace guided you back to the bed and helped you sit down. Your back rested against the headboard. The prince grabbed a nearby chair and moved it to the side of the bed you sat on and settled on it. 
“I am sure you have… many questions.” 
You huffed, “That may be the biggest understatement of the century.” 
“You got me there,” Jace smiled gently, “Your, uh, friends stationed themselves outside the room and wouldn’t leave while you rested. There would never be more than two gone at a time. They’re staying in the room across from yours, I can wake them up so they can speak with you.” 
He made a move to get out of his chair, but you interrupted, “Wait, no. Let them rest. How long have I been out?” 
Jace hesitated before answering, “Two weeks.” You gaped at the answer, but he continued, “Honestly, no one was sure you would wake.” 
You looked down at the blanket strew across your lap and traced your fingers over the delicately sewn design of vines. Two weeks of missed time, suspended in that state of burning pain. You blinked back the tears that pooled in your eyes and cleared your throat. 
“Forgive me for my language, my prince, but what in the Seven Hell’s happened?” 
Jace rested his hands on his thighs and leaned back, conveying his openness, “To be honest, my lady, I am not entirely sure. It was a shock. I was having dinner with Alicent when your… friends descended. I still have no clue how they got past both the castle and my own guards. They were a fury to be sure. Hurling such accusations at Alicent.”
You wanted to speak, but violent coughing raked through your throat and had you seize for a moment. Jace got out of his seat and reached for a cup that was placed on the bedside table. He poured the water into the glass and held it out for you. When you went to reach for the cup, Jace grabbed your hand and moved it back down to the covers. He brought it to your lips and tilted it so you could drink. Once you had a sip, he pulled back and waited if you wished for more. You shook your head, muttering a thank you, and he put it back on the table before settling in the chair again. 
Jace continued, “They claimed Alicent faked your death to take your inheritance. That you had been ultimately killed by her with poison. I must admit, I did not believe them at first. But, a knight, Ser Erryk corroborated their story. Only then did Alicent fumble under the pressure, her story of innocence did not match up and began to crumble under scrutiny.” 
You were in a state of shock. Never, in any dream or wish, could you have ever thought of Alicent being seen as the true person she was. That her crimes would be revealed. 
“I had her arrested.” Jace’s words had rung in your head. The picture of Alicent in a cell came to mind, and the relief in that image could not be measured. Perhaps, finally, you may be out of reach from her conniving talons. 
“I… How am I still alive?” You questioned. 
Jace cleared his throat, “Well, I sharply questioned her for information regarding the poison. The castle healer knew of an antidote, but we were unsure if it would work, given how long it took to get to you. I am glad it did.” The corners of his lips turned up slightly. 
“I need to see her.” You spoke. 
“Absolutely not, I cannot allow that, my lady.” Jace shook his head. 
“I have a right to see her. I am the lady of this castle, am I not?” You retorted. Your eyebrow rose in challenge and Jace nodded. 
“You could barely stand for a few moments. When you are strong enough, I will personally take you to her. And yes, you are the lady of this castle so for you and your people, you must rest.” He emphasized the final three words, pausing after each. 
The finality in his tone had you lean backwards and close your eyes. The pounding in your head had yet to cease, but it had eased. You pinched the bridge of your nose and began to breathe in and out. 
“I sent word to my mother. She is coming to oversee Lady Alicent’s trial.” Jace lowered his voice, “Ser Erryk has physical evidence of a box meant for your heart. He was sent to carve it out of you… Um, another man was found, the one who gave you that apple. He is locked up and will be put on trial with Alicent.” 
That day when Ser Erryk helped you felt like years ago. You were a different person then. Naive enough to believe Alicent would do something kind for you for once. While it had been the lowest point of your life, without it you would not be who you are now. A changed woman, with a true family and purpose. 
“I wish to see my family now.” You whispered. Despite the conversation sucking all your strength, you wanted to see your friends. Jace stood up and nodded. He did not say anything further, in case he would stress you more than you were at that moment. His hand gripped the door handle and he opened it. Jace turned back around to you and looked as though he wanted to say something but refrained. His figure went through the door and closed it, leaving you to stew in the overwhelming amount of information you were fed. 
⋅───⊱༺ 🍎༻⊰───⋅
The following week waiting for the arrival of Queen Rhaenyra was spent recovering. The shoulder wound you had sustained in the raid against Jace and his men had almost healed. Your body had fought off the last of the poison days ago, but everyone around you still treated you like glass. It had begun to grind down on your nerves. 
Visiting Alicent had been a decision you turned against. There was nothing you wished to say to her and nothing she could ever say to you that would be worth your time. It would only ever throw you into more distress. Your new family settled into castle life surprisingly well, a fact you often teased them about. However, they still showed some form of distrust towards Jacaerys. 
The prince had become a close friend in the short time spent together. He would visit you often in your chambers as you recovered. When you were cleared to walk, he would escort you around the caste. In his words, he accompanied you in the event that you collapsed, but you knew he did not have to as there were plenty of guards that could have done the job. 
Despite the closeness between you two, some of your friends - mainly Grumpy - were still put off by him. Grumpy had approached you at one point to question Jace’s intentions, a conversation that made your cheeks flush and heart race. After clarifying that Jace was just being a gentleman, Grumpy acquiesced his hostility to the prince but still watched him with a piercing gaze when he went near you. 
It was not just Grumpy that had become more protective over you. All of the men had heightened awareness of every little thing that happened in Castle Stonehill. There was rarely a moment when no less than two were by your side. They went so far as to have you dismiss your night guards and take shifts outside your door. When meals were made for you, Doc and Happy would watch over the cooks in the kitchen. 
It was an unspoken fear they had; of the possibility of Alicent getting someone to come for you. You knew that so long as she was alive in a cell they would continue to act like this. Jace often joked about you having your own mini army, or legion of defenders that safeguarded your every waking moment. You would laugh if it was amusing. At first, their actions were endearing, but now they felt more stifling as of late. 
When Queen Rhaenyra arrived, you were surprised by the soft warmth she brought to whatever room she occupied. She was strong-willed and an excellent conversationalist. Her kindness was refreshing, and you could see the resemblance in personality between her and Jace. Though, you were able to note he must carry more of King Harwin’s looks than his mother. A small piece of yourself was jealous whenever you would watch Jace and Rhaenyra spend time together. They were close, and you yearned for what kind of relationship you could have had with your mother. 
A part of you wondered, had Alicent not been as vain, if you and her could have been close. 
You were in your chemise and struggled to change the bandages on your shoulder. Regret for having dismissed the doctor washed over you. You were standing in your room, with your head tilted to look at the stitched wound. The door abruptly opened. You looked up to see Jace had walked in. Upon seeing your state of near undress, he let out a surprised yelp and turned his back to you. The sound of his startled voice made you laugh. 
“I am so sorry, my lady. I do not know what I was thinking to not knock like that- oh, my mother will be furious. Again, I express my deepest condolences. This-” Jace began to frantically apologise. 
You began to laugh harder, finding this situation amusing.. Had it happened to you months ago, you would have been mortified. Now, it does not bother you. Especially since it was him who happened to walk in.  
“It is alright, Jacaerys. I know you meant nothing nefarious.” The two of you had common ground. When away from the listening ears of court, you could ignore propriety in referring to one another by your titles. It pleased a part of you to hear him address you by name rather than Lady Stonehill. 
He still kept his back to you, “I will, um, come back later.” 
“Could you…” You debated if you should ask, given that it was not entirely appropriate, “Could you help me?” Jace turned around to face you, but kept his gaze in line with your face. He coughed to clear his throat. A vibrant red flush spread from his cheeks to his neck. 
“Yeah, uh, of course.” He moved forward hesitantly. The table next to you had a silver tray with some ointment and wraps. He cleaned off his hands in the bowl of water beside it and took some of the ointment. Standing next to you, the height difference was apparent. His chin when looking down only reached the top of your head. Jace’s breath was calm as he applied the ointment to the stitched area on your shoulder. 
You had cursed yourself inwardly for asking him to do this. Your brain only seemed to focus on his calloused fingertips gently applying the cool ointment. Your mind ran wild and you closed your eyes in an attempt to calm your mind. He methodically wrapped up your shoulder. When he finished, his hands lingered on the skin around the wrap. 
You coughed subtly to get his attention. Jace blinked and backed away, moving his gaze to the floor as he rubbed the back of his neck. 
“Thank you, Jace.” You were unaware of the effect it had on him to use his nickname rather than his full name. You moved behind a room divider for some privacy and began to put on the other layers of your clothing. 
“Are you… okay? With everything going on.” Jace spoked to you from the other side of the wood divider. Today was the day of Alient’s execution. You had ruminated on it for countless hours during the last few days. 
“I thought that maybe I would feel bad about her death… I truly feel nothing but relief. I guess Sir Erryk never needed to cut out my heart, there seems to not be one.” You shuffled your dress over your head and adjusted the ties on your back, having perfected the routine by having to do it yourself for many years. 
“You have every right to feel that way about her execution. Everything she has done to you… you have a heart, I hope you know that.” Jace reassured. You walked out from behind the divider to look straight at him. 
“And you’ve suddenly become an expert in matters of the heart?” You raised a brow with challenge as you teased him. However, Jace did not seem as though he was joking. 
His gaze held an intensity you could not decipher, “Yes, recently so.” 
You ceased your jesting face and came to understand the gravity of his words. It was not a surprise, for this was something the two of you had been blatantly ignoring as of late. The two of you failed to evade one another. It was an invisible force that pulled you together. Jace took one step forward and there was only a few inches from you. 
“Jace, I…” You sucked in a breath. 
“You don’t have to say anything, I will not make you feel forced to. Nor do I wish for you to feel compelled to reciprocate what I feel. But, I know you have noticed it. I only ask for consideration.” Jace’s eyes held nothing but sincerity. He looked down at you and the closeness felt more intimate than anything you have experienced in your life. 
“I feel insane even saying it,” Jace clarified, “It has happened so quickly, feeling this kind of love, but I would not have it any other way.” 
You were finally able to respond, “I will be honest with you. I don’t know if I love you, Jace, I hardly know you. We have spent a lot of time together and I know there is something there, something I do wish to pursue. Why don’t we start by continuing to get to know one another?” 
Jace nodded desperately at your words as if he clung to every syllable. You reached out to rest your hands on his chest because of how close he was. When you did not push him away, Jace took that as a positive sign and moved his arms to wrap loosely around you with his hands resting on your back. He moved his face closer but stopped just short of yours. He waited for a sign of approval from you. When you gestured with your head in approval, Jace leaned forward and connected your lips. 
In that moment, everything around you ceased to be a reality. It was a promise of protection and devotion given by Jace. His lips were warm and soft, a reflection of his personality. His nose pressed into your cheek. The two of you moved in sync with one another. Normally, you are hyper-aware of all of your senses, but with him, they all seemed to fade away. All you could focus on was him; his arms around you, his lips on yours, and the feeling of desire coursing through you. 
Jace pulled back enough to rest his forehead on yours. Both of you inhaled deeply to catch your breath. Upon opening your eyes, you saw that Jace was already staring at you. He held a dazzling smirk on his face. 
“I hope I do not disappoint you.” He spoke. 
You decided to tease him a little, “I don’t think it could be as disappointing as that kiss you gave me.” 
Jace feigned a look of hurt, but it was tinged with a smile. “Oh, so that is how this will be?” 
“Of course, my prince. I will always have the upper hand.” You giggled. Jace moved his hands from your back to wrap around your waist and pulled you flush against him. The feelings that action elicited from you were all too new and addicting. The closeness of your bodies set your veins alight. This was something you would have no shame in getting used to.
“Well then, my lady, I shall rise to the occasion.” Jace leaned back in to kiss you. 
_____________
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ note: that was part 1 of Between the Pages! i am super excited to start off this series, as I had developed plans for this back in 2022. there were entire storyboards planned, but i never got to writing them. thank you for all the support <3
if you want to be added to any of my taglists, click here.
𖥔 ݁ ˖ taglist: @uniquecutie-puffs @dracaryxzs @beebeechaos @libdarkheart @whodis? @void21
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merakiui · 9 months ago
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Hello! I'd like to place an order for a flower bouquet with banana pudding and lemon squares for guests Floyd and Jade Leech (together) please!
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yandere!floyd leech x (gender neutral) reader x yandere!jade leech cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, kidnapping, dub-con, implied loss of virginity, mentions of implied death/murder, jade and floyd's morbid back-and-forth banter note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]
You wake to the dreary interior of a stranger’s van, lying on your back with your wrists tied expertly above your head. There’s thick tape plastered over your mouth and it ensures you’re kept quiet. The only noise you manage to produce is a weak, muffled sob. Your struggle is brief and futile, for the restraints won’t budge no matter how hard you pull.
You realize, rather quickly, that your head is resting in someone’s lap. That same someone is currently peering down at you, his head tilted curiously. Two-toned eyes blink at you, shimmering with a childlike glee.
“Wakey, wakey, Li’l Shrimpy,” he sings.
Staring at him with wide, terrified eyes, you think you’ve just met the Devil. He senses your intent to escape before you can even act on it. Clicking his tongue, he wraps his arms around you and drags you into his lap, holding firm.
“No need to be scared. I’m not gonna hurt ya.” With a toothy grin, all sharp points flashing at you, he pokes your cheek. “Jade might.”
You’re made aware of the second man then. He turns around to greet you from the driver’s seat with a kind, close-lipped smile. He looks friendly enough, but there’s malice thinly veiled in those polite features of his. Both of them bear a striking resemblance to one another, but if you look close enough the differences begin to show through. Eye shape, the way the part in their hair sits, that stray dark strand… You look between the two of them, silently urging for an explanation.
Jade chuckles, feigning sheepishness. “I wouldn’t do anything without reason.”
“Hear that, Shrimpy? You’re in good hands. We just wanna play with ya for a bit.”
You shake your head, whining when his fingers stray too close to your throat. He pets you fondly, soaking in your terror like a parched plant. You squirm in his lap, inching as far from him as you can get, but he’s everywhere—clinging to you, his face in yours. He presses a wet kiss to your cheek. Revulsion shudders through you.
How did this happen?
You were on your way home from work when the van pulled up and the door opened. Arms shot out to drag you, kicking and thrashing, inside and then a rag was being held over your mouth. It wasn’t a far walk—safe by your standards! You’ve done it dozens of times prior.
So why now? And why you?
Lying there, perfectly at the mercy of two strangers, you wonder if it would’ve been any different if you knew them. Maybe then it would be easier to find some sort of crooked comfort in the midst of so much fear and uncertainty.
Jade slides out of the driver’s seat to join you and his brother in the back. You catch the scenery beyond the van during the slim second the door’s open. Trees reach towards a gloomy sky on all sides, tall, hulking pines that close you in with twin monsters. It’s isolated, the ideal location for something nefarious and foul. Your stomach churns, and suddenly you feel sick.
The door shuts, and the forest vanishes. Just like that. As if it was never there at all. As if someone’s turned the page in a novel and the landscape has fallen away to account for the next scene—one far more gruesome than the last.
His arrival has you pressing back against the other’s chest. In this enclosed space, both of them don’t seem to fit. It’s too compact to account for long, lanky limbs. For a short moment, you wonder if both of them are trees.
“Let’s take the tape off, shall we?”
“Ooh, good idea, Jade. I wanna hear Shrimpy’s voice.” In one hasty motion, the tape is ripped from your mouth. Stinging pain settles beneath your skin. You yelp.
“Now, Floyd, you’ll scare the poor thing to death if you handle them so harshly.” Jade’s words sound sympathetic, but his laughter dampens them with insincerity. 
“Oops. My bad.”
You open your mouth and then shut it. What can you say? What are you supposed to say?
More importantly, what won’t send you to your grave right away?
“I’m sorry. If I did anything to upset you, I’m sorry. So please don’t…”
“What’s there to apologize for?” Floyd grips your chin and turns you towards him. “You did nothin’ wrong.”
And that’s what’s so sickening about it. Not the leering or the kidnapping. Not the fact that they’ve trapped you here in the middle of nowhere, in a van that no one will ever find. It’s the unlucky innocence of it all—the fact that you are merely a victim of chance and nothing more. No grudges or revenge needed. No real motive. Just bad fortune.
Wrong place. Wrong time.
Looking into Floyd’s eyes, you can’t find a spot of remorse. You suspect it’s much the same for Jade, who tasks himself with untying the laces in your shoes and slowly slipping each off your feet. Floyd watches this with a lazy smirk.
“You ever think about gettin’ new shoes?”
“T-They’re my work shoes…”
“Yeah? Where do you work?”
You swallow thickly, helplessly gazing about the van. It’s messy, things strewn about in disarray. A blanket bunched haphazardly. Empty pill bottles. Candy wrappers. Old receipts. A first aid kit. A shrimp plush missing its eye. Despite all of this clutter, the interior smells eerily sterile. Fresh like mint. The juxtaposition tricks your nose and eyes terribly.
“An i-ice cream parlor…”
“Ooh. No wonder you smell so sweet.” Floyd pinches your cheek. “Don’tcha think Shrimpy smells yummy, Jade?”
“Quite yummy, Floyd.” He sets your shoes aside before turning back to you. Large hands run up the length of your legs. Even though you’re fully clothed, you’ve never felt more bare. “So much so I’m tempted to take a bite…”
You squeak when he squeezes your calves. A devious grin curls on his lips, revealing the beginnings of his pointed teeth. “A-Are you going to kill me?”
Jade hums, tilting his head as he pretends to mull it over. “What do you think, Floyd?”
“You wanna wind up another number on the news, Shrimpy? You think anyone’s gonna come lookin’ for you?”
“M-My family—”
“Will be very sad if they aren’t allowed the closure an open casket provides,” Jade finishes matter-of-factly.
Your heart plummets into your stomach at that implication. Biting back bile, you shrink away from both of them. They share a glance, giggling in unison.
“Poor Shrimpy, having to be pieced back together like a puzzle…”
“Stitched up like a patchwork quilt.”
“Mm, yeah, but that’s no fun. Shrimpy’s too cute to become chum. I don’t wanna put ’em in the ground.”
“I’m inclined to agree.” Jade’s fingers work to slide you from your pants. You fall still in Floyd’s arms, looking on in silent horror. He gazes at you. “Don’t look so devastated. We won’t kill you.”
The first tear slides down your cheek. Soundless. Alone. Floyd leans in to lap at the rest that follow, tracing a line up your face with his tongue.
“Aww. You went and made Shrimpy cry.”
“Have I?” Jade moves in to dab at the tears on your left side. Pressing his fingertips to his tongue, he smiles. “So it seems.”
Your shirt comes off next, slid up until it stops at your bound wrists. Floyd gets impatient halfway through and, seizing a blade from somewhere in the back, cuts you free of the pesky fabric. Much like your hope, it falls around you in tattered pieces.
It’s when you’re turned and pressed face-first into Floyd’s crotch that you begin to panic. Jade slides the knife through your underwear, peeling it away with a satisfied sigh. You writhe uncomfortably. Floyd’s fingers are in your hair next, holding you up just enough so that he can reach down to pull himself free from his sweatpants. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen a cock before. Thick and veiny, achingly hard with pre-cum beading at the tip, it terrifies you more than the slick fingers prodding at your hole from behind.
Floyd takes hold of his cock and taps it insistently against your cheek. “C’mon. Open wide.”
You watch him through your lashes, your lips pursed tightly. There really is no other way, is there? You’re trapped between the two of them, your life in their hands. Or, more fittingly, snapped up in their jaws.
“Please… D-Don’t make me…” you whisper, but it’s a pointless plea.
Floyd tuts, temper flaring. “Don’t make me shove it down your throat.”
Jade’s hand massages your cushy ass. It doesn’t do anything to comfort you. “Be gentle, Floyd. I suspect this is their first time.”
“Is it really?” His gaze flicks to your face, searching for an indication that Jade’s observations are true. An odd light sparks in empty eyes. “You’re a virgin?”
A cold sweat washes over you. Your heart won’t stop pounding. Blood is rushing in your ears, trickling through your veins and electrifying your nerves. It’s too loud. Too dizzying. You’ve never felt fear so raw and cloying before. It claws at your throat, setting it aflame. It flicks on your fight or flight. It brings with it the animalistic urge to survive. Above everything else, no matter what it reduces you to in the end, survive.
“W-Will you let me go?”
“So you can go cryin’ to the cops? Yeah, right.” He scoffs and pats your cheek. “Either answer my question or open up.”
“How does this sound?” Jade offers just as one lithe finger slips inside your hole. You wince and grit your teeth at the intrusion. He chuckles and, without warning, forces a second inside. “If you’re good, we’ll stop by the ice cream shop when it opens tomorrow and get you a milkshake.”
Floyd’s lips split apart in a cheesy smile. “Aren’t you a lucky Shrimpy? Jade likes ya.”
You crane your neck to look at him. He smiles sweetly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Every other part of him seems so receptive to you, but his eyes betray him. They’re just as cold and dull as his brother’s. You’re nothing more than a cut of meat—an offering to sate his appetite.
“It’s important to feed your pets. They’ll starve otherwise.”
“You just wanna get yourself a sundae.”
“That, too.”
“We might as well get somethin’ to eat if we’re gettin’ sweets. Shrimpy can pick the place. Bet they’ve got great taste.”
“A brilliant idea. I’d like to know what sort of cuisine they’re partial to.”
You’re not sure how they can carry on like this as if it’s normal. It’s gross. You feel like you might vomit.
Floyd’s cock prods at your lips. This time, throwing your dignity aside in order to survive, you open wide.
You’re not killed, but something in you dies inside that van.
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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months ago
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Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 4: Read Between The Lines]
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Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍
Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.
Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.
Chapter title is a lyric from: “Boulevard Of Broken Dreams” by Green Day.
Word count: 5.6k
💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜
Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰
It is your first week of basic training at Great Lakes on the north side of Chicago, and as you lie in the top bunk of your assigned bed you wonder what the hell you’ve done. You enlisted right out of high school, eighteen, no driver’s license, no work history, never been more than fifty miles outside of Soft Shell, Kentucky. The drill sergeants are always yelling and you’re bad at push-ups; you can’t understand the recruits from big cities like Los Angeles, Miami, Las Vegas, Detroit, Houston, and they don’t seem to get you either, and aren’t interested enough to try. Sometimes you wish you hadn’t signed that five-year contract, but where would you be if you weren’t here? Home is not words but textures, colors, fumes that still burn in your sinuses: cigarette ash on rose pink carpets, red embers glowing in the wood stove, Hamburger Helper and Mountain Dew, coffee creamer in Hungry Jack potatoes, laughter and heavy footsteps and slamming doors, scratch-off games, dogs barking, collecting coins from couch cushions for gas money, scrubbing clothes in the bathtub when the washer quits, Mama taking gulps from her favorite cup—plastic, Virginia Beach, filled with equal parts Hawaiian Punch and vodka—when she thinks no one is looking, blue shows flickering on the television, Family Feud, Maury, Good Morning America, WWE SmackDown. For as long as you can remember you’ve known you couldn’t stay. Now you’re getting out, but nothing in life is free.
You are at Class A Technical School in Gulfport, Mississippi, and even though it’s hotter than some noxious, volcanic hellscape—Mercury, Venus, Io—you are beginning to like it. You taste the salt of sweat when you lick your lips, sugar in the sweet tea they serve in the chow hall. There’s a magic in building something where there was only empty space before, in patching roofs and painting walls. Here being quiet and watchful is exactly what they want from you: head down, hammer striking nails, measurements and angles and long hours under the sun with no complaints. You’re not just running away anymore. You are creating something new.
You are sitting beneath swaying palm trees and a full moon on Diego Garcia, draining cans of Guinness with Rio, and he’s telling you things he shouldn’t, too personal, too honest: Sophie wants to try for a baby next time he’s home on leave, and part of him wants that too but he’s terrified. As thunder rumbles in the distance and raindrops begin to patter on the waves of the Indian Ocean, you tell Rio you think he’d be a good father. He wonders how you figure that, and you say because he’s not like any of the men from home. He gives you one of his crooked smiles—a flash of teeth, knowing dark eyes—and doesn’t ask what you mean.
But of course, when you swim up from the inky currents of sleep you are in none of these places. You are curled up on the floor of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio, cheap worn black carpet peppered with stars and swirls in neon green, pink, blue. You stretch out with a yawn. Someone has left a Lemon Tea Snapple within reach; you twist it open and guzzle it, hoping to extinguish the pounding in your skull, a rhythmic thudding of warm maroon, half Captain Morgan and half misery. The music isn’t helping. From the green Toshiba CD player, a man is singing in Spanish. Aegon and Rio are sitting at the nearest table and playing Uno.
Aegon says as he ponders his cards: “You know Enrique Iglesias, right Rio?”
“You are so racist.” Rio puts down a wild. “And the new color is red. Racist.”
“So what’s he saying?”
“Aegon, buddy, I told you, I was born here. My grandparents came over in the 60s. I don’t speak Spanish.”
“You can’t understand any of it?” Aegon is skeptical. He plays a skip, a reverse, and a seven. “My dad never taught me a word of Greek but I can recognize plenty of phrases. Vlákas means idiot. Spatáli chórou is a waste of space.”
Rio sighs, relenting. He puts down a two. “The song is called Súbeme La Radio, Turn Up The Radio For Me. Bring me the alcohol that numbs the pain… I don’t care about anything anymore…You’ve left me in the shadows…”
“Damn, now I’m sad. Draw four, bitch.”
“When the night comes and you don’t answer, I swear to you I’ll stay waiting at your door…” Rio studies his cards. “What’s the new color?”
“Green.”
“Yes!” Rio slams down a skip. “Fleeing from the past in every dawn, I can’t find any way to erase our history…”
Everyone else is awake already. As muted late-morning daylight streams in through the small tinted windows, Aemond is weaving between tables, pointedly checking on each person. He glances at you, says nothing, turns around and walks the other way.
“That’s tough,” Rio says sympathetically, popping open the tab on a can of Chef Boyardee and shoveling ravioli into his mouth with a plastic fork.
Aegon gives you a smirk. “You want to fake date now?”
“I’ll think about it.” No you won’t.
Helaena appears, a prairie girl vision in a modest blue sundress and with her hair tied back with a matching scarf. She reaches into her burlap messenger bag and offers you a choice between a ranch-flavored tuna pouch or a silvery pack of Pop-Tarts. “Strawberry,” she tells you.
“I’ll take the Pop-Tarts.”
Helaena gives them to you and then shakes a bottle of Advil. You’re so groggy it takes you a few seconds to figure out what she wants, then you obediently hold out a hand. Helaena lays two tablets in the center of your palm and moves on, soundlessly like a rabbit or a spider.
You wash the pills down with Snapple. As you nibble half-heartedly on a Pop-Tart—trying not to look at Aemond, multicolored sprinkles falling down onto the carpet—your eyes drift to the tattoo on the underside of Aegon’s forearm. It’s not over ‘til you’re underground. You’ve spotted it before. Only now do you remember where you recognize the lyric from. “Is that Green Day?”
“Yeah,” Aegon says, enthused that you noticed. “Letterbomb.”
“I love that whole album.”
“Me too. I could sing it front to back if you asked me to.”
“I’m not asking.”
Aegon cackles and resumes his Uno game with Rio. Baela is wearing denim shorts and a crop top, slathering her belly with Palmer’s cocoa butter from Walmart as she chats with Rhaena and eats Teddy Grahams. Daeron is waxing the string of his compound bow. Jace is gnawing on a Twizzler as he scrutinizes Aegon’s map, annotated with Xs and circles and arrows in sparkling gel pen green.
“I’m going to be a thousand years old by the time we get there,” Jace mutters.
Aegon hits the table with his fist. The discard pile collapses and cascades, an avalanche of Uno cards. Rio, undisturbed, continues contemplating his next move. “You know what, Jace? The cities are full of zombies, the interstates are blocked by fifty-car pileups, if we bump into anyone else who’s still alive they’re just as likely to rob and murder us as want to be friends, and on top of all that I’m trying to do you the favor of preventing you from getting so irradiated you turn into Spider-Man. If you have a better route in mind, I’d love to hear it.”
“Spider-Man…? You’re such a dumbass, what are you talking about?!”
Luke says from where he stands by a window: “Aemond, someone’s outside.”
“What?” Aemond stares at him. “Zombies?”
“No. People.”
Aemond bolts to the doors, the rest of you close behind him. Rhaena turns off the CD player. You, Rio, and Aegon squeeze together to peer out of one of the windows. There are men—three of them, no, four, all appearing to be in their forties—passing by on the main road through town. They are armed with what are either AR-15s or M16s, you can’t tell which.
Rio whistles. “If you get shot by one of those, the exit wound will be the size of an orange.” Everyone looks at him. This was not an encouraging thing to say.
You elaborate: “Thirty-round magazines. Semiautomatic, assuming they’re AR-15s for civilian use. I guess they could have gotten ahold of M16s somehow. Those have a fully automatic setting.”
“So regardless, we’re out-gunned,” Jace says.
“If they know how to use them. Some men think guns are wall decorations, like deer heads or fish.”
Aegon recoils. “Fish?! What the fuck. I’m glad the colonies left.”
“Maybe they’ll keep walking,” Daeron says hopefully. One of the men stops and points at the bowling alley, saying something to his companions. They laugh and begin crossing the small parking lot. They are less than two minutes from the door. “Oh, great…”
“There’s an emergency exit in the back,” Baela says.
Aegon snorts. “Yeah, that we stacked about twenty boxes of bowling pins in front of to zombie-proof.”
“We won’t be able to get out before they hear us,” Aemond says. Then he abruptly orders: “Grab your guns, let’s go. Helaena, Baela, Rhaena, you’re staying here.” Aemond’s remaining eye���briefly, reluctantly—skates over you as Rio, Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Daeron scatter to obey him. “You too.”
“But I’m the best shot.”
“I don’t want them to know we have women with us.”
“I’m of more use to you outside.”
Aemond rips his Glock out of its holster, pointing it at the floor. His frustration is palpable, an electric shock, heat that refracts light rays until they become mirages on the horizon. “You’re going to stay here, and if a stranger comes through those doors you’re going to kill them. Okay?”
His urgency stuns you; his eye is blue-white summer storm lightning. “Okay.”
“Now get back.”
You soar to the nearest table, duck under it, reach for your Beretta M9 and double-check the clip, fully loaded. You click off the safety.
“Aemond, wait, let me go first,” Aegon is saying by the door. “I’m better at de-escalation, I’m less…uh…intimidating.”
“Less socially incompetent, you mean,” Jace quips.
“I’ll lead,” Aemond insists. “Aegon can talk. Rio, you’re up front with me.”
Rio pumps his Remington 12 gauge. “I’d be delighted.”
Jace is amused. “I’ve been demoted, huh?”
“He’s bigger,” Aemond replies simply, then opens the door and vanishes through a blinding curtain of daylight. The others follow closely; Daeron, the last one out—his compound bow in hand, the strap of his Marlin .22 slung over his shoulder—shuts the door behind him.
Very faintly, you can hear Aegon: “Hey, guys! What’s happening? How’s the apocalypse treating you…?”
Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are under the table with you. They deserve to have options. You tell them: “If you want to go hide behind the lanes or try to get out the back door, now’s your chance.”
Helaena shakes her head, clutching your t-shirt: black, Star Wars, pawed off a shelf at the Walmart. “I want to stay with you.”
“Same,” Baela says determinedly, gripping her Ruger. She barely knows how to use it, but she’ll try. Rhaena is shaking, her eyes filling up her face, small fragile bones like a bird’s.
You can’t hear voices from outside anymore, but there are no gunshots either. You keep your M9 aimed at the doors, your breathing slow and deep, your heart rate low. Your hands are steady. Your eyes hunt for the slightest movement, for the momentary shadow of someone passing by a window. Against your will, your thoughts wander to Aemond. I hope Aegon is on his left side. Aemond can’t see there.
“Rhaena, get your gun out,” Baela says sharply. “Come on. Turn the safety off. What if you were alone right now? What if we weren’t here to protect you?”
Rhaena nods, fumbling to free her revolver from its holster. “I’m sorry…I’m trying…”
Now there is a stranger’s voice, gruff and deep. He must be just beyond the door, the farthest one to the right. There is a creak of hinges, a sliver of sunlight. “That’s just too damn bad, fellas. You got a nice little hideout here, and you’re gonna have to share it—”
The door opens. Two unfamiliar faces, too shellshocked to raise their rifles in time. You close an eye, line up your sights, fire twice, and that’s all it takes: one headshot, one in the throat, blood like a fountain, spurting scarlet ruin, thuds against the carpet strewn with neon stars, gurgling and spasms as their brains send out those final electrical impulses: danger, catastrophe, apocalypse. Rhaena is screaming. Helaena is covering her ears with both hands.
You run to the doorway; there are more booms of gunfire out in the parking lot. You cross into the late-morning light to see the other two men on the pavement: one with an arrow through the eye, the other with a gaping, hemorrhaging hole where his heart once was. Rio is admiring his work, holding his shotgun aloft. He scoops a handful of Cheddar Whales out of his shorts pocket and shovels them into his mouth.
“Goddamn, I love Remington Arms Company.”
“Oh, that was awesome,” Aegon says, wan and panting, hands on his waist. “Yeah, that was…that was…” He bends over and vomits Snapple and Cool Ranch Doritos onto the asphalt.
“Everyone okay in there?” Rio asks you.
“Yeah.” Behind you, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are stepping through the doorway. Your thoughts are whirling sickly: I killed someone. I killed someone. “They wouldn’t leave?”
“We told them the bowling alley was ours,” Aemond says, not looking at you. “We asked them very politely to keep moving. They chose to try to intimidate us into letting them stay. They weren’t good people, and these are the consequences.”
You click on the safety and re-holster your M9. You’re wearing Rio’s on your other hip. They seem to weigh so much more than they did ten minutes ago. I’m not supposed to be a killer. I’m a builder.
“Aegon, are you okay?” Daeron asks, a palm on his brother’s back.
Aegon retches again. “Shut up. You can’t even buy fireworks.”
“Zombies.” Luke is peering through his binoculars. “Not many, just two. Way up the road.”
“There will be more.” Baela’s cradling her belly; you don’t even think she’s aware of it. “They heard the gunshots, the sound carries for miles.”
“We’re leaving,” Aemond says. “Right now. Everyone get your things.”
As backpacks are hastily zipped and Daeron and Aegon stand guard in the parking lot, you kneel down beside the men you murdered and check their rifles. They are M16s, either stolen or illegally purchased: there’s a little switch by the trigger to choose between semi-automatic or the so-called machine gun mode.
“They barely had any bullets left,” you tell Rio. Just like us when we were trapped on that transmission tower.
“Yeah, same story for the other two guys. Four bullets in one magazine, a half dozen in the other. But it only takes once. We don’t have any ammo that will work with M16s, do we?”
“No, we definitely don’t.”
“Fantastic. Well, we’ll throw them in a Walmart cart and take them with us just in case.”
You’re staring down at the man you shot through the head. His eternal resting place is a puddle of blood and brains in a bowling alley in rural Ohio; surely no one deserves that. “He was a real person,” you say, dazed. “Not a zombie. Just a person.”
“Hey.” Rio grabs your shoulders and spins you towards him. From where he is helping Luke gather up the remaining food, Aemond’s head snaps up to watch. “You hurt him before he could hurt us. You did the right thing.”
“Sure.”
“I killed a dude too. I blew his heart right out of his chest. You think I’m going to hell for that?”
“No,” you admit, smiling. “And if you’d be there with me, I guess I wouldn’t mind so much.”
Rio grins, wide and toothy. “Well alright then. Let’s finish packing.”
The ten of you depart from Shenandoah, Ohio heading northwest on Route 603 just like Aegon marked on his map, Jace chauffeuring Baela in one shopping cart, Rio pushing another loaded high with food and M16s.
“It looks like rain,” Helaena says.
Everyone else peers up into a clear, cerulean sky, wondering what she means.
~~~~~~~~~~
You’re a few miles north of Shiloh when the storm rolls in, cold rain and furious wind, daylight that vanishes behind dark churning thunderheads, jagged scars of lightning in an opaque sky. The road is only two lanes, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and ravaged crops and untilled earth; it would look like the patchwork of a quilt if you were gazing down from an airplane, but of course the FAA grounded all flights over a month ago when the world went mad: Revelations, Ragnarök, the fabric of the universe unweaving as death burned through families, cities, nations like a fever, like plague.
“Maybe we should cut across one of these fields,” Jace says, pointing. He is soaked with rain; it drips from his curls, runs into his eyes. Baela is in her cart again; each time she tries to get out and walk, she’s gasping and can’t keep up within half an hour. You’ve all taken turns pushing her, much to Baela’s dismay. She’d be humiliated if she wasn’t too exhausted to keep her eyes open.
“Here, let me do it,” you offer, and Jace gratefully relinquishes the cart. Baela gives you a frail wave of appreciation.
“We stay on the road,” Aemond insists, flinching as rain pelts his scarred face. “Farmhouses have driveways and mailboxes, we’ll pass one eventually. If we lose the road, we might not be able to find it again. We’ll end up wandering around in circles in the woods.”
“Just like the Blair Witch Project,” Aegon says glumly, his Sperry Bahama sneakers audibly soggy.
“There!” Luke announces, spotting something with his binoculars. “Up ahead on the left. Past the bridge.”
You can’t see what Luke does until there is an especially brilliant flash of lightning: a farmhouse, old but seemingly not derelict, and with a number of accompanying buildings, guest houses and stables and barns and towering silos.
“Home sweet home!” Rio says. “And I don’t care if I have to kill a hundred of those undead bastards to get in, it’s mine.”
“Well, hopefully not a hundred,” you reply, in better spirits now that a sanctuary has been found. Aemond keeps glancing back at you as you push Baela’s cart. If he wants to say something, he’s doing a good job of resisting the temptation. “We don’t have that much ammo.”
There is a concrete bridge over a river, probably unremarkable and only five or ten feet deep normally but now torrential with rain. Water rushes by beneath, a muddy incline on each side as the earth rises back up to meet the road. A reflective green sign proclaims that you are only two miles from Plymouth, which Aegon plans to skirt along the edges of. It’s a decent-sized town; he thinks you might be able to find a car to steal there, something with gas in the tank and keys on a hook just inside the house.
“I call the master bedroom,” Jace says craftily, rubbing his palms together. You’re near the center of the bridge now, another ten yards to go. “Nice big bed, warm cozy blankets, and I was up for half of last night keeping watch so tonight I am off duty, I am a free man, it’s going to just be me and my girl and eight glorious uninterrupted hours of sleep—”
Rhaena shrieks, and then you hear it over the noise of the storm, pounding rain and rumbling thunder: moans, growls, hisses like snakes. Not one zombie. A lot more than one. They’re crawling up from under the bridge, from the filthy quagmire at both ends. There was a hoard of them waiting, aimless, dormant, almost hibernating. But now they are awake. They are grasping for you with bony, dirt-covered claws. They are snapping with jaws that leak blood and pus and bile as their organs curdle to a putrid soup.
“Get off the bridge!” Aemond is shouting. He has his Glock in his right hand, a baseball bat in his left. He’ll shoot until he’s out of bullets, and then, and then…
Rio helps you get Baela out of the cart, then opens fire. His Remington doesn’t just pierce skulls, it vaporizes them. When he’s out of shells—there are more in his backpack, but no time to reload—he yanks the M16s out of the other Walmart cart and empties each of them, mowing down zombies as the rest of you scramble across the bridge. All around you are explosions of gunshots, thunder, lightning, zombie skulls crushed by bullets and blunt force trauma. Baela is firing her Ruger as you half-drag her, one arm hooked beneath hers and around her back. When the last M16 is empty, Rio starts clubbing zombies with the butt of it. You’ve all reached the north side of the bridge, except…
“Fuck off, you freaks!” Jace is screaming. They’ve backed him up against the guardrail, a swarm of ten or more. His Remington shotgun is out of ammo; he’s swinging it wildly, but he doesn’t even have enough room to maneuver. There are still more zombies emerging from under the bridge. You can hear them snarling and groaning. You swipe an M9 off your belt and put a bullet in the brain of a zombie as its fingers close around your ankle, then you start picking off the ones mobbing Jace. You aren’t fast enough. As they lean in to bite him, teeth gnashing at the delicious throbbing heat of his jugular, Jace throws himself over the barrier and into the surging water below.
“No!” Baela cries. She careens off the road and into the field, running parallel to the river as swiftly as she can. You are helping her, steadying her, firing at any zombies you have a clear line of sight on. The others are here too: slipping in the muck of the flooding earth, shouting for Jace. He surfaces through the frothing current, flails pitifully, disappears beneath the water again. You glimpse a white hand, a shadow of his dark hair, a kicking shoe. There are more zombies on the opposite side of the river, trailing after Jace, lurching and slobbering viscous, gory saliva. They cannot swim, but they can follow him until he washes ashore.
Jace bursts up through the waves, gasping. “Help! Aemond…Aemond, for the love of God, help me…” He blubbers and then is dragged under. Aemond and Luke are continuing frantically after him. Baela is hysterical, sobbing, trembling with adrenaline. Aegon is yowling as he swings at zombies with his bloodied golf club. Helaena is darting around almost invisibly, always cowering behind Daeron or Aegon or Rio.
You glance north towards the farmhouse, growing not closer but farther away. We can’t leave shelter. We can’t leave the road. You lock eyes with Rio. He’s thinking the same thing.
“Aemond, we have to go,” Rio says, but in the midst of the rain and the turmoil it barely registers.
“Jace, we’re coming to get you!” Aemond swears. The ground is increasingly sodden, deep, difficult to trudge through. Jace resurfaces, coughing and sputtering.
“Jace!” Aegon wails. He caves in the skull of a zombie who was once a registered nurse as Helaena crouches behind him. “Jace, I’m sorry! I’m gonna miss you, man!”
Jace splashes in the rising river, his arms flailing helplessly. He is being swept away far faster than any of you can move on foot. “Aegon, you dumb bitch!” Jace manages, then slips beneath the water and doesn’t reappear.
“Where is he?!” Baela is saying. “Aemond, where…?”
You are trying to soothe her, to bring her back to reality. She was always so pragmatic before; you have to wake her up. “Baela, listen, we can’t stay here, he would want you and the baby to be safe—”
“Aemond! Aemond, we have to go!” Rio catches him, wrenches him around, roars into his face as driving rain pummels them both: “We have to go, or we’re going to die here too!”
It hits Aemond all at once; he understands, horror and agony in his sole blue eye. “We have to go,” he agrees. And then louder, to everyone: “Get to the farmhouse!”
Baela collapses into the mud, howling, tears flooding down her face. “No, he’s still alive, he’s still alive, we can’t leave him!”
You and Rhaena are trying to haul Baela to her feet. Now Aemond is here, pulling you away from her—his fingers tight and urgent around your wrist—as he and Luke take your place. “Go,” he commands. “You run. Don’t wait for us. Rio?”
“I got her,” Rio replies, grabbing your free hand with an iron grip. Gales of wind rip at you; every millimeter of your skin is soaked with rain. As you flee across the fields towards the farmhouse, dozens of zombies pursue you. More are still staggering along the banks of the river, swept up in the hoards chasing Jace and the promise of his waterlogged corpse when it reaches its final destination. Daeron has run out of arrows and is shooting with his .22, which is very much not his preference. Aegon trips, getting covered in mud as he rolls, and Rio stops to help him. While he is distracted, you look back at Aemond. He, Luke, and Baela are moving quickly, but not quickly enough. A drove of zombies is closing in on them. You have a spare few seconds at last. You yank your backpack off, grab a box of ammo inside, and reload your M9.
“Chips?!” Rio calls over his shoulder.
“I’m fine.”
He knows you well enough to listen. The world goes quiet as your finger settles on the trigger. There’s a rhythm one slips into, an impassionate lethal efficiency. It’s easier to keep going than to stop and have to find it again. You fire over and over, dropping eight zombies. You sheath your M9 and whip Rio’s out of your other holster, the sights finding grotesque decaying faces illuminated by lightning. You pull the trigger: blood, bones, brains, corpses jerking and convulsing as they fall harmlessly to the mud. Aemond is here; when did he get here?
“I told you to run!” he’s shouting through the storm, furious. He’s shoving you towards the farmhouse. You resist him.
“Let me kill as many as I can—”
“Go! Now!” Aemond orders over the clashing thunder, and then sprints with you all the way to the front porch to make sure you listen. Everyone else is already there. Helaena has fetched a spare key from under the doormat and is turning it in the lock.
Daeron observes her anxiously. “We don’t know if it’s safe in there, Helaena.”
“Not in,” she says, insistent. “Through.” Through this building, and maybe through the next one too. The average zombie is not terribly clever. If they lose sight of you, without the benefit of the momentum of a hoard they are lost. Helaena opens the door. The living rush inside, and she locks it behind you. As you are bursting out the back door, you can hear zombies pounding their rotting palms against the front one. You soar through a stable full of dead horses and donkeys, leaving the doors open; this should keep the zombies distracted if they make it this far. Then you race to the farthest guest house. Luke, swiveling with his binoculars, spies no zombies approaching as you steal inside. There is no spare key this time; Rio punches out a first-floor window for you to climb through. Once everyone is inside, he and Aegon move a bookshelf to cover the opening.
You all stand in the living room, gasping and shivering, dripping rain down onto the rug and the hardwood floor. The air is dusty but clean of any trace of vile, swampy decay. Outside, thunder booms and lightning flashes bright enough to illuminate the lightless house. The sky is so dark it might as well be nightfall. Baela sinks to her knees, clamping both hands over her mouth so she won’t sob loudly enough for a zombie to hear. Rhaena and Luke are beside her, both weeping quiet rivulets of tears, trying to comfort her in whispers. Helaena is rummaging around searching for candles; she has already taken a lighter out of her soaked burlap messenger bag.
“Daeron, bro, come over here,” Aegon chokes out. He embraces Daeron, clutches him tightly and desperately, doesn’t let go. Rio is reloading his Remington 12 gauge.
Jace is dead. Jace is dead.
Aemond says to you, his voice low but seething: “What the fuck was that?”
You blink the raindrops out of your eyes as you stare at him, bewildered. “You needed help.”
“I told you to run.”
“I’m an asset, I have skills that can keep you alive, why am I here if I’m not going to be useful—?”
“You’re not in the fucking Navy anymore!” he hisses. “When I tell you to run, you run, you don’t stop, you don’t look back, because I can’t worry about you and take care of everyone else.”
“Nobody asked you to worry about me.”
“But I do.”
“Aemond,” Aegon pleads, waving him over. Aegon’s plump sunburned cheeks are glistening with rain and tears. “Man, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters now. Please come here.”
“I’m going to clear the house,” Aemond says instead.
Rio raises an eyebrow at you—this is one fucked up guy, Chips—and then pumps his shotgun. “Me too.” He sweeps with Aemond through the main floor and then vanishes up the staircase.
Helaena is lightning candles she found in the kitchen and arranging them around the living room. Daeron starts gathering food from the pantry. Rhaena and Baela are murmuring to each other softly, mournfully. It doesn’t feel like something you should intrude on. Luke is peeking out of a window with his binoculars, vigilant for threats. Aegon sniffles, wanders over to you with large, sad, shimmering eyes, pats your shoulder awkwardly.
“Hey, Chocolate Chip. You doing okay?”
“No,” you answer honestly.
“Yeah. Me either.” Then he flops down on the hideous burnt orange couch and lies there motionless until Daeron brings him a can of Dr. Pepper. Aegon pops the tab, slurps up foam, and then begins singing to himself very quietly, a song so old you can remember your grandfather saying it was one of his favorites as a boy: A Tombstone Every Mile.
When Rio comes back downstairs—heavy footsteps, he can’t help that—you meet him at the bottom of the steps. “The house is good,” Rio says. “And Aemond’s in the big bedroom on the right if you’d like to go up there and talk to him.”
“I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”
“I could not disagree more,” Rio says with a miserable, exhausted smile. Then he goes to the couch to check on Aegon.
You pick up one of the flickering candles, white and scentless, and ascend the staircase. You find Aemond in the master bedroom, the same accommodations that Jace laid claim to when he was still alive. He is sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the wall, at nothing. Tentatively, you sit down beside him, placing the candle on the nightstand.
“Aemond…what happened to Jace…it wasn’t your fault.”
“Criston said I was in charge, that’s the very last thing he told me. They might be the last words I ever hear from him, and I just…” His voice breaks; he wipes the rain and tears from his face with open palms. “I really wanted to get everyone home.”
“I’m so sorry about what I said at the bowling alley,” you confess, like it’s a dire secret. “I don’t want to fight with you, Aemond, I…I want to help you. I can see what you’ve done for everyone here, me and Rio included, and I believe in you. I want to be a part of this.”
He nods, an acceptance of peace, but he still doesn’t look at you.
“Can we start over? I’ll never bring it up again, okay? I wasn’t trying to guilt you or upset you or anything. I should have just dropped it. I overreacted. And I understand why being with someone like me maybe wouldn’t be…super appealing.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Then what’s it about?”
Aemond wrings his hands, shakes his head, at last turns to you, golden candlelight reflected in his eye, his scar cloaked in shadows. His words are hushed, clandestine, soft powerless surrender. “I’m already so afraid of losing you.”
He cares, he hopes, he wants me too? “I’m here right now, Aemond. I don’t know what else I can say. I’d promise you more if I could.”
He reaches out to touch you, to ghost his thumb across your cheekbone, wet with rain. Then he kisses you, so gently you cannot help but imagine the wispy borders of calm white summer clouds, the rustle of leaves as wind blows down the Appalachian Mountains. You don’t have to ask him what he’s thinking, what it feels like. You can read it in the startled, firelit wonder on his face.
You taste like the beginning of something, here at the end of the world.
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diazsdimples · 6 months ago
Note
Buddie + "I love you, but I've never been this angry with anyone than I am with you right now" or smth like that
"I love you, but I've never been this angry with anyone like I am with you right now," Eddie fumes as he checks over Buck's injuries.
They're fairly minor - a split lip and a cut above his left eyebrow that slopes into his birthmark, and there's a few scrapes on his forearm, but that doesn't stop the anger, the fear that's bubbling in Eddie's stomach right now.
"C'mon Eds, I'm fine," Buck mumbles as he tries to dodge Eddie's fussing hands. His head throbs at the sharp movement and he winces. " 'S just a scratch."
"It's seven scratches," Eddie counters as he finishes the catalogue of Buck's injuries. "And you've probably got a concussion."
Eddie pinches between his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose. It's not like this is a surprise; Buck's never been one to think through his actions to the logical conclusion, being more of the "act first, think later" type, but Eddie wishes that for once, the man would engage his brain before throwing himself headfirst into a burning building, chasing after a drunk driver on a tiny bicycle, or climbing a tree to fish out the frisbee Christopher had lost moments earlier.
Buck pushes himself up onto his elbows, surveying the broken twigs and leaves that litter the ground around him. The branch that had snapped beneath his weight lies about a foot to his left, and Eddie can see the porous insides, the wood rotten and crumbling. It's any wonder Buck tumbled out of the tree like a kitten learning to climb - that branch would have given way the second he put his weight on it.
"Probably should have checked the branches as I was coming down," Buck says with a strained chucked, his attempt at lightening the mood with humour falling flat when Eddie doesn't respond, his jaw ticking cause yeah, Buck really fucking should have been more careful.
Buck's face falls as he sees Eddie's tight expression.
"A-are you really that mad at me?"
Eddie softens. He's not mad, exactly. His fear and panic often manifests itself as anger, and when Buck had come barrelling out of that tree, crashing to the ground with enough force it could have registered on the Richter Scale, his heart had leapt to his throat.
"I'm not mad," he says gently, and the tension in Buck's shoulders disappears. He reaches out to touch Buck's face, thumb stroking over a thankfully unscathed cheekbone. "I just...you scared me, that's all."
Eddie can feel the weight of Buck's stare, can hear his heartbeat loud in his ears, and then Buck is smiling softly, the look on his face so gentle that it takes Eddie's breath away.
"You don't have to worry about me," he reassures Eddie, turning his face into his boyfriend's hand and kissing his palm.
Eddie can't help the disbelieving snort that leaves his mouth.
"Buck, you choked on bread so hard you nearly died, you've been crushed under a ladder truck, you had a pulmonary embolism and then got washed up by a tsunami, and you've been struck by lightening. You get into trouble more often than not."
Buck laughs, the sound warm and sweet, and Eddie wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss him better, to seal up his wounds with his lips, to kiss away the pain and promise to always be there with him when he hurts.
"Well, when you put it like that..."
Buck's eyes sparkle and his lips are so soft, and Eddie doesn't have it in him to stop himself anymore.
The kiss is light and barely there, but Buck's lips are so warm and pliant against his own, and his heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest. He can feel the stubble on Buck's chin against his skin, can smell the sharp scent of the lemon bodywash Buck loves to use, and when Buck sighs against him, Eddie feels it down to his toes. There's a slight wince as Eddie presses over the cut on Buck's lip and he pulls away, resting their foreheads together.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks again, licking his lips. He tastes the slightest tang of metal - blood, from Buck's lip - and it sets his teeth on edge.
"Baby, I'm fine. Promise."
Buck leans forward and presses another, far gentler kiss to Eddie's lips.
"Now, can you help me up, please? It's cold down here."
Eddie rolls his eyes but complies nonetheless. He takes Buck's wrist and hauls him to his feet, and is about to drag him inside when Buck sways against him, the blood draining from his face so fast Eddie's surprised he doesn't pass out immediately.
"Sweetheart? Are you okay?" he asks, grasping Buck under the arm as he swallows thickly, his knuckles turning white as he clings onto Eddie's forearm.
"You know what?" Buck says as he suppresses a gag, "M-maybe I should go get checked out."
"You think? C'mon, let's get you in the car."
Eddie at least has the common sense to grab an ice cream container before he ushers Buck out the front door, making fast tracks towards the ER.
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planetdream · 1 year ago
Text
STRANGE DREAMS !
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CHARACTERS ! incubus/demon!hyunjin, reader
GENRE ! horror, smut [minors dni]
WORDS ! 7.8k [more or less]
SYNOPSIS ! sometimes, you meet a strange man in your dreams. this is one of those times.
THIS FIC CONTAINS ! edible-fueled writing. horror [gore—body horror: descriptions of blood and mutilated bodies. frightening figures and situations. description of drowning. nightmares and sleep paralysis. demons, and thus], references to biblical lore [christianity] and small references to milton's paradise lost [if you squint], and smut [dubcon—sexual manipulation and sex pollen, sorta. d/s dynamics—predator versus prey. possession/corruption. vaginal and anal sex. pussy and face slapping. teasing. fingering. spit. squirting. face fucking. degradation. strength kink sorta. sex with a demon—in demon form. monster cock. lots of cum]
⚠️ if you’re sensitive to gore, be advised before reading. i tried to be tame and brief with descriptions, and although i consider it to be light gore, i understand everyone has their limits. so proceed with caution.
💌 posting this earlier than originally planned cuz why not!! got the idea for this fic a year ago after an edible. it’s very weird n self indulgent but i’m glad i finally finished it !! i hope someone enjoys it <3 i always appreciate feedback !!
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You’re certain that it’s the sky you’re gazing into—though, you’re unsure because your vision is unclear, a milky haze clouding your pupils—but the longer you look at it, the more it spins and distorts, bringing on nausea that rises in waves from the pit of your stomach to the top of your head. The nausea brings on a discomfort; dryness in your mouth and a straining in your eyes, and because of that, you’re left with no choice but to close your eyes and let your other senses take over. Darkness surrounds you, and it feels like you have risen into the sky, despite grass being beneath you, and it’s soft, comfortable; almost like you could sink deeper into it before reaching the hard, frigid dirt. You grab the blades of grass with a tight fist, tugging on it, but still unwilling to pull it out as if you would cause harm. Then, the grass all around you becomes apparent—alive—moving against your skin in a response back to you. It tickles all over, building the realization that you lay naked in the grass, though unwilling to get up or cover yourself; lost within the pure contentment of the situation. 
There is a wave that sways over you—hot, heavy, and harsh, yet not too overbearing in its nature. You don’t know why, but there’s a sense of familiarity about when you are. It’s as if you’ve been here before, a distant memory that both chills and warms you. 
Along with the burbling sound of water pouring into itself, the smell of water whisks in the cool breeze—slightly sweet, green and alluring; whistling your name, calling out for you to come over. The whispering is intriguing, full of temptation but slightly melancholic; no words need be said, yet you understand the language of the waters. The whispers are loud, blaring; not in the sense of volume, but by how jarring it is—unlike anything you’ve heard and yet, it’s something you feel so acquainted with, like a long-time friend. The water cries, begging for you to bathe within it or drink from it and promises a sweet taste that could be comparable to honey and lemons. 
When you open your eyes again, everything is clear. The plants around you are breathing, communicating through the whistles of the wind; and just like the water, the plants cry out as well. Though, the cries of the flowers and trees are far different from the cries of the water. The cries of the water nearby sing a great harmony of promise and belief, whereas, the cries of the many trees screech of terror and agitation. They warn of what horrors can be witnessed here, of what great dangers are lurking within them. A sweet song of catastrophe. The flowers, however,—with captivating colors unlike anything you’ve ever seen, yet familiar; like the names of them are on the tip of your tongue, begging to be acknowledged and praised—cry differently. It’s a murmur most comparable to the feeling of silk against your hands, but also the feeling of goosebumps after a close encounter with something you shouldn’t have crossed paths with. A comfortable discomfort. 
You look around, fully taking in the picture of what presents itself around you. There are butterflies varying in size and species—they sing as well, something similar to a war cry; morbid and haunting, though still beautiful and in great faith. Dragonflies buzz around, securing their place and status within the area. So much life here—at peace in this paradise. There’s some kind of haze or mist in the air, silent and still, tranquil. The sun is bright, blazing hot and practically piercing, yet despite the warmth, the air is slightly cool. The sight of your surroundings further cements your previous feelings of familiarity. Yet it also uncovers sheer discomfort. Yes, the area is familiar, but there’s something unsettling and distinctly different about it. A discomfort layering in the air, horribly beautiful and homely, but pandemonium is lurking, lurched and hidden within the shadows of this seeming paradise. 
You roll over in the grass—laying on your stomach and lifting your head to see beyond what you could before. Not too far from your current position is a waterfall, continuing its whispers. The spring below is surrounded by unusual pink flowers and huge rocks covered in thick, green and yellow moss. Before you can process it, you’re on your feet and moving towards the spring. Once there, you kneel, gazing at your reflection in the waters. It’s almost too much to process but it’s you. It is you and yet it’s like the face you wear does not belong to you. Uncanny and off putting. 
Movement. On your left, deep in the periphery of the spring. Your eyes shift, tracking whatever chooses to present itself. A swan. Elegant and pristine. It cranes its neck, beak pointing towards you in acknowledgment. You make full eye contact, and a chill runs up your spine causing your hair to stand on edge. An inflamed feeling of danger sparks within you, and before you have time to fight or run as far away as possible—“There you are!” 
The voice comes from your right, but when you look in that direction, there’s nothing there.  “So this is where you ran off to.”
The physical energy of the presence behind you is familiar, but strikingly overwhelming—it crawls up your skin like sharp nails, giving you goosebumps—you don’t need to turn around to recognize it. It’s Him. You’re unsure of what he is, exactly, but sometimes you meet him in your dreams. Though deep down you know that his existence and connection to you reaches well beyond the odd worlds of your dream realm. When he touches you, your surroundings change. The waterfall that you were once at is yards away, tiny in perspective. Despite having not moved an inch, it seems that every time you blink, you’re further and further into the woods; trees surrounding you and most certain to bury any noises emitted within their leaves.
The rustling of the tree leaves sounds like a screech, almost like sharp nails against a chalkboard—sinking deep and clashing, scraping out the porcelain enamel. The sound alone affects your brain, echoing in your mind, blaring enough to make you hold your hand against your head. The sound stops once he presses his hand against your cheek—so cold it feels like burning fire, almost scalding enough to melt off your skin; but you do not flinch, nor do you back away, frozen in place. The feeling of his skin against yours evokes an emotional aching so deep, you can feel it festering in the pit of your stomach, spreading to your organs and seeping into your veins—and somehow there is comfort in that. 
He’s speaking, and while you’re unable to make out the words he is saying, you can tell that his voice is soft, pillowy like a cloud. Honey-laced words dipping from his tongue as if he’s trying to convince or ask something of you. You avert your gaze, unsure of if you actually want to meet his eyes. 
His presence scares you just as much as it calms you. Intriguing, and homely but also frightening and domineering despite simply just standing there. Something about his demeanor feels off, or distorted, at the very least, as if he’s not actually in front of you. As if he was a result of your imagination instead of directly in your eyes view. He’s real, a hand against your skin, almost close enough for you to feel his breath lightly against your skin; and at the very least, he knows you. You know him, too, you think; of course, you’ve seen him in your dreams, but you’re inclined to believe you know him from somewhere else. 
“Where are we?” You ask him, avoiding eye contact, shaking away from the contact his hand makes with you. Jarringly, it doesn’t feel like you said anything at all. Your mouth was moving and the words presented themselves in your mind and yet you can’t hear a single thing you’re saying. The familiar fire within your throat when you speak is no longer there. 
“The Garden. It’s perfect here, isn’t it?” He gives you a small smile, seemingly understanding your indistinct confusion. Then, as he speaks up again, his voice drips with something resembling woe. “You and I used to live here a long time ago. I visit every so often, dip my legs into that spring back there, and then I reminisce on how pure life was back then before…” 
You think he’s talking again, but once again, you’re unable to hear him. You’re too busy lost in his face. The urge to press your lips against his gets stronger as you’re next to him. Then you realize he’s naked as well, and your entire body gets warmer. There’s a budding ache inside you that’s all too familiar, growing at a rapid pace. It’s almost like your body is on fire as a result of being within his presence. Hormones floating, hair standing on edge, your more sensual and raw instincts ready to unveil and latch onto him at any time. Head hurting the longer you’re in his presence until it all just stops. 
Everything stops. The trees are no longer rustling, birds no longer humming. There’s no splashing of the waterfall nor whistling in the wind. Just pure silence. The silence is uncomfortable, and causes you to stand still in your tracks like a deer, scared that if you make any sudden moves a predator might attack within the blink of an eye; jumping on you and tearing you apart in a bloody mess of flesh and organs flying everywhere, painting the fallen deep green leaves a perfect contrast of crimson. 
“Run,” He says. There’s nothing in his voice; no emotion nor a slight hint at what he’s thinking. But the word echoes in your mind, and sends a chill down your spine, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on edge in either curiosity or total blood curdling fear. 
“What do you mean?”
“You need to run,” His voice drops lower. “And don’t get caught.”
So you turn your heels and you run, not willing to ask him twice. Unsure of the direction you’re going in, but the further you seem to travel, the more that discomfort begins to settle in the pit of your stomach. You pick up the pace—one foot in front of the other, careful not to trip over yourself—but a small part of you isn’t sure if the danger that you’re sensing is real or just a part of a sick and twisted game. Instead of running away from the source of your terror, it seems as though you’re running towards it, no matter the direction you run. Twigs and leaves snapping and crunching beneath your feet, but it causes you no pain. In fact, the only thing you can feel in the moment is the thumping of your heart and every single milliliter of blood marching through your vessels.
You admittedly don’t make it too far before you’re cowering, ducking against a large tree. Heart racing with such speed that you’re almost positive it would break free of your ribcage, piercing its way out of your chest. The tree, however, as quickly as you found it, is no longer a place of solace, as you hear a long, loud, and deep growl to your left. The deep guttural sound echoing, slicing through the trees like machetes. You’ve got to move, but you fear that if you do, whatever it is that made that sound, might attack, ripping you to shreds before you’ve even got a chance to exhale. There’s a roar once again, this time uncomfortably closer to your hiding place. You stand still, and the surrounding area of the forest is suddenly extremely silent. No rustle of leaves or echoes of birds, but a loud silence accompanied by a buzzing noise; like a horde of flies marching their way towards you. 
“Hyunjin,” You call out. The name slips from your mouth with ease, as if you’ve been calling him by that name all along. In the blink of an eye, just as you exhale his name, your surroundings change; suddenly submerged in water. 
You emerge from the cold water, barely having time to register your surroundings before you’re being forced back into the water; claw-like hands scraping into your scalp, sharp and heavy against your skull. It’s hard to make your way above the water because of the forceful weight and before you know it, attempting to hold your breath is useless due to the water infiltrating your lungs. You’re flailing and thrashing around, arms lifting—hands curling into a claws, attempting to grab onto something, only to slash through the water—and legs kicking mindlessly, trying to escape what is uncertain; heart rate accelerating as panic fully sets in. This seems to go on for nearly fifteen minutes, being edged by death over and over; blacking out then awakening time and time again. Vision blocked by the salty darkness of the water, ensuring to agitate you with fright, unsure of when it’s all going to end.
Abruptly, you’re dragged upwards by your hair, back falling harshly against rock, helping you cough up the water in your throat. It feels like it takes minutes for you to learn how to breathe again, attempting to do that and calm down enough to assess your surroundings. You’re coughing so much you think you might cough up an intestine, throat burning with each assault, chest sinking and expanding and then sinking again. It takes many moments of coming back to yourself that you notice that there is no rough hand against your scalp. Alarmed, moving around frantically, backing up toward the closest stone wall. Scanning the area, there’s no human nor animal, nor creature of any nature in sight. Not even a single insect. Not even Hyunjin.
You lean over, though not too far in case history repeats itself, to peer into the water; there isn’t even a single fish, as far as you can tell, the waters quickly descending into a vast, black pit of the unknown. Overhead, the sky that was once shining brightly now dimming rather quickly, accompanied by dark, angry clouds. The winds pick up, swirling atop of the trees, emitting a drawn out whistle comparable to wind chimes; of which you can surprisingly hear over splashing and sputtering of the nearby waterfall. Large roars of thunder stomping in, but no lightning accompanies it. You begin to curl into yourself, attempting to shield yourself from whatever is out there, nature or otherwise.
You close your eyes for five simple seconds, and when you open them, Hyunjin is right next to you. He doesn’t notice you’re awake at first until you shift, catching his attention. He turns to you and you avert your eyes from him. He’s talking but it’s all inaudible, unimportant. Something about his presence in this moment is unsettling. Slightly off from the initially odd behavior he’d be exhibiting. You just nod to his words. “Found you like this about an hour ago. You shook so hard until you stopped and fell asleep.” 
Hyunjin holds out a hand for you, which you’re hesitant to grab, but the next thing you know, you’re standing slowly; legs shaking as you attempt to regain strength. You hold onto his arm for extra support, slightly struggling in your steps as he leads you, hand in hand, towards a small cave hidden behind the pour of the waterfall. It’s hardly a hike, but Hyunjin makes sure you get to the other size carefully. “The rocks are slippery. You’ve had a few accidents here before.”
A lot of Hyunjin’s words are vague. Referrals to past events involving the two of you, all of which you cannot remember. There’s a feeling that you’ve been here before, but you’re unable to prove it, or make those connections other than your gut feeling and Hyunjin’s comments. 
You’re hesitant to walk into the cave, the inside being pitch black. Hyunjin walks in before you, completely fearless, as if there is no potential danger. At the snap of a finger, there’s suddenly a fire going on within the cave. From you place you can see how the fire illuminates Hyunjin’s figure just a bit, and as you walk closer—finding a bit more comfort now that you can see, and because you know Hyunjin is there waiting for you, willing to guide you into and protect you from the unknown—you admire how the flames of the fire accentuates Hyunjin’s facial features. He was made by God, sculpted from the finest clay and molded into an individual with otherworldly beauty. Hyunjin holds a torch-like stick, fire blazing at the tip of it, used as momentary safety. “I know somewhere we can go.”
He then points into the deep darkness of the cave. You don’t want to go deeper into the cave. Right where you stand is just fine, and most importantly, it’s safe. Hyunjin reads the hesitant look that’s displayed on your face, but he urges you. “You’ve got me, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” 
And his smile, as beautiful and perfect as it is, seemed crooked, faked for just a moment. He holds out his hand, and without even thinking about it, you take his hand in yours as if you had no choice despite the unease boiling inside of you. His smile curves up again and he turns his head, now guiding you down the cold, dark cave. 
The entire time you’re walking, there’s nothing. Hyunjin doesn’t speak and neither do you. The walls on either side all appear the same, dirt colored and oddly smooth, with not even a small crater to make a difference. No matter how long you walk, nor how far, the dark pit continues into nothingness, an upsetting kind of emptiness. Despite Hyunjin being next to you, despite holding his hand, he’s like a stone wall. He makes no effort to speak, nor to even acknowledge you in the slightest despite leading you somewhere, it’s like you’re nothing but a mere bug, nothing to stress about or keep entertained. You feel nothing but loneliness at the pit of your stomach; the only things keeping you company are the thumping of your feet against the ground and the flickering of the flame Hyunjin holds. 
It’s a long time of walking before you realize that this cave is actually a tunnel. The tiny white dot of light grows bigger and bigger with every step taken. It feels like forever until you and Hyunjin reach the end of the tunnel. When you do, you’re happy to see light again. The sky now bright and blue, prohibiting any angry clouds of heavy rain. Air fresh and inviting, free of any worry and apprehension. Whatever doubts or dreadful feelings once felt before are now completely an afterthought. 
“C’mon let’s go.” Hyunjin discards the torch, dragging you with him by your hand, grip tight against you. 
He leads you over to a flower field where flowers ranging in color, size, and species reside. The field is colorful, bright and happy, like a source of glee. Inviting you over by whisper—maybe it’s a honey-filled hum—so sweet and kind. The deeper you walk into the flower field, you notice how enticing the air smells—sweet like a pastry, yet fresh like petrichor. The longer you and Hyunjin walk, hand and hand, the more at ease and loose you feel, almost drunk, mouth welling up with excess saliva. The two of you eventually reach a point to rest, laying on the grass, no words exchanged between you two. Simply just basking in the sun, deeply breathing in the fragrance of the nature that surrounds you. 
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There’s a passage of time before you start to feel it; an itch that’s tempting you to scratch; a sudden burst in fire. A fire that begins at the pit of your stomach and continues to your core, flaring; spreading further throughout your body in static-like jolts. Your breaths change from relaxed and soft, quiet, to heavy and noticeable; and suddenly the atmosphere feels hotter, small beads of sweat collecting against your forehead. You shift, rubbing your thighs in effort to satiate your sudden cravings, wanting to grind your hips up in search of friction. Growing more desperate and needy by the second. 
This is when you look towards Hyunjin, rolling onto your stomach, head resting in your hands as you gaze up at his sitting form; and you actually notice him. You notice his nakedness, every single inch of him on display. He’s like a god, with his honey-like skin that glows and glistens in the sunlight. Toned and defined arm and thigh muscles that flex with nearly every movement he makes. He was meant to be admired, made to be worshiped—having men and women alike kneeling at his feet and imploring him to fuck and defile them. If only you knew how much he agrees. These thoughts almost embarrass you, yet they feel so natural. And your eyes drip lower to admire Hyunjin’s more intimate parts. Cock hanging low, thick, and you’re not too sure if he’s hard or not but he’s big. Mouth watering as you admire his dick: the natural curve to it, how there’s three thick, prominent veins that disperse along his shaft (at least from what you can see at this angle) that are pulsing, just begging for your tongue to roll over them. 
You’re pulled away from your fantasy when Hyunjin clears his throat. With an eyebrow raised and a glimmer in his eye, he gives a small smile to you, softly, “You need something from me?”
“Maybe,” You wink at him. You sit up to face him, hand making contact with his knee, fingertips trailing up and down his thigh in a teasing matter. You get a little closer to him, skin against skin, eyes fixated on his cock as your fingertips dance against his inner thigh.
That’s when Hyunjin kisses you, lips soft and plump; and when he presses them against your lips you feel like you're in heaven. At first, your lips barely touch, meeting in small pecks, sweet kisses that eventually deepen into something desperate. The kisses are open mouthed, wet and sloppy, Hyunjin’s tongue makes its way into your mouth naturally, exploring inside of you. The kiss only breaks a few times; when you place your hands flat against Hyunjin’s chest, pushing away slightly just to get air. Each time the kiss breaks, Hyunjin smiles with a small chuckle, licking his lips before leaning in again, forehead pressed to yours. 
You break the kiss once more, now focusing more on Hyunjin’s cock. Spitting onto your hand and wrapping it around his shaft, squeezing lightly. Tight fist working up and down Hyunjin’s length, biting your lip when you feel him twitch within your hand. He bites his lip, holding back a moan. Hyunjin stops you before you get too deep into it, instead choosing to take the lead. 
Hyunjin plants another kiss to your lips before kissing down your neck, trying his best to take his time to really savor you, but he soon grows impatient. Pushing you down flat against the grass. Quick, wet kisses in several places down your body before he plants one last kiss right above where he really wants to be. There, he wastes no time getting to work, tongue slithering out almost snake-like to lick against your cunt. He really takes in the first taste of his meal, wetness sitting against his tongue, practically melting in his mouth, he moans. He dives in once again, lips and tongue against your cunt, licking and sucking and moaning; fully savoring you. 
“Taste so fucking good,” He breathes once to come up for air, not that he actually needs it. Continuing to lap at your cunt, lips kissing and sucking at your clit, moaning into your heat. Hands coming to your thighs to grip, fingernails piercing, spreading you open wider for him. 
You grind against his face, hands instinctively going to his hair, fingers tangling within it and pulling with eagerness. Hyunjin groans into you at the slight sting of you pulling at his hair. Tongue not letting up against your clit, following your cunt with every movement you make, not letting you get a break from the feeling of him against you. His mouth domes around your clit, sucking you in, teeth lightly grazing against your bud, momentarily making your back arch. Mid arch, Hyunjin slips two fingers into you. Slight sting as he stretches you out, long digits buried to the knuckles inside of you upon initial thrust. 
Soon planting open mouthed kisses against your cunt, fingers working their way in and out of you at an obnoxious pace, curling naturally. Between Hyunjin’s tongue and fingers, in combination with his lips planting kisses against your cunt in between sloppy licks, it’s all too overwhelming. Cunt clenching around his fingers, pulling them in to beg for more, which Hyunjin promptly gives. Fingers fucking into you faster, his other palm pressing down directly against your pelvis. 
It’s all too much, but you don’t want it to stop. The feeling of your impending orgasm has you shaking, practically vibrating, unable to brace yourself for it. Tears pooling down the side of your face as you moan out for him. The tips of his fingers repeatedly hit the soft, gushy spot deep inside of you, biting his lip as he watches your face contort. Body stiffening within his hold, unallowed to thrash around, only able to take what he’s giving you. Though unable to completely relax into it, fighting off the feeling of eventual bliss. 
Hyunjin lets out a breathy moan at your defiance. Thumb massaging your clit, slowly but surely dragging you further off the edge. Hyunjin finally gets you to relax into his touch, into the feeling of temptation fully engulfing your soul. That’s when it takes over. Your vision blurs, almost going black, mouth agape as you let out cracked moans. Chest getting hot, tightening as you cum, releasing all stress and tension, absolutely melting into this state that makes you feel like you’re floating. Yet your body is only laid out in the grass, legs spread wide for him, as your cunt spills all over his fingers, wetness squirting all over Hyunjin’s forearm and thighs. Tongue desperately trying to lap up whatever he can as his fingers slip away from your cunt. The palm of his hand coming down against your sore cunt once, making you moan out and close your thighs, back arching, pain stinging in the best possible way that leaves you aching for more. Not fully satisfied. 
Hyunjin is kneeling over you now, a large hand around his cock. Angry red tip all pretty and glossed with precum that dares to fall onto your skin like delicious raindrops. His cock twitches in his hand, blood rushing, pulsing in the veins that decorate his shaft. It all just makes you think about finally having his cock in you. The burning of the stretch, the feel of him reaching places that haven’t been accessed before, not to mention the feeling of his warm cum filling you up, ounce by ounce. 
When Hyunjin pushes into you, you nearly lose your breath, caught in a long inhale. He’s nice enough to push into you slowly, but it’s only because he wants to savor the feeling (though, Hyunjin fully intends to use you however he wants for as long as he pleases). His cock is thick, stretches you beyond anything you’ve experienced before; though instead of being painful, your body is laced, wrapped in pleasure, and the sensation of thrill rushes through your veins. You spread your legs further apart, welcoming more of Hyunijn, hoping that he pushes into you deeper; overcome with desire and want. 
“So fucking wet,” Hyunjin pins his cock deeper into you, pulling out quickly, teasingly. “Need more of me?”
You nod frantically, bottom lip slipping away from the clutches of your teeth. When you look up at Hyunjin, his eyes are fixated on your cunt. Tongue peeking out of his mouth, swirling over his bottom lip, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead and into his eyebrow. He’s concentrated, breathing so heavily that he almost begins emitting an inhumane growl, but he dials it back quickly. Instead of pushing all of his length inside of you, Hyunjin pulls out completely, tapping the head of his dick against your cunt, sliding his cock from left to right against your clit. You watch as he does this, listening to the pornographic sound of your wetness, cunt clenching around nothing, just begging to finally be filled. 
“Please…” You find yourself begging. Eyebrows strung together as you rock your hips up and down, trying to catch Hyunjin’s cock only for him to move away, preventing you from chasing your pleasure. His hand comes down harsh against your cunt in succession, serving as a warning. 
“So cockhungry, can’t you be patient?” Hyunjin continues his tease, repeated light slaps against your cunt with his dick. His cock is replaced by his hand, two fingers dragging down from your clit to your slit, thrusting them into you quickly. Two fingers are replaced by three, and three, by four. He moves quickly, tips of his fingers curled and hitting exactly where you need them. He fucks your moans out of you, reveling in the way that your cries spill out just like the wetness of your cunt, and he’s barely doing anything but fingering you. And you’re this fucked up, melting into his fingers, giving him nearly everything he wants. “Always so pathetic and slutty.”
Agreements slip from your mouth, just in hopes that he’ll give you what you need if you’re good for him. Hyunjin just laughs at you, you’re certainly the cutest plaything he’s had—he knows he’s got to take his time with you. Almost wanting to slip his thumb inside of you as well, Hyunjin decides against it, continuing to fuck you with four of his fingers, still unrelenting in his pace. You, however, are lost for words; taking every ounce of what Hyunjin is giving you. A burning sensation rising in the pit of your stomach, hips rising from the ground, but Hyunjin never stops. Even when you’re leaking all over him, thighs shaking and threatening to close around his arm, he doesn’t stop fucking his fingers into you; not until he’s sure he’s got every ounce from you. Cum dripping down his arm as he takes and takes from you, forcing you to squirt all over him and yourself once again. Sliding his fingers out of you with yet another slap against your cunt.
His hand is around his cock again—wet with your cum, smearing it all over his cock—squeezing at its base as he brings his tip to your entrance. But he teases again, merely slapping his cock against your cunt. You arch into him, grinding your hips against his cock but Hyunjin makes no notice of you and your antics. Eventually getting bored, pulling his cock away from you. 
“Kneel,” He speaks curtly, standing. However, you do not move fast enough for his liking. “Don’t make me have to do it for you.” 
He does anyway. Grabbing you by the hair, dragging you up and forcing you onto your knees, skin grinding into the grass, sure to have bruises on them. Hyunjin’s hand stays in your hair, tugging as his free hand wraps around his cock. He yanks your head to the side, proceeding to slap his cock against your cheek, precum oozing from the tip. 
“Open.” He says, and you promptly follow his instructions. “Looks like I’ve got a smart one.” 
Hyunjin spits into your mouth, globs of saliva coating your tongue. His cock closely follows, dipping the tip in and out of your mouth quickly. He shifts, though, choosing to slide his entire length into your mouth, lips closing around him; but Hyunjin doesn’t allow it. Cock sliding out of your mouth, resulting in Hyunjin slapping you on the cheek with it again; saliva and cum sticking to your cheek. “Keep your mouth open wide.”
You adjust for him, just wanting to be able to take him and satisfy his cravings. He slides his cock back into your mouth, fully, giving minimum time to adjust to neither his speed nor his size. Mouth stretched to capacity, jaws aching and burning but Hyunjin is completely relishing in all the gagging and choking you do. You’re getting dizzier the longer his dick is in your mouth, tip kissing, nearly ramming, the back of your throat due to Hyunjin’s pacing. You feel like you’re on fire but yet you’re still able to relax into it. It isn’t long before you start moaning around his cock, absentmindedly rocking your hips back and forth whenever you taste a hint of the salty sweet substance. Hyunjin then pulls out, saliva spilling all over your chin and connecting in tiny stings to his cock. Smacking your cheek with his cock another three times, erupting in a full belly laugh, smiling at the way you’re just a completed fucked out mess, barely registering a thing he’s doing or saying to you. 
“Look at that,” Hyunjin releases you from his clutches. He pushes you back by your shoulder, making you catch yourself from falling back with the palms of your hands. When you look down, you’re completely soaked, wetness dripping down your thighs and onto the ground, pooling messily onto a leaf, spilling off of its edges and soaking into the dirt beneath it. “Fucking filthy little mess you’ve made. Cunt just begging to be fucked, huh?” 
The question is rhetorical but you still nod; even going as far as to whine a little bit, hips moving seemingly without your control. Hyunjin takes pleasure in this small action, kneeling down to your level. He licks his fingers, noting that he doesn’t need to at all, and swipes them over your clit, one, two times before his ring and middle finger are sliding into your cunt. Fingertips meeting the exact place you need them each time he slides them into you. You’re clenching around his fingers now, and Hyunjin licks his lips, pulling away from you.
“Turn around.” You obey, turning on your hands and knees, swinging your ass in the air. He continues with his teasing, and at this point you’re nearly sobbing, wondering if he’ll ever actually give you what you want. Pathetic chants and whines spilling from your mouth as you push your ass against Hyunjin, unable to control yourself; thinking with your cunt instead of your brain. 
Hyunjin spits down onto you, and you can feel the glob of spit slide down from your asshole to your cunt, tickling its way down your clit. Hyunjin, though, slides the head of his cock from your clit, upwards, collecting his spit and your wetness in the process. He teases the tip at the rim of your tight hole, teasing at it. But when you push your ass towards Hyunjin, he pulls away, tsk-ing in the process. 
“Silly little play thing,” Hyunjin gives a cold, almost threatening laugh. “I think I need to teach you a lesson on patience, hm?” 
The threat has you pleading with him, repeated apologies dancing off your tongue, ultimately not acknowledged. Hyunjin loves to hear the sounds of your begs and pleads, but ultimately, the words you say do not matter to him—it all means nothing. Hyunjin marches at the beat of his own drum, and in situations like this, when he’s got a perfect piece of flesh like you beneath him, everything that he says, goes. And right now, he’s perfectly fine with teasing you over and over and over again. 
Slapping his cock against your cunt once, twice, Hyunjin slightly pushes the head of his cock against the rim of your ass. He continues applying pressure, fixated on stretching out the perfectly puckered hole. You whine at the feeling, slowly inching away from it, but Hyunjin holds your hips still. Pushing and pushing, slowly, until finally he slides the head of his cock into your tight hole. Hyunjin moans out at how your hole tightens around him, welcoming him inside. He does nothing, just stays like that, moaning and ignoring your pleas for him to do something. It’s not until you feel the side of his hand brush up against you cunt that you realize Hyunjin has got a hand around his shaft, getting himself off while the tip of his cock is in your ass and you’ve got nothing to do except for lay there and accept it, with your ass in the air and your face against dirt. 
His moans increase as he fucks his hand around his cock faster; and if it werent for his other hand holding you in place, you’d at least try to fuck back on him through the stretch of the pain. As Hyunjin exhales, letting out a deep groan of a moan, you feel the rush of warm liquid shooting into you. You moan in response as Hyunjin makes a mess of you with his cum, filling you up, trying to keep it all inside until he pulls out and it all, inevitably, leaks out of your hole, pooling around your cunt. 
Hyunjin wastes no time, cock sliding into your cunt with ease due to your wetness and his cum; but the stretch is intense, more than you initially expected. You tighten up a bit, resisting, though you want to relax. You can’t hold your arch perfectly any longer but that’s the least of your worries—the only thing on your mind being cock. Hyunjin slides another inch into you. Maybe it’s because of all the teasing, or the fact that you’ve already cum twice, but he’s not even halfway inside of you and it feels like he’s reached the depths of your soul already. His hand reaches around, fingers coming in contact with your clit in hopes of helping you ease up. 
“Created just for me,” Hyunjin breathes out, voice rough with possession. “Made just for me. Only me.” 
He continues with his ownership of you, voice dipping deeper as his words become mostly obscenities. You don’t hear it. Or perhaps you can’t hear it. Maybe you don’t want to hear the vile things he’s saying. You’re overtaken, caught up by the intense, high pitch ringing that is worming its way through your ear canal, planting and fertilizing clashing waves of static all around your brain. 
His hand wraps around your neck. It feels nothing like the soft, once heavenly hands that had been massaging all over your skin. These hands are rough, calloused and rigid palms that venture into freakishly long, boney fingers; with nails like claws that pierce into the side of your neck right behind your ear. Your eyes remain closed, fearing that if you open them that you’ll see something you shouldn’t, something that your mind would be unable to comprehend visually. A feeling of spiritual discomfort crawls up your back, causing you to arch, shivering at the same moment Hyunjin works his cock deeper into you, stretching you further; mentally and physically—of which he insists on doing, wanting to bend you to his will and break you beyond anything you’ve experienced. 
Hyunjin pulls you back to him, hips unrelenting. Teeth, sharp like razors, piercing down into the flesh of your shoulders; nearly enough for blood to start trickling down your skin, but that does not occur. His teeth, however, do leave indents in your skin; that, if he’s lucky enough, will be permanent. His lips meet your ear next, a brief kiss planted to the lobe before whispering in a rather gruff voice, unlike that of his usual. “Inferior to me. Mine to claim.” 
When he cums there’s an immense amount of it, sticky and warm. Hyunjin makes sure to be fully buried inside of you, cock seemingly swelling in size as he forces you to take all his cum inside. Hyunjin is selfish, not waiting a single moment, and barely pulling out before he begins to thrust back in. Cum coats his cock, almost daring to drip onto the ground in raindrop-like shapes. He refuses to allow that, however, fucking all of his cum back into you. His thighs, which originally felt like the silkiest, softest flesh, now coarse and dry—except for the sticky cum running down them, connecting in slightly thick, white lines against your thighs—and fuzzy; thick. “Mine to possess.”
You slowly come to realize that Hyunjin has taken a different shape completely. No longer possessing the body of a man, he has turned into some kind of beast, something inhuman. He’s grown abnormally in size and you can tell because he’s holding you up as he fucks you, toes barely scraping the dirt. 
And as filthy and as frightening as it is, the line between fear and arousal is a very thin, blurry line. It leads you to come crashing down, partially due to the overstimulation, cunt spasming around Hyunjin’s cock, sucking in all his cum. You’re elated, completely delighted, mind elsewhere as you experience your high with Hyunjin fucking you through it. Hardly registering anything other than the feeling of Hyunjin’s cock stretching you out and the warmth of his cum—a sticky mess that’s leaking out both of your holes and staining your thighs. 
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When you come to, you’re laying on Hyunjin’s chest. It’s still daylight out, the sun beaming as bright as ever, nearly blinding when you open your eyes. It takes a few moments to shake away the pure, drowsy euphoria you’re feeling, completely ravished by bliss; almost hypnotized. You prop your head up to look at Hyunjin, and the moment you do, it’s like there are trumpets sounding off all around you. You have a realization—no, a revelation—that things aren’t as they seem as you peer up at the brown-haired man. As queasiness makes a home in the pit of your stomach, all within two mere seconds, the wind picks up; howling in the distance, bustling within the branches of trees. 
“This is a dream, isn’t it?” For what might be the first time, your eyes meet his.
What words can be used to describe what you saw when you looked into the eyes of that thing? Petrifying? Nauseating? Surreal? It makes you want to close your eyes, however, when you do, the images you’ve seen seem as though they’ve been permanently printed against the black of your eyelids. Perhaps you can attempt to run away—and hide, praying to God that you’re not stalked and caught—but your muscles don’t respond to the neurons being sent by your brain. Perhaps you can find a way out of this dream, but your physical body seemingly refuses to acknowledge the call to wake up; only processing the utter fright in the images it created. The only thing you can do is stare into Hyunjin’s eyes, continuing to receive visions of which you hope you’ll be able to forget. 
His irises are a deep pool of black, displaying a particular flavor not only of loneliness but utter wickedness. The longer you stare into Hyunjin’s eyes the longer you are disillusioned, fully snatched away from all delusion of this former fairytale. Vision clouded by a thick, murky fog; fully spotlighting the shocks of visions you see in his eyes. 
A beast, creature unlike anything you’ve ever seen or imagined. The face of a man only oddly elongated with empty eye sockets and horns—covered in blood that only makes a mop of its fine hair—curled up into two spikes atop his head. A smile so wide it’s like it was carved in with a razor blade and charred, blackened and blood stained fangs hanging from its mouth. Its body, with its abnormally long limbs, is completely drenched in blood, dripping in pools all around the entity. Pieces of what you can only assume is a human—or even worse, you—discarded and littered around it without much thought or care. 
Flesh. Human meat. Limbs and bones and the insides—intestines, livers and hearts and muscle—all around you as this vision becomes reality; suddenly finding yourself within one meter of this monstrosity. The pool of blood coming up to your ankles, rising steadily. Pieces and pieces of the now deceased all around you, entirely mangled and minced. The creature holds pieces of meat within its claws, sharp nails piercing into the gray flesh, bits of meat stuck between its teeth as it tears into its victim. 
It is feeding. 
The situation becomes all the more frightening when the creature raises its head towards you. Despite it being eyeless, you know that you’re making eye contact, getting lost within the empty abyss that seems to be staring into the corners of your spirit. It’s wide smile never fading as it lurches, sprinting towards you faster than the blink of an eye. 
The transition from the dream world to the waking world is surreal, almost jarring. Especially since when you awaken, you’re paralyzed, body stiff with static crawling all over your skin. The darkness of your bedroom surrounds you, both familiar and completely unknown. You attempt to move around a little, opening and closing your eyes multiple times, attempting to raise at least a finger; though falling short of progress to escape this feeling, left to stare straight up at your ceiling. 
Then there’s the boom. A loud, static-like noise; deep as if something really heavy had dropped—but you’re unsure if it’s coming from the dark corner on your right or elsewhere within your home. A thing that simultaneously occurred and did not happen. The speed at which fear rises within you is faster than the speed of light. Heart racing as the physical manifestation of dread drops to the bottom of your stomach—fear making its home in the back of your throat, tightening as your swallow, seemingly making it difficult to breathe. It consumes you, a heavy burden, too insufferable to support, unable to put up a fair fight against it. 
Don’t Look. 
Curiosity gets the best of you. You shift your eyes to the right and in the far corner of the bedroom is a space that’s significantly darker than anything else in the room; like a void. Perhaps it’s because the light from your plug-in air freshener doesn’t reach that area of the room. And perhaps you’re tired and still reeling from that strange dream, but you swear you see movement as you glance over. You want to look away, you have to look away, but curiosity sinks its claws into you. Hypnotizing and you're paralyzed with fear of what could happen. Then, the darkness in the corner grows, getting larger as if whatever it is has been expanding, standing up to greet you. 
Then it disperses. Leaving you alone, shaking and sweating in the cold, unwelcoming darkness of your room, finally able to move and process things. 
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© PLANETDREAM 2023
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kingofbodyrolls · 11 months ago
Text
Learn to Love Again (m) | myg
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Summary: People always leave. They become beautiful stars shining bright in the night sky. When life hands you lemons, you’ve been told to make lemonade, but that is hard when your soul and heart is breaking apart. When you rescue a tiny cat and meet a handsome stranger in the cafe, you finally feel yourself healing – but when they too leave, how are you going to learn to love again?
Pairing: Yoongi x reader (female, mainly called pet names so no ‘Y/N’).
AU + genres: Hybrid!au (shapeshifter!yoongi), strangers to lovers, slice of life, heavy angst, a lot of sadness and grief (I’m sorry!), dark vibes, smut and fluff and some humor sprinkled in there too. 
Rating: Mature/explicit/R18 – this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.
Word count: 19,4K
Disclaimer: I do not own BTS or know them personally and this work of fiction is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only. The actions and personalities described in the story do not reflect those of BTS— it’s just fiction. Also, if you would kindly read the tags/warnings before reading, that would be lovely: and if you don’t like whatever is described in the tags, just hit return and find something else to read. Thank you 🌸
Warnings (general) + triggers: Heavy angst, extreme heavy sadness and grief, death of minor characters, mention of previous character death (parents and siblings), mentions of su*cide, mention of m*rder, su*cidal thoughts. Mention of past car accident. Mention of past domestic abuse. Mirrors 👀👀
Warnings (explicit): unprotected sex (please stay safe!), choking, oral (female receiving), nipple and breasts play, one-time use of a degrading word (otherwise petname), hair pulling – I guess it’s pretty vanilla with a slight sprinkle of spice 🤭
Author’s note  (1): I know it sounds hella sad (and it is), but it is also very sweet and heartwarming too 💜 I wanted to venture into the darker stuff again, and embrace all the feelings and sadness that I felt a few weeks ago (I’m fine, well I’m getting through it at least). 
If you are triggered by any of the warnings, I suggest that you skip this. It’s not that explicit though, but the heavy subjects are still there and they feature in it a lot.
Also, the quote “people always leave” features a lot in this and I only now realize why I find it so familiar – it’s a famous quote from Peyton Sawyer from One Tree Hill.
Author's note  (2): It’s only partly edited, so I’m so sorry about any mistakes or weird wordings (English is also not my mother language). When I read it again, I felt sad and like the whole thing is crap (why do I also feel like this adgadfjkhs), BUT, I still like it, it’s a piece of my heart in there… I can’t just let it sit in my docs to collect dust. So – I’ll just post it early and never look at the thing again (expect for the cover, because damn I’m so happy with how that turned out 🥹).
Taglist: @keshiadeija @viankiss @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad If you prefer to read on AO3 you can also find it there 🙂
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The heavens are weeping again, unleashing a torrential downpour that drums heavy on the windows. Just like the heavy beating of your heart and the tears that just won’t stop falling down your cheeks.
For days now, the world has languished in this disquiet, a foreboding atmosphere that has draped itself over every moment, casting a shadow even before the haunting ring of the call that echoed through the silence.
A searing, heart-wrenching call that etched itself into the fabric of your existence, standing out as one of the most agonizing moments life has ever dared to deliver.
Caught off guard by the unexpected twist of fate, it blindsided you, sending shockwaves through your core and leaving you utterly rattled, as if the very ground beneath your feet had shifted without warning.
Your conviction in her well-being crumbled as swiftly as a sandcastle against the tide.
In your last encounter, she radiated joy—her infectious happiness casting a brilliant glow over her words as she spoke about her new job, her blossoming romance, and her boundless love for life.
A tear, heavy with the weight of the contrast between then and now, traces a lonely path down your cheek.
The echo of her laughter, the sparkle in her eyes, and the unbridled excitement that made her hands tremble with anticipation haunted your memories. 
It's a heart-wrenching juxtaposition between the happiness she projected and the sorrow now etched into the fabric of your own emotions.
She wasn't just a friend; she was your confidante, a steadfast companion through the labyrinth of years and experiences. Your best friend.
In the tapestry of your friendship, she emerged as the resplendent thread, the one who consistently outshone the rest. 
Even on her darkest days, she radiated a brilliance that surpassed the ordinary, a celestial glow that left an indelible mark on your heart. To you, she wasn't just a friend; she was a luminous star, a breathtaking celestial entity whose untimely descent felt like a cosmic supernova, casting a blinding light that left everyone in its wake awestruck and forever changed.
Like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, the day she chose to end her own life blindsided everyone. 
The abruptness of her decision, the finality of calling it quits, left a haunting question echoing in the hollow chambers of your soul—why? 
The puzzle remains unsolved, the enigma of her despair a perplexing maze you can't navigate. Outwardly, her life seemed like a canvas painted in hues of contentment, yet the invisible struggles eluded comprehension. 
Despite the deep conversations that usually wove through the tapestry of your friendship, the darkness she harbored never surfaced in her words. Her choice to shroud her pain in silence remains an unfathomable mystery, a tragic paradox that still elicits a profound sense of bewilderment.
The haunting ‘what if’ lingers, an elusive specter of regret—what if she had shared her struggles with you? 
The possibility that your words could have been a lifeline is an uncharted sea of sorrow. The uncertainty, the unfulfilled potential for intervention, claws at your conscience like a relentless tempest.
In the wake of this unanswered plea for connection, tears cascade down your cheeks, each drop bearing the weight of unspoken conversations. The dampness on your collarbone, where your shirt clings uncomfortably, is a tangible reminder of the storm within. 
A mere few days have crawled by since that fateful call, the kind that alters the very fabric of reality. 
The echo of your friend's voice reverberates through your memory—a seismic revelation that shattered your world. As the words unfolded, you crumpled to the floor, the phone nearly slipping from your trembling grasp.
A gasp caught in your throat, a palpable surge of emotion crashing over you like a tidal wave.
In that harrowing moment, your heartbeat quickened, each thud resonating with the weight of sorrow and anger. The air itself seemed to constrict, tainted with the bitter aftertaste of an impending storm. The onslaught of emotions clawed at your chest, a tumultuous dance between sadness and anger, each one vying for dominance in the chaotic symphony of your soul.
Powerlessness wraps around you like a suffocating shroud, the absence of your brightest star leaving a void that seems insurmountable. 
In this moment of staggering loss, the future unfolds as a vast expanse of uncertainty. How do you navigate a world without the radiant glow she once brought to your existence?
Yet, as the weight of grief presses down, a resilient ember flickers within. Acknowledging the inexorable march of time, you realize that her memory, like a cherished constellation, will be a guiding light in the night sky of your life. 
In the tapestry of your emotions, she, alongside your parents, becomes one of the celestial beacons you look up to during moments of sorrow or when life's burdens become too overwhelming.
You step out onto the balcony, enveloped by the velvety embrace of the dark blue sky. 
The resplendent moon takes center stage, surrounded by a constellation of bright companions that twinkle in the vast expanse of the night. The beauty of the cosmos is a bittersweet solace, a celestial dance that captivates your gaze.
The night sky has always held a captivating allure for you, but in the wake of the profound loss of your parents, it transcends mere beauty. 
It becomes a sanctuary, a cosmic tapestry where memories linger among the stars. Each celestial beacon now carries the weight of cherished moments, transforming the night into a sacred canvas where the brilliance of your loved ones continues to shine, casting a radiant glow that lingers in the quiet moments of contemplation.
The subtle hum of your phone reverberates in your hand, a clandestine messenger that disrupts the tranquility of your thoughts, setting loose a cascade of emotions. 
The screen lights up with a message from a friend, its arrival like a seismic tremor in the landscape of your contemplations, shaking loose the delicate balance you've tried so desperately to maintain.
Yuna [20.31]: Iseul’s funeral is on Saturday. We’re all going. U coming?🌹
Dread settles in the pit of your stomach like a heavy anchor – the thought of attending the funeral feels like navigating a tempest of emotions you're not sure you're prepared to weather. 
The prospect of confronting tears, raw emotion, and the grieving presence of her family looms before you, casting a shadow over the already somber occasion. 
Yet, duty intertwines with reluctance; you were her best friend, after all. 
The expectation to pay your respects becomes an unspoken mandate, tugging at the seams of your resolve despite the storm of discomfort that brews within.
Tears have become an unwelcome torrent on your phone, transforming the smooth surface into a slippery terrain that complicates every attempt to type. 
The screen blurs beneath a watery veil, mirroring the tumultuous cascade in your own eyes. Distraction clings to each droplet, making it not only challenging to navigate the phone but also to see through the emotional downpour that clouds your vision.
But against the deluge of sorrow and the weight of grief, you summon the strength for a brief reply, a fragile lifeline tossed into the turbulent sea of emotions.
You [20.46]: Yes🌹
With a heavy sigh, you gently lay your phone face-down on the nightstand, as if shielding the illuminated screen from the weight of the world you've just momentarily set aside.
How do you navigate this desolate landscape that life has become? 
The void feels more palpable now, a haunting echo of emptiness that had lingered even before.
It's as if the very essence of existence has been drained away, leaving you grappling with the profound question: What is the point when the world around you continues to crumble, and people around you just keep dying?
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At Iseul's funeral, you navigated the somber scene alongside your friend group, bracing for the emotional maelstrom that awaited. 
The atmosphere unfolded exactly as you had anticipated — a tableau of tears, grief-stricken family members, and the embrace of mournful hugs. Conversations echoed with memories of Iseul's radiant spirit, each word a bittersweet tribute to the bright and bubbly soul that once graced your lives. 
Amidst the collective sorrow, the air hung heavy with the weight of loss, weaving a tapestry of emotions that spoke to the indelible impact Iseul had left behind.
It was agonizing, bidding farewell in the harsh reality of acceptance. The harsh truth of life unveiled itself – an unrelenting cycle of departures. 
Yet, amidst the crushing finality, you find solace in the enduring promise that even though everyone leaves, the stars above will forever bear witness to her presence, a cosmic constellation of memories that will continue to illuminate the canvas of your nights.
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Work persists in its mundane rhythm, the monotony punctuated only by the forced smiles you offer customers as you brew their coffee or recommend delectable treats in the cafe. 
For you, work has forever remained a sterile landscape, devoid of passion or purpose. The unfulfilled yearning for a meaningful career tugs at the edges of your consciousness, a persistent ache exacerbated by life's unrelenting cruelty—your unfinished degree in astrophysics stands as a testament to dreams deferred. Maybe you’ll go back to school – you don’t know.
Your thoughts are abruptly shattered by a brash intrusion, a man’s voice slicing through the ambient noise with an unwarranted familiarity. “Hi, pretty,” he drawls, snapping your attention to the present, “can I get a black coffee, a muffin, and your number, please?” 
The audacious request hangs in the air, leaving a charged pause that crackles with a blend of amusement and annoyance.
You stifle a silent scoff, a careful veil to conceal the simmering irritation within, though the indignation is palpable. 
This flirtatious interlude is far from novel—far from the first time someone has attempted to weave charm into the fabric of your workday. Yet, a discomforting truth lingers beneath your composed exterior: you disdain these unwarranted advances, a sentiment you've carried with you each time such encounters stain the ordinary canvas of your work.
Forcing a smile that feels more like a fragile mask, you locate a muffin, navigating the familiar routine with practiced efficiency. 
As you approach the coffee machine to craft the requested brew, you gather both items and, with a subtle sigh, slide them across the counter. 
Your words, delivered with a polite cadence, carry a hint of firmness as you say, “Here you go. Apologies, but my number isn't on the menu.”
Turning men down has become a skill honed through the crucible of experience, a necessity etched into the fabric of your being, especially after the wreckage of your last relationship. 
It wasn't just a breakup; it was a tempest that left you bruised, not only on the surface but also in the recesses of your soul. 
To declare a dread of relationships, despite the quiet longing that flickers deep within, would be an understatement—the mere thought evokes the echoes of a tumultuous past, a cautionary tale etched in both physical and emotional hues of black and blue.
Despite the man's disapproving frown, he begrudgingly parts with his payment, snatching his coffee and muffin.
As he vacates the space, you extend a tight-lipped greeting to the next customer, the forced smile a delicate masquerade concealing the intricacies of emotion churning beneath the surface.
Day after day unfolds in this relentless routine, a relentless loop where, despite the suffocating weight of depression, you muster the strength to haul yourself into work. 
The struggle is an unspoken battle, fought in the silent recesses of your soul, and each morning becomes a victory against the persistent darkness that threatens to engulf your spirit.
You maintain a lifeline to your friends, weaving a narrative of your somber mood and emotional tumult, acutely aware of the significance of vocalizing your feelings rather than succumbing to the perilous grip of silent suffering.
Recent conversations with your friends have taken an unexpected turn, steering into the realm of your dating life or, more accurately, its conspicuous absence. 
Their fervent advocacy for you to reenter the world of romance echoes in your ears, their well-intentioned pleas urging you to cross paths with someone great and amazing. 
However, you find yourself standing at the crossroads of uncertainty, unsure if you're ready to navigate the labyrinth of love once more. 
Despite your reservations, you indulge them, allowing their words to wash over you like a waterfall of unsolicited advice, all the while steadfast in your understanding that a man is not a prerequisite for happiness or the completeness of your life—you've long recognized your ability to stand firm and flourish on your own terms.
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An entire season has unfurled its tapestry, and while the vast void persists within the caverns of your heart, there's a subtle transformation underway. Amidst the lingering shadows, a sliver of the sun's warm rays threads its way through, gently illuminating the emptiness. 
The caress of warm weather and sunlight manages to coax a faint lift in your mood, a subtle thawing of the emotional frost. 
Yet, amidst the burgeoning warmth, there's a yearning for the crispness of cold, the kind that invites the comfort of wool sweaters and socks, beckoning a desire to cocoon on the couch and lose yourself in the embrace of solitude.
After withstanding the relentless onslaught of your friends' persistent prodding into the realm of your love life, you've yielded to the chorus of their well-meaning badgering. With a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, you've made the bold decision to reenter the intricate dance of the dating game.
The prospect of discovering 'the one' remains shrouded in uncertainty, a delicate balance between the promise of profound connection and the potential peril of heartache from those who might not treat you right. 
However, the ambiguity of the journey doesn't deter your resolve. To remain passive is to forfeit the chance at something extraordinary. 
The echoes of Iseul and the silent encouragement from your departed parents reverberate, urging you to embrace life with all its intricate hues. Their unwritten wish for your happiness becomes the compass guiding your path, compelling you to take the plunge and give it your all.
You yearn for a life where the pursuit of happiness isn't punctuated by the haunting inevitability of departures and loss. You grasp the harsh truth that people leaving or departing through death is an inescapable facet of existence, a relentless current in the river of life. 
Yet, the recurring tide of sorrow that washes over you each time someone departs feels burdensome, a weight that anchors your spirit. It would be a cherished reprieve if the ebb and flow of life's transitions didn't carry with it a relentless undertow that threatens to drag you down each time.
Your dating escapades have unfolded like a series of misadventures, each rendezvous more perplexing than the last. 
One suitor wielded an aggressive tone that eclipsed any potential connection, while another was so absorbed in self-interest that your voice seemed but an echo in the conversation. Then there was the one who sought solace in your company to mend a broken heart, an unwitting participant in their quest for emotional repair.
With every disappointing encounter, your hopes wane like the dying embers of a once-bright flame. Yet, undeterred, you persist in the pursuit of connection, a resilient soul navigating the unpredictable seas of dating with unwavering determination.
Amidst the tumultuous sea of advice from your friends, the suggestion of a night out clubbing emerges as a potential remedy to jumpstart your dating life—a one-night stand, a shortcut to reclaiming agency over your love life. 
However, the proposition fails to align with the essence of who you are. The neon-lit allure of the club scene doesn't resonate with your soul, and the idea of a fleeting encounter doesn't hold the promise you seek. 
Nonetheless, you find yourself engulfed in a pulsating sea of sound, the music in the club roaring, the bass reverberating through the floor and into your bones. 
The atmosphere is a maelstrom of heat and sweat, a suffocating embrace that intensifies your regret for being there. 
Yuna, exuding an air of confidence, takes charge and orders a round of drinks for the group. Meanwhile, Nari's eyes scan the lively chaos of the club, a vigilant matchmaker on a mission to uncover potential matches for you.
Her finger extends with a pointed certainty toward a mysterious figure—a dark-haired man sporting a sleeveless shirt, the canvas of his arm adorned with an intricate tattoo sleeve. His dark eyes, scanning the crowded expanse of the club, carry an enigmatic intensity, hinting at a captivating allure that goes beyond the surface.
Your laughter carries a blend of amusement and skepticism as you dismissively remark, “Nah, he's giving off major fuckboy vibes.”
Amidst the cacophony of pounding music in the club, Nari practically shouts in your face, her words punctuating the beat as she insists, “Maybe that's exactly what you need!” 
The intensity of her proclamation, a fervent plea for spontaneity, reverberates in the air, a challenge thrown into the whirlwind of the night's possibilities.
You shake your head, a firm yet polite rejection lingering on your lips, “No, thank you.” 
Just as the tension subsides, Yuna appears with a tray of drinks, a timely distraction. Gratefully, you accept your drink, savoring the sweet and sour concoction that dances across your palate, momentarily providing respite from the charged atmosphere of the club.
The night unfolds in a rhythm of measured indulgence—a few drinks to chase a gentle buzz, steering clear of the edge of intoxication. Your gaze scans the crowd in search of potential matches, but amidst the pulsating lights and swirling music, none captures the elusive spark that ignites a genuine interest.
As the night deepens and the rhythm of the club starts to fade, you bid farewell to your friends, the weight of the evening settling in your bones. 
Stepping out into the nocturnal air, you're greeted by the relentless cascade of rain, a torrential downpour that catches you off guard. Damn it, you realize, a surge of annoyance coursing through you, you didn't bring an umbrella.
Embracing a sudden burst of defiance, you make a split-second decision, a resolute ‘fuck it’ echoing in your mind. 
Stepping onto the sidewalk without the shelter of an umbrella, you surrender to the unrelenting rain. In mere moments, your hair clings to your skin, and your clothes succumb to the downpour.
As you navigate the labyrinth of alleys and pass by numerous apartments, a peculiar low noise infiltrates the ambient hum of the rain. What is that sound? 
It's a subtle yet persistent calling that arrests your movements, compelling you to strain your senses in an attempt to decipher its origin. 
It's not just your slightly tipsy mind, is it, playing tricks on you? 
The cadence of the noise feels like a desperate plea, an ethereal call for help that beckons you into a mysterious dance between reality and the unknown.
Undeterred by the absence of street lamps, you navigate a shadowy alleyway nestled between looming apartment complexes. The darkness cloaks the path ahead, but you press on, an intrepid explorer drawn to the mystery that lies beyond the veil of obscurity. 
As you draw nearer, the enigmatic noise crescendos in intensity, a haunting melody that pierces the quiet of the alley. 
Your steps quicken, and with each stride, the source becomes clearer. Could it be emanating from the depths of the dumpster?
A sense of déjà vu wraps around you, as if this eerie scene has been lifted from a cinematic reel. The dilemma tugs at your curiosity, tempting you to peer into the abyss of the dumpster, a choice that hangs in the balance. 
Yet, before you make a decision, a glimmer of relief washes over you. 
Nestled snugly beside the dumpster, a small ball of fur captivates your attention, its presence a stark contrast to the ominous shadows. 
A silhouette emerges from the darkness, and as you inch closer, the mystery unfolds into a shivering, meowing figure—a black cat. 
The frailness of the tiny creature tugs at your heartstrings, and you find yourself hunching down, extending a tentative invitation with soft calls, coaxing the small, ebony bundle to bridge the gap between its vulnerability and your outstretched hand.
The black cat fixes its gaze upon you, eyes mirroring a blend of uncertainty and wariness, as if it's attempting to decipher the intentions behind your outstretched hand. 
The black cat stirs from its initial hesitation, uttering plaintive meows that seem to echo its distress. As it rises, the stark reality becomes evident—malnourished and shrouded in fear, it moves tentatively towards you. Each step seems to echo a history of abandonment and struggle. With aching slowness, the feline inches closer, navigating the wet ground with trepidation. 
Softly, you beckon the malnourished feline closer, the words “Come here, you poor thing” carrying an invitation laced with compassion. 
As the tiny creature inches nearer, its pitch-black eyes become an intense focal point, a gaze that transcends the physical realm, peering into the depths of your soul. In that poignant exchange, a silent pact forms—an unspoken promise of comfort and understanding between two beings, each seeking solace in the other's company.
As the fragile black cat draws near, an echo from your past resurfaces—the cautionary words of your mother reverberating in your mind. ‘Black cats bring omen and death,’ her voice, etched in childhood memories, had warned. 
Yet, confronted with the stark vulnerability of this shivering, lost creature in the cold summer rain, you find your resolve tested. 
Against the weight of your mother's superstitions, compassion prevails, and you make a conscious decision to offer refuge. You haven’t got anything else to lose, but yourself.
The cat's purrs resonate in the quiet alley, a melodic response to the tentative connection forming between you. Meows become a symphony of trust as it finally caresses your hand, a delicate dance of vulnerability. 
With a newfound intimacy, it leans into your touch, climbing up your arm to find refuge in your lap. Despite your jacket's damp embrace, you pull the shivering creature closer, enfolding it tightly against your chest.
“I’ll take you home and get you some food.”
Rising from the damp alley, you cradle the tiny black cat in your arms, an intimate embrace that transcends the physicality of the moment. As you navigate the journey home, each step becomes a testament to the newfound connection—its fragile heartbeat resonating against your chest.
As you finally reach the sanctuary of your home, both you and the shivering cat are thoroughly drenched from the relentless rain. 
With a twist of the key, you unlock the door to your small apartment, ushering in a breath of warmth that contrasts sharply with the damp chill outside. 
In a choreography of relief, you kick off your sodden shoes, the cat nestled at your feet. Unburdened by the weight of the rain-soaked coat, you hang it on the rack, a visual symbol of the transition from the stormy world outside to the comforting refuge within the four walls of your home.
“I'll find you a towel and dry you off,” you promise to the cat, your words a tender reassurance before your feet. With a sense of urgency, you hasten to the bathroom, a quest for a towel becoming a mission to provide comfort to your newfound companion.
As you return, traces of wet footprints mark the path from the entryway to your living room, leading to the sight of the cat perched regally on your couch. 
The unexpected image elicits a sense of awe within you, a silent marvel at the fortuitous encounter that has unfolded. With the fluffy towel in hand, you join the tiny creature on the couch.
With gentle strokes, you tenderly dry the cat with the fluffy towel, the rhythmic purrs and meows resonating like a melody of gratitude. 
In this intimate act of care, a bond forms between you and the feline, its response a testament to the shared understanding that has quietly blossomed. 
The dampness of the storm may linger outside, but within the confines of your home, a warmth permeates, forged through the simple yet profound act of offering comfort to a fragile soul.
Persistently, the cat continues its chorus of meows, its nearly obsidian eyes fixed on you with an intensity that transcends mere feline curiosity. In the silent exchange, a profound question lingers in the air—what does it want? 
The gaze carries an almost pleading quality, an unspoken plea that invites you to unravel the mysteries hidden within those enigmatic eyes, and in doing so, embark on a journey of connection and understanding with this small, mysterious soul.
A revelation flickers in your mind like a sudden burst of light—food! 
The realization washes over you, and a spark of understanding illuminates the unspoken hunger behind those pleading eyes. “You're starving, ain't ya?” you murmur, the words a bridge between the two of you, an acknowledgment of shared needs and the beginning of a silent commitment to provide not just shelter but sustenance to this small, hungry soul.
In a hurried dance between care and necessity, you dart into the kitchen, swinging open the fridge door to unleash a blast of cold air. 
The realization that your wet clothes might lead to an impending cold nudges at you, urging a brief pause for self-care. As you contemplate changing into dry attire, the cat, now a nimble companion, weaves around your feet, a symphony of meows echoing its anticipation of the impending feast.
As your gaze sweeps across the contents of the fridge, a flurry of questions dance in your mind—what do cats like? 
In a moment of culinary improvisation, you spot the remnants of yesterday's fish. A hopeful assumption takes hold—cats like fish, right? 
Without a second thought, you snatch the container, crack it open, and ceremoniously place it on the floor. 
The cat descends upon the fish with a voracity that borders on desperation, consuming it in a whirlwind of seconds. 
You observe in silent fascination as the cat devours the fish with an almost primal fervor, each bite a testament to the depth of its hunger.
As the cat lifts its gaze, those dark, fond eyes fixate on you, a silent expression of gratitude that transcends words, forging a connection that lingers in the air like the sweet aftertaste of an unexpected bond.
You retrieve a bowl, fill it with water, and place it on the floor. The cat, having satisfied its hunger, wastes no time. It immediately dips its tongue into the water, each lap a testament to the thirst that had accompanied its hunger. 
In the quiet aftermath of the cat's meal, you find yourself engaged in a one-sided conversation. While it laps up the water, you speak to it with a hint of longing, as if expecting the feline to reveal its name with a mere glance. “I don't know what your name is…” you muse aloud, your words hanging in the air like a silent plea for connection. 
In the exchange, a profound yearning takes root—a desire not just to care for this creature but to unravel the mystery that shrouds it, beginning with the revelation of a name.
Hmm... A whimsical idea takes shape in your mind, and with a voice full of hope, you share your musings with the feline companion. “I don't know, maybe I'll give you one!” you exclaim, the words tinged with the excitement of a newfound connection.
Testing the waters, you propose a couple of names with a hopeful lilt in your voice. “Shadow?” you venture, eyes fixated on the cat, seeking any flicker of recognition. 
Yet, met with a stoic demeanor, you playfully offer another option, “Licorice?” 
A soft chuckle escapes your lips, but the cat remains unfazed, engrossed in its culinary pursuits. 
Embracing a sudden surge of inspiration, you think of a name that dances on the edges of whimsy and mischief. “You look like a 'Loki,' like a God of Mischief!” The words tumble out with a playful chuckle, a nod to the elusive charm that shrouds the feline. 
To your surprise, the cat interrupts its feast, casting what seems like a dumbfounded expression your way. 
A moment of shared acknowledgment hangs in the air before the cat resumes its meal, leaving you to wonder if, in that fleeting pause, you've glimpsed the spark of recognition in its enigmatic eyes.
An impromptu burst of enthusiasm seizes you, and with an abrupt yell, you christen the cat in a moment of whimsy. “Kitten!” 
The exclamation is so sudden that it startles the cat, prompting a small leap in surprise. “That's your name. You're so small, like a little kitten,” you playfully jest, mimicking the affectionate cooing one might give to a baby. 
In the imaginary realm where cats understand human whims, you half-expect a hypothetical eye-roll, as if the creature were a miniature human indulging in the theatrics of a quirky naming ceremony.
In the wake of your spontaneous naming ceremony, Kitten darts away, a streak of fur and energy leaving you in its playful wake. A fleeting attempt to follow its swift movements reveals the futility of keeping pace with this agile companion.
An earnest plea escapes your lips, “No, don't run away, Kitten!” A plea that halts not far from your bedroom, where a sudden idea takes root. “We're going to bed, and you can even sleep in my bed.” The promise hangs in the air, an invitation that sparks the cat's curiosity. 
Without hesitation, Kitten races back to you, weaving through your legs and darting into the bedroom. It watches itself in the mirror in front of your bed, before it in a graceful leap, lands on the bed, transforming this impromptu offer into a shared moment of warmth and companionship.
A soft chuckle escapes you as Kitten, with a graceful twirl, transforms into a snug, fluffy black ball. It settles onto the bed, a picture of contentment and trust, the rhythmic rise and fall of its breathing echoing in the room. 
In the sanctuary of your bathroom, the day's residue fades away as you delicately remove stained makeup and indulge in your nightly skincare rituals. 
With a sense of quiet reverence, you return to the bedroom, mindful not to disrupt Kitten's serene repose. Nestled in bed, you prop yourself up, the rhythmic routine a prelude to the tranquility that envelops the room. 
As you surrender to the embrace of sleep, the ethereal presence of the black cat becomes a silent companion in the journey between waking and dreams, a guardian of the night's secrets.
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In the intimate company of Kitten, you find solace in the honesty of your own reflection. “He wasn't really for me, Kitten. I don't know why I keep going on these dates. They amount to nothing.” A sigh punctuates your admission, a subtle echo of the unspoken search for connection that seems elusive in the realm of human encounters. 
As you delve into a shared meal with your newfound family member – Kitten, you stuff your face with delicious food in an attempt to keep your minds off your failing romantic life.
Kitten responds to your words with a series of gentle meows, a seemingly agreeable chorus that resonates in the room. 
Over the past few days, he has transformed into an impeccable listener, absorbing the tapestry of your thoughts with silent grace. 
In the quiet moments of your soliloquies, a yearning surfaces—a desire for more than a feline confidant, for words that echo back with advice and wisdom. 
Yet, despite this unfulfilled wish, Kitten's silent companionship remains a source of profound comfort, his presence weaving seamlessly into the fabric of your daily life, a testament to the unexpected connections that emerge in the quiet interludes of solitude.
Consistent as the rhythm of a heartbeat, Kitten is there, a patient sentinel awaiting your return from the hustle of the day. 
His presence becomes a cherished routine, an embodiment of comfort that transcends the mundanity of the everyday. 
As you settle in front of the television, Kitten gracefully claims his place in your lap, his form snuggling into the contours of your warmth. 
The scene unfolds like a silent ballet, a dance between two beings finding solace in the quietude of shared moments—a testament to the profound bond that has blossomed in the intimate spaces of your daily life.
On a day marked by what you'd deem a successful date, you decide to bring the guy home to your apartment. 
Kitten welcomes you with joyous meows, but the moment his obsidian eyes lock onto the man, a palpable shift occurs. 
The cat's once-hospitable demeanor morphs into a display of territorial assertion—he hisses, claws unsheathed, a guardian of the sacred space that has become both haven and sanctuary.
Unfazed by Kitten's display of discontent, the man follows you into the bedroom, a trail of unresolved tension lingering in the air. However, as you attempt to navigate the fragile balance between human relationships and the silent protests of your feline confidant, Kitten stalks in with palpable anger. 
Kitten's claws assert their protest on the man's pants, a silent plea echoing through the room. “I'm so sorry about my cat. He's not usually like this,” you hastily apologize, attempting to navigate the tumultuous intersection of human connection and feline territoriality. 
In the midst of the uneasy dance, the guy gently guides you down onto the bed, a kiss bridging the gap between words left unsaid and the uncharted landscapes of desire.
In an unforeseen twist, Kitten catapults onto the bed, launching a surprise attack on the poor man's back with unbridled ferocity. 
The room erupts with a sudden commotion as the guy yells in pain, Kitten swiftly retreating to the shelter of your startled embrace.
Frustration and pain tinge the man's voice as he vehemently declares, “Fuck this. This isn't worth it! Your cat is a fucking psycho!” 
The words hang in the air, a bitter testament to the unexpected turbulence that has unraveled in the wake of Kitten's feline intervention. 
With an angry storm, the man storms out of your bedroom and through the front door, leaving behind a charged atmosphere and the unresolved echoes of a connection unraveling at the seams.
As the storm of emotions settles, Kitten finds solace in your lap, a contented purr resonating through the room—a feline sovereign basking in the aftermath of his territorial triumph. 
Meanwhile, you remain seated, mouth agape, an image of stunned disbelief etched across your face. 
You address Kitten with a scolding tone, attempting to impart a sense of reprimand into the air. “You can't do that, Kitten!” you assert, a firmness in your voice attempting to breach the language barrier between human and feline.
Amidst the aftermath, a hesitant chuckle escapes your lips, a soft attempt to diffuse the tension that lingers in the air. “Also, you're gonna leave me single forever if you do that,” you jest, the words bearing the weight of both humor and a subtle unease. 
In the ambiguous space between laughter and contemplation, you grapple with the conflicting emotions stirred by Kitten's unexpected display of protectiveness—a complex blend of gratitude, amusement, and the uncharted territories of understanding the intricate dynamics of companionship with a creature whose language transcends the boundaries of words.
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A solitary figure with raven-black hair occupies a corner table in the cafe, his presence shrouded in an air of quiet mystery that tugs at the edges of your memory. 
Intrigued, you've stolen glances at him, an unspoken connection sparking curiosity within you. 
The man, seemingly lost in a world of words and sketches within the pages of his journal, emanates a strange familiarity that dances on the fringes of your consciousness. 
As he sips on his coffee, a poignant picture of solitude and anticipation, you can't help but wonder about the untold story woven into the fabric of his contemplative gaze. Perhaps he's a poet awaiting inspiration, or maybe, like you, he's caught in the delicate dance of anticipation, waiting for someone who may never arrive.
His long, pitch-black hair cascades in soft curls, framing a face adorned with dark, expressive eyes. The fair and creamy complexion of his skin, paired with lips tinged with the aftermath of fervent bites, adds an air of mystery to his features. His hands, adorned with prominent veins, move with purpose across the pages of his journal, translating the thoughts within his mind into tangible strokes. Clad in a black leather biker jacket and ripped jeans, he emanates a ‘bad boy’ allure that might not align with your usual preferences, yet there's an undeniable handsomeness that transcends the surface. As you observe, the truth unfolds—looks can be deceiving, you know.
As the hands of the clock inch towards the conclusion of your shift, you notice the enigmatic man with the pitch-black hair has vanished, leaving only the echo of his presence lingering in the now vacant corner. 
The air is charged with the unspoken allure of an encounter that slipped through the fingers of time. 
Packing up your belongings, you carry the weight of curiosity with you as you embark on the journey home, where the enigmatic enigma of Kitten awaits.
Kitten, sensing your return, greets you with a symphony of affectionate meows. Your hand instinctively reaches out, weaving a tapestry of gentle pats and strokes, an unspoken language shared between human and feline. With a contented sigh escaping your lips, you murmur, “Happy to be home.”
In the quiet sanctuary of your apartment, you find yourself recounting the day's enigmatic encounter to Kitten, the words lingering in the air like a shared secret between kindred spirits. “I saw the loneliest guy today, Kitten. It felt like he was waiting for someone, but destiny stood him up.” 
As the words escape your lips, Kitten's attentive gaze reflects an unspoken understanding, a silent pact shared between you and your feline confidant.
Your fingers delicately dance behind Kitten's ears, a gesture that elicits a symphony of contented purrs, resonating within the confines of your quiet haven. 
The next day unfolds like a familiar scene, the cafe's atmosphere steeped in the aroma of coffee and the rustle of pages turning. 
Once again, the mysterious black-haired man graces the corner with his presence, accompanied by a steaming cup of coffee and the enigmatic dance of his pen across the pages of his journal. 
Your curiosity, a flame flickering in the recesses of your thoughts, draws you to the edge of decision — to approach and unravel the mysteries that cloak him. Yet, an invisible barrier holds you back, a silent pact with yourself not to disturb the solitary poet whose verses remain unread. 
The elusive man, shrouded in the mystery of unread words, remains a realm unexplored, as each coffee order becomes a bridge guarded by your coworker.
As the day unfolds, the mysterious man persists in his corner, a captivating enigma that draws your attention like a moth to a flame. 
The rhythmic ballet of your daily routine continues, an intricate dance of serving customers while stealing glances in his direction. 
In the quiet recesses of your mind, a burning question simmers – who could possibly stand up this captivating soul, adorned with the allure of dark hair and an air of mystery that commands the room?
After days of observing the silent saga of the man and his solitude, a week of unbroken routine, your empathy swells like a rising tide. 
A magnetic force compels you to bridge the distance, and against the backdrop of the cafe's ambient hum, your feet, as if guided by an invisible hand, carry you to the table where he patiently awaits an absent companion. 
With a mix of curiosity and compassion, you settle into the chair opposite him, breaking the invisible barrier that held you apart.
As your presence disrupts the solitude he had grown accustomed to, his intense gaze, reminiscent of a predatory feline, lifts from the pages of his journal to meet your own. The sharpness in his eyes feels like a calculated assessment, causing a subtle tremor to course through you. You gulp.
“Hi,” you start, the uncertainty palpable in your voice. Attempting to mask your nervousness, your fingers run through your hair, a feeble defense against the anxious tide. 
“I’ve noticed you here alone for the past few days, and I just—” Your words stumble, caught in the rush, but before you can continue, he interjects with a voice sharp as a blade, his eyes piercing through you like he can unravel your deepest secrets. 
“Are you stalking me?” The question hangs in the air, and his gaze feels like an X-ray, laying bare your darkest thoughts. Your body seizes, frozen in the penetrating gaze that seems to pry into the very recesses of your soul.
Why does his voice carry a hint of familiarity, resonating through the air like an echo from another time?
His very presence, too, feels like a distant memory, even though you're certain you hadn't laid eyes on him before he entered the cafe a week ago. 
A subtle smirk plays on his lips, a realization dawning on you that he's asked a question. As you attempt to gather your thoughts, you find yourself choking on air, grappling to string together a coherent response.
“I'm kidding. I know you work here,” he chuckles, and you release a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. Your shoulders ease, and in an instant, you respond with a soft smile, a subtle connection forming in that shared moment of relief.
“Are you waiting for someone?” you inquire, and a smile graces his face, revealing gleaming white teeth and pink gums. He looks cute. Dangerously so.
“Nah. She just arrived.” Your eyes light up. Finally, his date has shown up! You start to rise from your chair, eager to make space for his companion. He looks up at you, a curious expression on his face, and asks, “What are you doing?”
“Making room for your date?” you quip, utterly dumbfounded.
“Date?” he asks with a raised brow. You nod, adding, “The one you’ve been waiting for.”
“But I’m already looking at her.” Your mouth hangs wide open; did you just hear him right? Is this a pickup line? And why on earth is it working?
You chuckle nervously, the sound a stark contrast to his calm and cool demeanor.
You ease back into your chair, and the conversation flows so naturally that you feel like you've known him for years.
Upon returning home, you excitedly share the details of your day with Kitten, recounting the encounter with the handsome man with his curly hair and piercing eyes. While you stroke Kitten and he purrs contentedly, you express your perplexity about the strange sense of familiarity the man emanated, despite being certain you've never met him before.
Kitten twirls and purrs in your lap, savoring the gentle strokes as you recline on your couch.
“I can't help but wonder if he'll be there again tomorrow,” you muse, your voice a soft melody to the room, accompanied by Kitten's content purrs.
He returned to the cafe the next day, and the next and the next turned into weeks.
He dedicates every moment to his secluded corner, and during your breaks you find solace in the cadence of your conversations. His name, Yoongi, resonates with the soulful poems that he breathes life into with his well-worn guitar. You’ve never heard him play or sing, but you look forward to the day you might.
His question pierces through the hum of the café, abruptly pulling you from your reverie as you delicately nibble on your muffin. “Are you heading home for the summer break?” he inquires, the unexpected interruption leaving a sweet and curious taste lingering on your lips.
As his question hangs in the air, you lock eyes with him, realizing he might not grasp the gravity of his inquiry. 
There's a momentary sag in your shoulders, a silent acknowledgment of the pain that lies beneath. Gathering the strength to respond, you share a piece of your past, “No. My parents died when I was young.”
Regret casts a shadow over his striking features in an instant, and you witness a profound apology escaping from his lips.
“I'm holding up okay. It's a tale from a while back. A car accident took my parents, leaving just my little sister and me as survivors,” you share, a poignant sadness threading through your words, your eyes misting with the memories.
He tenderly offers words of comfort, a soothing balm for your weary soul, and you allow him to lift the heaviness that clings to your spirit.
You beam at him, grateful for the warmth that radiates from his kind soul, a presence you've grown to cherish over the past few months. “And you, any exciting plans for the summer?”
“I might have to go home to my parents for a bit, but I’m not sure yet,” he shares, absentmindedly running his fingers through his soft black locks, a gesture that makes you yearn for the touch of your own hand in that sea of darkness.
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“I'm telling you, bitch!” Nari slaps Yuna's thigh, a bit too enthusiastically, causing her to flinch in pain, as Nari adds with a sly grin, “She's head over heels in loooove.”
You roll your eyes at both of them, their playful banter fading into background noise as you savor the drink that Yuna ordered for you.
You've navigated downtown, finding refuge in a cozy establishment where the ambient tunes, board games, and drinks create the perfect backdrop for reconnecting with your friends.
“I swear, I'm not head over heels or anything,” you insist, batting away their teasing with a playful smirk, all the while sipping on the drink that Yuna ordered for you.
“He’s just nice,” you add with a soft smile.
“You sure do talk about him a lot,” Yuna adds in a chuckle as she rubs her thigh.
“Well, he's an interesting person, and the conversations just flow,” you reply with a grin, downplaying the significance, but your friends exchange knowing glances that hint at their suspicions.
Nari takes a sip of her drink, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Speaking of crushes, your little companion, what's his name again? Kitten?”
You passionately defend Kitten, your eyes sparkling with affection. “Don't bring Kitten into this! I adore him,” you gush, wearing your love for the little furball as a badge of honor.
Nari shares her romantic wisdom, her words dripping with affection. “Cats are fine companions, but you should find a man who can bring you warmth and happiness,” she says, her eyes practically turning into hearts if this were a cartoon. You can't help but chuckle at her earnest advice.
Yuna playfully nudges your shoulder and suggests, “You should totally ask out this Yoongi guy. I mean, come on, you practically light up every time you talk about him.”
You pause, a moment of uncertainty hanging in the air. “Maybe,” you finally reply, your words carrying the weight of contemplation.
Nari's enthusiasm rings in your ears, a bit too loud in the cozy ambiance. “You don't have anything to lose, only more to gain!” she almost shouts, her excitement reaching its peak. Her words, fueled by a touch of intoxication, linger in the air, leaving you to ponder as you consider whether it's time to call it a night.
“Okay. I’ll ask him tomorrow.”
As you step into your apartment, Kitten greets you with an extra dose of affection, weaving himself between your legs and trailing you with heightened attention. Tonight, he appears more attuned to your every move, purring and twirling around your legs with an endearing neediness. Settling down, you can't resist his charms and find yourself seated, offering gentle strokes to his fur-covered frame.
As you wrap up your nightly routine and slip into your comfortable pajamas, you turn to Kitten with a question that has become a familiar part of your routine. 
“I'm heading to bed, Kitten. You joining?” Kitten promptly leaps onto the bed, taking his customary place by your side. 
However, tonight, there's a lingering sense of affection in his actions. He showers you with gentle licks, a gesture that brings a smile to your face. As sleep gradually claims you, your dreams are adorned with vivid images of obsidian eyes and a dark, star-studded sky.
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As you awaken from a restful sleep, the absence of Kitten by your side strikes you like a sudden jolt. 
Your initial response is to sit up, calling out for him, yet there's only silence in return. 
The quietness, once comforting, now carries an eerie weight as you realize the profound impact Kitten has had on your daily life. 
The room feels emptier, and a sense of unease settles in, disrupting the peace you've grown accustomed to.
A wave of melancholy washes over you, creating a heavy ache in your chest as you scan the familiar corners of your apartment, desperately searching for any sign of Kitten. 
The unanswered questions pile up in your mind, a torrent of worries threatening to drown you. Did he, too, decide to leave, slipping away like others from your life? 
The uncertainty gnaws at you, pushing you to venture into the quiet streets, hoping against hope to uncover the fate of your feline companion. Each step is a mix of trepidation and determination, a journey into the unknown to retrieve the missing piece of your daily existence.
A sense of desperation tightens its grip as you scour every nook and cranny, but Kitten remains elusive, leaving you with the bitter taste of vanishing hope. 
The echoes of your unanswered calls hang in the air, blending with the growing unease that clings to you like a shadow. The once familiar spaces now feel like a maze, and you can't shake the sinking feeling that your luck is slipping away, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. The haunting question persists: where could he be, and what could have taken him from your side?
With a mixture of determination and trepidation, your feet instinctively carry you back to the cafe. 
The familiar chime announces your arrival, drawing the attention of your coworker, who casts a puzzled look your way. The early hour has caught them off guard, their raised eyebrow mirroring the questions that dance in your own mind.
As you scan the cozy confines of the cafe, a subtle panic begins to creep through your veins. The absence of Yoongi creates an uneasy knot in your stomach, but you reassure yourself, clinging to the hope that he might stroll in later, as he often does.
The hours drag on, each passing moment heightening the anticipation. As the door chimes with every newcomer, a flicker of hope dances in your chest, only to be extinguished when it's not Yoongi. 
The day becomes a symphony of disappointment, and the subtle hope you clung to begins to dissipate, slipping through your fingers like elusive grains of sand. The cafe, once a haven of warmth and comfort, now feels eerily empty without the presence of his familiar silhouette.
As your shift draws to a close, a heavy sadness settles over you like a thick fog. The absence of Yoongi, who always brought a touch of warmth to the cafe, leaves an emptiness that echoes through the familiar surroundings. The unanswered questions linger in your mind, and a nagging worry creeps in — what could have kept him away? 
The air is charged with uncertainty, and you can't shake the feeling that something might have happened to him.
A sudden realization hits you like a wave, as you recall Yoongi mentioning the possibility of traveling to his parents for the summer break. 
The initial sting of disappointment transforms into a pang of concern. Questions swirl in your mind like a tempest – did he leave without saying goodbye? Why didn't he share his plans with you? 
The uncertainty gnaws at your thoughts, and you grapple with the unknown, desperately seeking solace in the memories of your time together.
A disquieting sensation twists in your stomach, an ominous premonition casting a shadow over your thoughts. The unease tightens its grip, leaving you with an unsettling sense that something may have befallen Yoongi. 
Your mind races through various scenarios, each more distressing than the last, as you grapple with the haunting uncertainty that looms over his absence.
Regret echoes through your thoughts like a haunting refrain. The absence of contact details with Yoongi leaves you grappling with the repercussions of a missed opportunity, a seemingly insignificant detail now carrying the weight of your uncertainty. 
A sense of loss and yearning wraps around you, intensifying the void created by the absence of a farewell. The realization dawns that in the midst of budding connection, you failed to secure a bridge to traverse the distance that now separates you.
Each step on the journey home feels like a weighted march, the heaviness of unspoken goodbyes sinking into your bones. 
Sorrow, like a relentless tide, floods your heart, consuming it with an ache that echoes through each footfall. Familiar pangs of longing claw at your chest, constricting breaths into fleeting gasps. 
It's as if the very air you breathe carries the weight of an unfinished story, leaving you to navigate the foggy terrain of uncertainty, the poignant residue of an incomplete connection lingering in the spaces between each step.
A tempest of thoughts unleashes in your mind, a whirlwind of self-doubt and abandonment. The notion that he, too, might have slipped away like others before him wraps around your heart, squeezing it in an unforgiving grip. The ache is palpable, resonating through every fiber of your being. It's an anguish that cuts deep, a symphony of hurt orchestrated by the haunting possibility that echoes in the chambers of your wounded heart.
In the intricate tapestry of your time knowing him, he wasn't just a passing figure; he had etched himself into the mosaic of your life, becoming a fragment that held the essence of friendship. 
You step into the sanctuary of your apartment, liberating your feet from the constraints of shoes, and collapse onto the couch, surrendering to its plush contours that cradle you in a cocoon of solace.
In the midst of trying to regain control of your racing breaths, a subtle vibration resonates from your pocket, drawing your attention like a lifeline. Retrieving your phone, you cast an intrigued glance at the illuminated screen, revealing an incoming call from Yuna.
With bated breath, you answer the call, the familiar cadence of Yuna's voice instantly arresting your senses. 
An unexpected wave of emotions surges through you, freezing you in the moment as her words weave a narrative you weren't prepared for.
The weight of her words hangs heavy in the air, a heartbreaking tremor in her voice as she struggles to regain composure. 
“Babe,” she utters, the tearful plea slicing through the silence like a dagger.
You can feel the gravity of the situation intensify as she reveals, “It's Nari,” the name echoing with a sense of foreboding that pierces through the air, leaving you breathless.
Dread hangs thick in the air as you muster the courage to ask, your voice trembling with fear and concern. “What about Nari?” 
The words escape your lips, each syllable a hesitant step into the unknown, and as you sit up on your couch, a sense of urgency grips you, rendering you more alert than ever before.
The weight of Yuna's words crashes over you like an unrelenting wave, drowning your senses.
“She's gone,” Yuna sobs, her cries echoing in your ears. 
A sudden chill grips your entire body, and the world around you blurs as your vision turns white. 
Tears well up, threatening to spill over, and an indescribable ache settles in the core of your being. It feels as if the ground beneath you has shifted, leaving you suspended in a surreal and devastating moment.
Your voice quivers as you manage to break through the numbness, the question escaping your lips like a fragile whisper. 
“How?” you repeat, the word catching in the tightness of your throat. Tears cascade down your cheeks, each drop carrying the weight of an ocean, a torrential release of the overwhelming emotions within you. 
Your friend's voice wavers with sorrow as she delivers the painful revelation. “Apparently, she was sick and didn’t tell anybody…” 
Each word, heavy with the burden of the unspoken, echoes in the emptiness of your apartment.
The truth, a bitter pill to swallow, lingers in the air, and you find it hard to comprehend the reality of the situation. 
The walls of your sanctuary, once comforting, now press in on you, transforming your home into a claustrophobic cage of grief. The world outside seems to blur, and all that remains is the weight of disbelief settling on your shoulders.
The longing to share your grief with Yoongi intensifies, yet the barrier of not having his contact details becomes a painful obstacle. Your emotions, already tumultuous, now surge like a tempest within. 
Frustration and sorrow intermingle, a chaotic dance that you try to contain. 
As the weight of the news presses down on you, your nails unconsciously dig into your skin, seeking an outlet for the overwhelming emotions that threaten to consume you. The physical pain becomes a tangible manifestation of the emotional turmoil churning within.
The abruptness of Nari's illness and passing hits you like an unforeseen storm, leaving you grappling with disbelief. 
Memories of her last moments flash vividly, and you question the cruel twist of fate that snatched away someone seemingly healthy. The sounds of inconsolable sobbing echo in your ears, and only then do you realize that the mournful cries tearing through the air belong to you. 
“Are you alright?” Yuna asks you in sobs.
The weight of grief presses down on you, suffocating and relentless. 
As the tears stream down your face, each one carries a piece of the pain that now resides within you. 
“No,” you whisper, the word a feeble attempt to encapsulate the magnitude of your despair. 
Your body curls inwards, seeking solace in the fetal position, as if you could fold away the anguish. 
The phone lies beside you, a lifeline to Yuna's distant sobs, but it offers little comfort compared to the absent warmth of Kitten, whose presence could once bring solace to even the darkest moments.
The weight of Yuna's words hangs heavy in the air, a shroud of truth that you're forced to confront. “Babe, she had cancer and didn't want us to know… She wanted to live a happy life until the end,” 
Yuna sobs again, and though her intent is to offer solace, the revelation feels like a cascade of heavy stones on your already burdened heart. The bitter sweetness of her desire for a joyful life juxtaposed with the pain of her silent struggle adds another layer to the grief, leaving you to grapple with the complexities of Nari's hidden battles.
“Yuna…,” you cry, the anguish in your voice echoing the profound pain that seems to squeeze the very life out of your heart. 
“Why does everyone leave?” 
The question hangs in the air, more rhetorical than expectant, as if you're not seeking an answer from Yuna but grappling with the cruel patterns of departure that life has woven into the fabric of your existence. 
Each departure, like a thread pulled from the tapestry of your world, leaves an unraveled piece that never quite knits itself back together.
“I–, I don’t know,” she stammers through her tears, the weight of the unknown echoing in her voice, mirroring the uncertainty that now shrouds both of your lives.
“Promise we’ll be there for each other,” you declare, the weight of the words hanging in the air. It's a poignant plea, an acknowledgment of life's unpredictable twists. You understand that you can't ask for an eternity, but in this moment, you're determined to hold onto each other as tightly as time allows.
“Count on it,” she vows, her response flowing effortlessly, a testament to the unspoken bond between you two.
Despite the tightening in your throat, a glimmer of happiness sparks within you at the assurance she just gave.
Why must life be so fucking cruel, robbing you of everyone you hold dear?
An overwhelming urge to reconnect with your sister washes over you, a deep yearning fueled by the ache of prolonged silence between you.
“I want to call my sister,” you manage to say through your sobs, a desperate plea lacing your words. “Will you be alright, Yuna?” you ask, your concern breaking through the waves of grief that surround you both.
“Yeah. I mean, I'm fucking sad, but go ahead and call her. Can I come to your place tomorrow?” Yuna's voice carries a subtle plea, a shared understanding that neither of you wants to be alone in the midst of sorrow.
“Yeah, I'd love that,” you respond, your voice carrying the weight of grief and the faint glimmer of gratitude for the companionship that awaits tomorrow. As you attempt to dry your tears with a throw blanket on the couch, the room feels emptier than ever, and the ache in your heart persists.
“See you tomorrow,” she says before the call ends. 
The hollowness in the room deepens, and you draw in a shaky breath, your gaze fixed on your phone. The background image captures a moment frozen in time, featuring you, Nari, and Yuna. 
God, the ache of missing her intensifies, and you can't shake the heaviness in your chest.
You tighten your grip on the phone, each tear that escapes your eyes a silent testament to the pain in your heart. Determination wells up as you locate your sister's number, fingers tracing the familiar digits, ready to bridge the gap that time and distance have carved between you.
The rhythmic ringing echoes through the emptiness of your apartment, each tone a reminder of the solitude that now envelops you. 
Anxiety gnaws at the edges of your thoughts as you anticipate the warmth of your sister's voice, a comfort you desperately need. Yet, the unanswered calls amplify the distance that separates you. With a heavy heart, you decide against leaving a message, the weight of unspoken words settling as you slump back onto the couch.
The sudden vibration of your phone startles you, and as you glance at the screen, the sight of your sister's name sparks a mixture of relief and anticipation. With a soft sniffle, you muster the strength to answer, “Hey, sis,” your voice laced with a blend of vulnerability and longing, reaching out across the digital expanse to bridge the emotional gap that separates you.
A chill courses through your body, rendering you motionless, as a deep, resonant voice resonates through the phone, catching you off guard.
“Hey,” his voice echoes through the phone, sending a shiver down your spine. 
Your trembling hand clutches the device, and you find yourself holding your breath, caught in the sudden intensity of the moment.
“I'm Detective Kim,” he introduces himself, his voice echoing through the line. It carries a calm demeanor, yet beneath its surface, you detect a subtle undertone of sadness, adding a mysterious depth to his words.
This can't be good, you murmur to yourself, the words barely escaping your lips as a chill courses through your veins, turning your blood to ice once again.
“Are you Jiho's sister?” The detective's voice remains steady and calm, but beneath the surface, you sense an undercurrent of gravity and anticipation.
“Yes,” you reply, your voice catching in a sob as you struggle to contain your tears. The ominous feeling intensifies, and you can't shake the sinking realization that a detective is the one answering your sister's phone. 
The air becomes heavy with uncertainty and fear.
“I'm deeply sorry to be the bearer of this news,” he begins with a sympathetic tone. 
You inhale sharply, bracing yourself for the impact of the words that follow.
“Your sister has passed away.” 
The world seems to shatter around you as the weight of his message settles in, leaving you breathless and heartbroken.
In that devastating moment, it feels as if the very foundation of your existence crumbles. 
Your body and soul plummet through a void, each passing second an agonizing countdown to the inevitable impact that will shatter you into a million irreparable pieces. 
The weight of grief bears down on you, and you're suspended in a free fall of despair. 
You become acutely aware of your breath, or the lack thereof, as if the air itself has turned into a suffocating force, triggering a torrent of violent inhalations, each one a desperate attempt to grasp onto a reality that has just slipped through your fingers.
A heavy silence envelops the room as the detective imparts the devastating truth, each word landing with the weight of a sledgehammer on your fragile emotions. “She was killed,” he utters, the somber notes in his tone resonating like a funeral dirge, casting a pall over the already dim reality of your world.
A suffocating wave of panic crashes over you, rendering your extremities numb and your breath caught in the grip of invisible hands. 
The room seems to close in as the detective's voice on the phone becomes a distant echo, his words lost in the disorienting whirlwind of your own mental tempest. It's a struggle to comprehend the standard condolences and procedures he details, as if reality itself is slipping through your trembling fingers.
Fucking hell. Is this hell?
In the wake of your parents' departure, you believed you had tasted the bitterest sorrow, yet today eclipses that agony without a shadow of a doubt.
You cast your phone aside on the couch, retreating to your bedroom, collapsing onto the bed. The anguish within erupts into violent sobs, an unrelenting torrent of tears flooding from your eyes, your entire frame convulsing with the weight of your grief.
You bury your face into the softness of the pillow, muffling the guttural scream that tears from your lungs. 
The sound, a primal release of anguish, reverberates within the confines of your room. Screw the neighbors; right now, the universe needs to bear witness to the rawness of your pain.
What the fuck is up with this world? Everyone around you dies! Everyone leaves!
You can’t take it anymore.
As you surrender to the torrents of grief, you hope that tears might offer solace, a fleeting relief that could pave the way for much-needed sleep. Yet, despite your desperate attempts, the embrace of slumber eludes you, leaving you trapped in the clutches of your sorrow-soaked thoughts.
In an impulsive surge, you opt for a nocturnal stroll. Snatching your jacket, you step into the silent night, the residue of dried tears blending seamlessly with the ones that refuse to cease. 
The moon above, a silent witness to the turmoil within, as your footsteps echo the rhythm of a heart weighed down by grief.
As you traverse the familiar streets of town, a magnetic pull guiding you to a cherished park, your sanctuary. Swiftly, you arrive and gingerly settle your weary frame onto a weathered bench, the cool night air offering a gentle caress to your battered soul.
As your gaze ascends to the enchanting tapestry of the night, a celestial dance of stars unfolds above. Tonight, the cosmic expanse seems to cradle the spirits of your sister and Nari, their luminous presence illuminating the vast darkness, a celestial reunion among the constellations.
As your tears persist, you fix your eyes upon the star-lit canvas above. Each gleaming star appears like a radiant jewel, casting an ethereal glow across the night. The beauty is undeniable, yet a poignant sadness lingers in your heart. 
Compelled by an unspoken yearning, you embark on the solemn task of counting the stars, each one a celestial tribute to the cherished souls who now adorn the heavens. 
The question echoes in your mind: Why?
Why do they blaze with such brilliance, akin to a dying star igniting in a final, magnificent burst before consuming everything in its cosmic embrace?
Your heart pounds violently against your ribcage, each beat echoing through your chest, and the air feels elusive, slipping away as if you're caught in a suffocating grip.
Life reveals its cruel nature, leaving you to grapple with the relentless question: Why does everyone leave? Why does the world around you crumble, stealing away those you hold dear?
An emptiness envelopes you, a void so profound it swallows every ounce of light. Darkness creeps in, and an irresistible urge emerges, coaxing you to surrender to its consuming embrace.
Perhaps it's time to release your grip on reality and join the celestial dance of those who have departed before you?
As the tears flow, perhaps this haunting void within will dissipate, bringing an end to the relentless ache that permeates every fiber of your being.
As the weight of loneliness bears down on you, an insidious desire to surrender, to slip into an eternal slumber, creeps through your shattered heart. The yearning for an endless sleep, where the fractured pieces of your soul find solace, consumes you. It's as if the very essence of your being is crumbling into irreparable fragments.
The fragments of your soul lie scattered, and the daunting question echoes in the hollow chambers of your despair—can you summon the strength to mend them once more, to piece together the shattered remnants of your being?
In the depths of your despair, a resolute realization surfaces — a quiet but unwavering knowing that, despite the relentless cruelty, you're not ready to surrender to the void. Life, as brutal as it may be, still holds threads of resilience within its intricate tapestry, and you find an ember of strength glowing amidst the shadows.
You divert your gaze downward, focusing on your hands nestled in your lap, choosing the tangible reality of your own existence over the distant allure of the star-studded night.
You harbor too many aspirations to surrender to despair. Your desires paint a vivid canvas of dreams: to find solace in the embrace of a kind-hearted partner, secure a fulfilling career, and relish the simple joys that life offers. Nari's silent battle with illness inspires you to embrace life with the same gusto, celebrating its moments without the need for validation.
In the midst of your fragmented existence, amidst the shattering pain, you crave it all. Yearning for the entirety of life's tapestry, even when it feels like it's unraveling. 
Despite life's cruelty, there's an undeniable allure in its intricate beauty, compelling you to seek solace and embrace the stunning contradictions that define your life.
Amidst the tear-stained path, your resolve solidifies. 
The decision made, you tread back to your apartment, the silent witness to your inner turmoil. Each step echoes with the weight of your emotions, a symphony of sorrow playing in the background. 
The sanctuary of your home beckons, promising the respite that only sleep, albeit restless, can bring. Sleep, like a long-lost friend, embraces you swiftly this time. Grateful for the solace it brings, you sink into its comforting arms, the reprieve from the turmoil of the day unfolding like a gentle lullaby.
The chime of the doorbell resonates through your apartment, and you're roused from the depths of sleep. Yuna, true to her word, stands on the other side, a beacon of support in your time of need.
Embraced in a tight hug, tears stream down both your faces, the shared weight of grief transforming the silent embrace into a powerful testament of mutual understanding and shared sorrow.
Seated on the couch, you engage in a heartfelt conversation about the unpredictable journey of life—its highs and lows. 
As a comforting silence settles between you, you reach for the remote and, with a flicker of distraction, decide on a mindless show. Wrapped in the embrace of shared grief, you find solace in the soft glow of the television, its images casting a gentle veil over your weary souls.
That night, Yuna stays over, a comforting presence that feels like a blessing in the midst of your overwhelming grief.
In the vulnerable hours of the night, you pour your heart out to Yuna. 
Tears flow freely as you share the ache of losing your sister, the void left by Kitten's absence, and the fear that Yoongi might be gone forever. In the solace of shared sorrow, you find a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows.
In the tender embrace of Yuna, you find solace. Her comforting presence is a lifeline in the storm of grief, holding you close as tears cascade. Though she's often your pillar of strength, tonight you yearn to reciprocate, to be the support she's always been for you. It's a quiet understanding, an unspoken pact between friends navigating the unpredictable currents of life.
In the quiet depths of the night, as you share your pain with Yuna, a flicker of determination ignites within you. You yearn not just for solace but to become the architect of your own joy. The realization dawns that your happiness lies in the unwritten chapters of your own journey, waiting to be explored and embraced. It's a moment of self-discovery, a commitment to forge your path to happiness, independent and resilient.
With the dawn of a new day, you decide to embark on a journey of self-discovery. 
Despite the weight of sorrow lingering in your chest, you resolve to savor life in all its transient splendor—embracing its beauty, acknowledging its ugliness, and reveling in every nuanced shade in between. 
Each moment becomes a canvas, and you are determined to paint it with the vibrant strokes of resilience and newfound appreciation.
With unwavering determination, you approached your boss at the café, advocating for a shift in your work hours. The goal? To rekindle the pursuit of knowledge, to step back into the world of academia and reignite the spark of astrophysics that had once fueled your passion. 
As the prospect of returning to school looms on the horizon, you recognize that the journey ahead is both a challenge and an opportunity—a chance to sculpt a future that you can genuinely be proud of, with each completed course marking a triumph over self-doubt and a step closer to the constellations of your dreams.
In the wake of that poignant night where two cherished souls departed, a few months have quietly slipped away. 
In a tender gesture of support, Yuna encourages you to embrace the prospect of love once more. Unlike before, hesitation has no place in your heart this time. 
With newfound courage, you step into the realm of dating, a journey tinged with both vulnerability and hope, as you navigate through the tapestry of emotions woven by the threads of the past and the promises of the future.
Life, a relentless journey, doesn't yield to simplicity, yet within its intricate folds, a subtle transformation occurs. It doesn't unravel swiftly, but with each passing day, it stitches together a mosaic of improvement, a gradual emergence from the shadows into the dappled light of a better tomorrow.
With each sunrise, a symphony of healing orchestrates within you, crescendoing into a melody that resonates louder, and you find solace in the fact that every dawn gifts you a version of yourself stronger and more resilient than the preceding day.
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As winter unfurls its icy embrace, you find solace in the familiar touch of your cherished wool coat, the cozy sanctuary of fluffy sweaters enveloping you like a hug from a dear friend, and the softness of warm socks cradling your every step. 
With a steaming cup of tea in hand, you dive into your studies, the brisk air outside contrasting with the warmth that courses through your veins.
Embarking on the journey to reclaim an unfinished chapter of your life, returning to the hallowed halls of academia, you revel in the triumphant echoes of resilience as you strive to complete the narrative you once set in motion.
As you tread homeward, the city draped in the melancholy hues of twilight, a fleeting silhouette dashes through the alleys, a phantom of darkness. 
For the briefest moment, memories of Kitten's playful escapades dance in your mind, a bittersweet symphony of nostalgia. 
A sigh, heavy with the weight of longing, escapes your lips, yet you trudge forward, navigating the shadows toward the warmth of your home.
In the intimate glow of your kitchen, you conjure a culinary masterpiece, a symphony of flavors orchestrated only for yourself. The sizzle of ingredients harmonizes with the rhythmic beat of your heart, a ritual of self-love that has become your refuge. 
Many a time, you've crafted these delectable creations, some shared in the company of fleeting dates whose presence, like autumn leaves, brushed briefly against the canvas of your life, but leaving no lasting imprint on your heart.
Midway through the mundane task of stowing away dishes, a subtle and mysterious hum reverberates through your abode, originating from the vicinity of your door.
The air is suddenly filled with a familiar, distant melody—a soft and rhythmic meowing that sends a jolt of excitement through you. 
Abandoning your chores, you rush to the door, fingers fumbling with the lock, and there, in all his glory, stands Kitten!
In a flurry of warmth and relief, you scoop up the cold, shivering Kitten into your embrace, quickly closing the door behind him. His meows echo gratitude, and a tender lick against your cheek seals the unspoken bond that time and distance failed to break.
In a million moments, you never fathomed seeing him again. Now, as he rests in your arms, elation courses through you like a celestial symphony, leaving you over the moon with sheer happiness.
His return is a testament to a bond beyond time, a friendship that defies the measure of days. It's not about the duration of his absence; it's about the joyous truth that he returned to you, stitching the fragments of your heart back together.
You rush to your cabinet, your heart pounding with both relief and excitement. Grabbing a can of cat food, you swiftly prepare a feast for Kitten, watching as he eagerly devours the meal, his hunger echoing the void his absence left in your life.
As you stroke Kitten's fur, you can't help but ponder on the mysteries that shroud his disappearance. His body, while not emaciated, carries the silent tales of his adventures. 
You yearn to unravel the chapters of his feline escapades, wishing you could converse with him, share the unspoken hardships, and assure him that he's found a forever home in the warmth of your embrace.
In a breathless whisper, you confess, “I've missed you so much,” the weight of your longing carried in the tenderness of your voice. 
A solitary tear, a testament to the emotions flooding your heart, escapes and dances down your cheek, mirroring the joy of a reunion long yearned for.
As the echoes of your affectionate words linger in the air, Kitten responds with a gentle purr, a harmonious melody that intertwines seamlessly with the sound of him relishing the meal.
Amidst the soft cadence of Kitten's purring, you find solace in the familiar presence of your feline companion. With a sigh, you decide to share the intricacies of the tumultuous journey you've undertaken since his absence. “So much has unfolded, Kitten,” you whisper, your voice a gentle reassurance, “a lot of shit, but also a lot of good.”
As Kitten finishes his meal, he responds with a symphony of content purrs, gracefully padding over to where you crouch. With a playful nudge against your legs, he seems to convey a silent acknowledgment, a shared moment of warmth and connection between old friends.
In the span of a few days, the void that Kitten's absence left has been filled with the comforting rhythm of his presence. You've poured out your heart to him, recounting the events and emotions that unfolded during his time away, as if catching him up on the chapters of your life. 
Kitten, with his attentive eyes and soothing purrs, seems to understand more than most, providing a silent anchor in the storm of your experiences.
As you sink into the soft embrace of your couch, a contented smile plays on your lips. With Kitten nestled beside you, you share a profound realization that has taken root in your heart: ‘I live, so I love.’ The words hang in the air, a testament to the resilience you've found in the face of life's unpredictable twists. The TV hums with background noise, but in that moment, the simple joy of companionship fills the room.
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In the quiet solitude of your apartment, you confide in Kitten, the loyal companion who has witnessed both your joys and sorrows. “I don't think he's coming back,” you murmur, a tinge of sadness lingering in your voice. As if attuned to your emotions, Kitten responds with a gentle meow, a feline reassurance that transcends words. 
In the rhythmic cadence of your words, a sense of vulnerability emerges. “I know, I know. I don't need a man in my life. I get that,” you confess, your voice carrying the weight of self-awareness.
The clinking of utensils against pots and pans provides a subtle percussion to your thoughts as you continue, “But Yoongi was special, you know? Like he just got me... and I just wish for him to be happy doing whatever he's doing.” The aroma of dinner fills the air, mingling with the unspoken sentiments swirling in the room.
As you delicately feed Kitten some steamed broccoli, the notion of reuniting with Yoongi lingers in the air. “If he comes back, you should meet him – I'll introduce you!” The words spill from your lips, carrying a hopeful melody.
As you reminisce about Yoongi, a fond smile plays on your lips. “He's such a wonderful person. And handsome? Oh, his hands,” you begin, tracing the air with your fingers as if you can feel the texture of his presence. Memories flood back, each detail etched in your mind like a cherished photograph. “Long fingers, veiny hands,” you murmur, the words infused with a hint of admiration that even surprises you. The love for this man reverberates in your voice, a quiet confession to the depths of your feelings.
Kitten's melodic meow serenades the room as he gracefully weaves between your feet, his tail coiling affectionately around your calves like a comforting embrace.
“If you meet him, please don’t claw his back out like you did with that other guy. Yoongi is nice.”
With a heavy heart, you confide in Kitten, the weight of your worry evident in the rhythmic tapping of the spatula against the sizzling vegetables. “It's been nearly half a year, and I can't shake the feeling that something might have happened to him,” you murmur, the crackling sounds of the kitchen offering a somber backdrop to your uncertainty.
As the warmth of the meal envelops you and Kitten, you sit together, a silent companionship settling over the room. The simplicity of this moment strikes you, and a quiet realization unfolds – you love your life just as it is. 
In the shared silence, you feel a sense of wholeness, a testimony to the goodness found in life's simplicity. Though your heart may still ache at times, you've come to accept that, too, as a part of the beautiful complexity that makes life what it is.
You're keenly aware that time is the remedy for healing, a gentle but persistent force that gradually eases the ache until one day, the pain will be a distant echo of what it once was.
Your weary limbs protest against the demands of a full-time class schedule and cafe shifts, revealing the hidden challenges of your daily grind. Fatigue clings to you like a shadow, and an involuntary yawn escapes.
With a wearied sigh, you address Kitten, your loyal companion in fatigue. “Ah, Kitten, today's been a battle. I'm going to bed early today,” you murmur, dragging your exhausted body to the bathroom in a nightly ritual. 
Upon returning to your sanctuary, you find Kitten, already nestled in his customary spot, a comforting presence in the silent embrace of the night.
Sinking beneath the cozy duvet, you surrender to its tender embrace, the fabric cocooning you in a haven of softness. With a gentle pat, you acknowledge Kitten, “Thank you for being here,” you murmur before succumbing to the enchantment of dreamland.
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As consciousness tiptoes back into your awareness, the remnants of dreams linger like elusive whispers in your mind. Gently awakening, you open your eyes to find the absence of Kitten.
Your eyes widen in astonishment, and your body tenses as you absorb the scene unfolding before you—a man, peacefully lost in the realm of dreams. 
Your gaze follows the cascade of long, slightly curly, obsidian hair that drapes over his shoulders, tracing the contours of his creamy white skin. The play of morning light reveals a well-defined back, drawing your eyes down the elegant curve of his spine until they come to rest on a small, soft, plum-like ass. The realization hits you like a bolt— he's completely naked!
Why is your heart orchestrating a rapid symphony, each beat echoing in your ears like a thunderous drumroll? And what in the world is a naked stranger doing sprawled across your sheets as though he belongs there?
He slumbers in serene oblivion, emitting soft, melodic sighs that weave through the air, his chest gracefully ascending and descending in rhythmic dance with each tranquil breath.
Wait. 
He seems familiar.
A gasp escapes your lips as you take a closer look, and the realization hits you like a bolt of lightning – it's Yoongi! 
Shock and disbelief intertwine in your chest as you stare at his peaceful slumber.
Confusion and a hint of panic surge through you as your mind races with questions. 
Why is Yoongi in your bed, and why on earth is he naked?
How did Yoongi end up here, and where is Kitten?
A myriad of questions spins through your mind, a turbulent storm of curiosity. As you ponder the mysteries, you belatedly notice Yoongi stirring, gracefully shifting to lie on his back.
Your face burns with embarrassment as the realization dawns that he's still completely naked. Heat rises to your cheeks when his half-erect dick brushes against his stomach, prompting you to instinctively shield your eyes, flustered by the unexpected sight.
You wrestle with the dilemma of whether to disturb his serene slumber or let him continue resting peacefully. The soft innocence in his sleeping form makes the decision more challenging, and you lean towards allowing him to bask in the tranquility of his dreams undisturbed.
Gently, you drape the comforting warmth of your duvet over him, a shield against the chill of the room. With nimble movements, you extract yourself from the bed, careful not to disturb the delicate balance of his slumber.
Confusion seizes your thoughts as you grapple with the surreal scenario—Yoongi peacefully nestled in your bed. You wrack your brain, questioning every sober memory, desperately trying to unearth the missing pieces that would explain his presence.
You step into the kitchen, a fleeting sense of unease prickling at your skin as you scan the room for Kitten, but he remains elusive, leaving a trace of uncertainty in the air.
A twinge of melancholy washes over you as Kitten remains elusive, but you console yourself with the hope that he might return, his absence merely a temporary void in your otherwise comforting routine.
You embark on the simple yet intimate act of preparing two steaming cups of coffee—one for yourself and one for the unexpected visitor who occupies your bed.
You seize a handful of aromatic coffee beans from a vintage jar, letting the rich fragrance envelop you as you crush them under the steady hum of your machine. With precision, you measure out the perfect amount, combining it with hot water, allowing the concoction to brew into a comforting elixir.
While the coffee brews, your mind races with bewildering thoughts about Yoongi's unexpected presence in your bed. Puzzlement clouds your senses as you contemplate every conceivable scenario. 
Did he let himself in? Was there some mysterious way he could have gained access? 
With a touch of anxiety, you even venture to your front door, checking for any signs of unauthorized entry, only to find it securely locked, shrouded in an eerie silence.
You're grappling with the perplexing mystery of Yoongi's appearance in your bed, as if he materialized out of thin air, defying all logic and reason, leaving you spellbound by the inexplicable magic that seems to have woven its way into your ordinary reality.
In the quiet chaos of your thoughts, Yoongi's presence offers more questions than answers, an enigmatic puzzle that seems to defy the ordinary. The absence of Kitten only adds another layer of mystery to the unfolding scene. 
As the coffee machine dings, disrupting the contemplative silence, you're left grappling with the surreal conundrum before you, seeking clarity in the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
With the warmth of freshly brewed coffee in your hands, you reenter the bedroom to discover Yoongi, now alert, draped in your duvet, a captivating silhouette in the soft morning light.
Your greeting falters as you nervously stammer, “H–, Hi,” setting the two mugs of coffee on your nightstand. Yoongi's gaze, sharp and feline-like, traces your every move, creating a palpable tension in the air.
An unfamiliar nervousness grips you in his presence, an unusual sensation considering your usual ease around him. Perhaps it's the fact that he's naked, his gaze akin to a predator eyeing down its prey, intensifying the air with an unspoken tension.
“Hey,” finally breaking the silence, he greets you with a low grumble, scratching his head and letting out a lazy yawn.
His body exudes a captivating blend of softness and defined muscles, a captivating sight that—
His voice, laced with a teasing smirk, breaks the tension. “Can't stop staring at my dick, huh?”
Your throat tightens as you realize you've been caught in the act, silently observing him. Panic sets in – does he think you're a freak now? Fantastic.
You let out a nervous chuckle, deliberately shifting your gaze away from the obvious bulge in the duvet around his lap. “What are you doing here, Yoongi? And why are you naked?” you inquire, genuinely puzzled.
He chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down your spine, and you can't help but feel a tinge of unease. “You haven't figured it out yet?” he teases, his words hanging in the air, leaving you in suspense.
You must resemble a walking question mark, because his chuckles only intensify. It's as if he finds your confusion amusing, and you're left standing there, desperate for answers in the midst of his enigmatic laughter.
In a soft tone laced with a smirk, he utters, “Kitten.”
Your gaze fixates on him, bewildered. Kitten? Is he referring to your cat?
Your jaw drops as he gracefully emerges from the bed, the duvet cascading off his frame. In his unabashed nudity, he strides toward you.
He inches closer, the proximity almost causing your lips to collide. A surge of warmth courses through you when he delicately tucks a stray strand of your hair behind your ear.
“I’m a shapeshifter,” his revelation hangs in the air, the weight of it palpable, and as he locks eyes with you, searching for any flicker of discomfort, the truth settles. Before you can process it fully, he leans in, capturing your lips with an irresistible surge of passion.
His lips, soft and inviting, embark on a slow yet passionate dance, as if reuniting with a long-lost lover. Responding eagerly, you part your lips, allowing the kiss to deepen, and in that electrifying moment, your entire body succumbs to a sensation akin to melting butter.
You yield to his touch, molding your body to his as you sense the undeniable hardness of his arousal intimately pressing against your core.
Fuck.
In the midst of the heated moment, you draw back slightly to meet his gaze, the question hanging in the air, “So... you're Kitten?”
He offers no verbal response, just a low, affirmative hum, before plunging back into another intoxicating kiss.
You surrender to the sensation, feeling the firm grip of his hands on your waist as they journey upward beneath the fabric of your well-worn shirt.
His touch ignites a trail of sensations, tracing a path across your body, sending electric shivers as he lifts your shirt, gently grazing against the contours of your breasts.
Under the intensity of his gaze, your body responds, a flush of heat spreading through you, your nipples hardening in response. He emits a low, satisfied hum, as if relishing the effect he has on you.
Effortlessly, he works to level the playing field, swiftly undressing you as if in a race against time. With a purposeful tug, he eases your shorts down, a silent declaration of his desire.
Bare before him, clad only in a simple black panty adorned with delicate pink hearts, you can't shake the vulnerability coursing through you. A sudden urge to conceal yourself washes over, a reaction to the raw exposure in this intimate moment.
“Don't shy away, you're stunning,” Yoongi murmurs, his firm grip on your hips drawing you closer to his naked body. The undeniable heat of his arousal presses against your core, a tangible reminder of the desire smoldering between you.
Gratitude escapes your lips in a hushed tone, your cheeks tinged with a warm blush.
“Now, let’s get these off you, yeah?” with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he hooks his fingers inside the fabric of your panties, teasingly tugging them down. He pauses, seeking your consent, before sensually sliding them all the way down your legs.
As he slides your panties down, a sudden awareness of your arousal hits you, intensified by the cool rush of air against your heated core.
As they fall to the floor, Yoongi swiftly snatches up your panties, bringing them to his face to inhale the intoxicating essence of your arousal, his eyes darkening with desire.
Why does that look so utterly sinful, setting off a delicious rush of arousal coursing through your veins, leaving you breathless in its wake?
As the intoxicating scent of you envelops him, he murmurs, “Damn, you smell good,” his eyes dilating with an unmistakable hunger.
“I wonder if you taste as good as you smell.”
In the raw vulnerability of your shared nakedness, he guides your body back to the bed, gently laying you down, his presence a magnetic force, hovering above you.
He immerses himself in the expanse of your neck, a symphony of sensations unfolding – a delicate ballet of tender kisses, followed by the electrifying nip of his teeth grazing the juncture between your neck and shoulder.
You moan in unabashed pleasure, your hands instinctively seeking refuge on his chiseled pectorals, anchoring yourself amidst the rising waves of bliss.
Yoongi's gaze shifts to the mirror positioned strategically in front of your bed. “I've been meaning to ask,” he smirks, locking eyes with you, “why do you have a mirror in front of your bed?”
You squirm beneath him, breath catching.”'It's part of my wardrobe panels,” you admit, your voice a fragile melody.
He chuckles, a low and enticing sound, his smirk dancing on his lips. “I don't think that's why the whole panel is mirrors,” he says, sitting up slightly. His finger traces a slow, teasing path from your collarbones to your breasts, sending shivers of anticipation racing through your body.
He leans in, his breath sending a shiver down your spine, and in a deep, low voice, he murmurs into your ear, “You're a dirty one, aren't you?”
His degrading words make your breath hitch instantly, and you involuntarily clench your thighs together. As you shake your head in disagreement, he just smirks, unconvinced.
His chuckle resonates in the room as he asks, “Do you enjoy watching yourself in the mirrors?” Sitting up, he moves to the foot of the bed, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark.
He gracefully steps out of the bed, casting a predatory gaze as he hovers over you, an aura of irresistible allure surrounding him.
With unwavering determination, he declares, “You're going to watch yourself in the mirror as I fuck your pussy with my tongue.” In a single, fluid motion, he seizes both of your thighs, pulling you to the foot of the bed, sending a thrilling jolt through your senses.
Despite the heat coursing through your entire being, a light chuckle escapes your lips. However, the mirth dissipates as you lock eyes with the intensity in Yoongi's dark gaze.
“Sit up,” his command echoes through the room, and as he gracefully lowers himself between your legs, a thrilling anticipation courses through the air.
From your elevated position, you admire the tousled chaos of his hair, a disheveled masterpiece that only enhances his captivating allure. His eyes gleam with a mischievous spark, a silent promise of the intensity that is about to unfold.
You seize his cheeks with urgency, your voice dripping with desire, a fervent plea escaping your lips, “Fuck. Yoongi, please eat me out.”
He moistens his lips with a teasing chuckle, descending eagerly towards your already soaked center.
He expertly widens the gap between your legs, creating a perfect haven for himself before delving into your pussy with fervent devotion.
With a tantalizing finesse, he starts with a subtle stroke of his tongue along your folds, gradually ascending to the apex of your clit, eliciting a fervent moan that echoes in the room.
As waves of pleasure cascade through you, your fingers instinctively entwine in his tousled locks, gently pulling as he skillfully devotes his attention to the exquisite dance of his tongue and lips on your pulsating core.
Gasping for breath, your anticipation mounts, every nerve tingling with pleasure, as Yoongi's rhythmic strokes across your intimate folds propel you toward a climax, your toes curling in ecstasy.
Pausing momentarily, he murmurs in appreciation, “You taste even better than you smell, Kitten,” his words sending a shiver down your spine.
You're on the verge of asking him about the nickname ‘Kitten,’ but his tongue explores your folds, leaving you breathless and unable to form words.
Your question dissolves in the heat of the moment, the building climax taking center stage as you lose yourself in the pursuit of pleasure.
Lost in the waves of ecstasy, you can't resist the urge to surrender, closing your eyes as Yoongi works his magic with undeniable expertise.
“No, no, no. Look at yourself in the mirror, Kitten.”
“Why do—” before you can finish your question, it fades away on your tongue as Yoongi plunges back into pleasuring your core with a renewed intensity, leaving your thoughts swallowed by the whirlwind of sensations.
As you glance at the mirror, you catch a glimpse of your own blissful expression, framed by Yoongi's tousled black hair nestled between your thighs. The sight is nothing short of breathtaking, a sight of pleasure that leaves you utterly captivated.
The provocative scene unfolding in the mirror intensifies your arousal, your breath hitching in tandem with the escalating desire pulsating through your veins.
“Yoongi, I’m—” your plea catches in your throat as Yoongi skillfully responds, his hand finding your pulsating clit, heightening the pleasure while he continues to ravish you with his insatiable tongue.
His fingers dance in rhythmic circles over your throbbing clit, coaxing the tension from your core. As the knot unravels, a wave of blissful release washes over you, leaving you breathless and trembling in its wake.
Ecstasy courses through your veins, your toes curling, muscles tightening, and in that moment, an unexpected surge of pleasure hits you like a sneeze that never comes. You release a symphony of moans, surrendering to the intense climax that Yoongi skillfully orchestrates with his talented tongue.
He continues to suck, savoring every drop of your essence, an insatiable thirst in his eyes matching the fervor of the intimate dance between your bodies.
As the intensity peaks, you gently tap his shoulder, signaling him to withdraw. He complies with a sensual slurp, leaving you breathless and tingling with the echoes of pleasure.
A mischievous grin stretches across his face as he licks his lips, “You're incredible, Kitten.”
You arch an eyebrow, curiosity coloring your tone, “Why do you keep calling me ‘Kitten’? You’re Kitten.”
He erupts in laughter, a symphony that resonates through the room, his chest rising and falling with the melody of mirth, and in that moment, he's a captivating masterpiece.
“Do I really look like a Kitten to you?” he inquires, a playful glint in his eyes as he gently nudges you back onto the bed.
Your words stumble as you search for a response, “Not really,” you admit, offering him a small yet tender smile.
“But you look cute and sweet, like a good Kitten,” he murmurs, his hands exploring the curves of your breasts.
A low moan escapes your lips as he teases your nipples with a playful twist, igniting a fresh surge of desire that pools in the growing heat between your thighs.
As you ache for the feel of his throbbing length, you attempt to grab hold of him, but like a fleeting mirage, he skillfully eludes your touch, leaving you yearning for the intimate connection that inches away with each evasive movement.
“Nah. I just want to fuck you silly,” he rasps, eyes tracing every bead of sweat on your flushed skin, reveling in the primal rhythm of your hurried breaths.
“If you want to, that is?” he teases, his voice a sultry whisper, as he takes control, guiding himself between your legs with a confident hand that promises a morning full of pleasure.
As you feel the weight of his gaze, you gulp, wondering how, in that heated moment, he could question what you crave. It's undeniable – you want him, and the intensity of your desire hangs in the air between you, palpable and unspoken.
Your breath catches as you respond, the words tumbling from your lips in a heated rush, “Fuck, yes, Yoongi. I want you inside me, now,” the urgency in your voice betraying the intensity of your desire.
A low, rumbling chuckle escapes him, the sound sending a shiver down your spine as he replies, “Please” with a teasing glint in his eyes.
“‘Please’ what?”
“Say ‘please’.”
You huff, incredulous at his audacity. The desire in his eyes is undeniable, and he seems to enjoy the game. Part of you rebels, tempted to be a brat just to irk him, but the need for his touch overrides any resistance. You crave his intimacy, aching for his dick despite the defiance lingering in the air.
“Fuck this,” you grumble, frustration evident in your voice. In that fleeting moment, you catch a glimpse of Yoongi pulling back, as if reconsidering his stance.
“Please! Don’t leave,” you plead desperately, your sincerity laid bare. The smirk on his face deepens, as if savoring the intensity of your plea.
“Please fuck me, Yoongi.”
His satisfaction evident, he rewards you with a swift kiss before aligning himself with your eager entrance, anticipation humming in the air.
Your arousal has reached a point where there's no discomfort, just a perfect fit as he slides into you, your wetness welcoming and enveloping him seamlessly.
He hisses as he eases into your warm, tight walls, and you can feel him doing his best to restrain himself.
You release a breathy huff as he fully penetrates, his balls gently meeting the warmth of your folds.
He lets out a guttural groan as he steadies himself, withdrawing only to plunge back in with an intensity that sends shivers through your body.
In this intimate position, with him above you, every nuance of his pleasure is on full display—the way his nose scrunches in delight, his soft lips occasionally nibbling the bottom one in sheer ecstasy.
Between each thrust, he can't help but express his amazement, his voice low and husky, “Damn. You're so tight.”
You know. It’s been awhile. 
As he moves within you with an increased rhythm, his hands find your breasts, skillfully massaging them in sync with his fervent thrusts, creating a symphony of pleasure that courses through your entire body.
Ecstasy courses through you, and in the midst of your fervent pleasure, you can't help but release a breathless exclamation, “Fuck, Yoongi!”
Every skillful thrust seems to find its mark, synchronized with the enticing dance of his fingers on your hardened nipples. Pleasure envelops you, clouding your thoughts in a haze of ecstasy.
Your pleasure intensifies as Yoongi skillfully pinches your nipples, eliciting a symphony of moans that harmonize with the rhythmic dance of his passionate thrusts.
Sensations ripple through you, and the desire to reciprocate Yoongi's pleasure builds within you. You yearn to give him the same ecstasy he's generously bestowed upon you.
Amidst the rhythmic cadence of Yoongi's thrusts, a bold request escapes your lips. Your gaze, laced with desire, meets his, and with a subtle plea in your eyes, you softly murmur, “Yoongi—, I want to ride you. Please.”
With a devilish grin, Yoongi withdraws from your embrace, reclining on the bed, his eyes ablaze with anticipation.
His voice, laced with desire, sends shivers down your spine as he commands, “Then you're gonna watch in the mirrors as you fuck yourself on my dick,” reclining with his head angled towards the mirrors.
Mounting him, you position yourself strategically, both of you reflected in the mirror—a tantalizing image of entangled limbs, the intensity of the moment etched in your heaving, sweat-glistened bodies.
Grasping his throbbing dick, he hisses in anticipation as you deftly align your eager entrance with his cock.
With a fluid motion, you descend onto his rigid cock, your velvet walls enveloping him in a tight, intoxicating embrace.
From below, Yoongi savors the view, his gaze lingering on the contours of your face, as if committing every detail to memory.
You guide the rhythm, your hands finding stability on his sculpted chest, setting the pace as you ride him with a mix of determination and desire.
Your movements cascade, a slow dance that gradually builds momentum, each rise and fall carrying a symphony of pleasure and anticipation.
As you gaze upon your reflection, the flush of arousal paints your cheeks, your disheveled hair framing your face like an unruly halo, and your breasts dance in perfect harmony with the rhythm of your passionate movements.
The person in the mirror seems like a stranger, a sensual revelation you never knew existed within you. The mirrors, always present but never before utilized for sex, now reflect a version of yourself that’s both thrilling and new.
Heat courses through your veins, an intoxicating blend of arousal and empowerment, as you observe your own uninhibited reflection. With newfound vigor, you escalate the rhythm, riding Yoongi more vigorously. His appreciative groans and tender gaze mirror the intensity of the moment.
Unbridled desire takes over as your hands instinctively find their way to Yoongi's neck. Without a conscious thought, your fingers glide over the warmth of his skin, gently encircling his throat.
An electrifying jolt courses through you as you sense Yoongi's involuntary twitch within you, and you catch the ragged rhythm of his breath.
Panic courses through you, and you hastily retract your hands, realizing with a shock that you had unintentionally exerted pressure on Yoongi's throat. “Oh my God! I'm so sorry!” you blurt out, your apology a mix of concern and embarrassment.
“It's fine, Kitten. I like it,” he reassures you with a devilish grin, seizing your hands and guiding them back around his neck, his eyes sparking with a hint of mischief.
You shoot him a concerned glance, pausing your movements to ensure he's okay. Once he reassures you with a nod, signaling his approval, you dive back into the rhythm you had before.
With a newfound boldness, you tighten your grip around his throat, drawing out another satisfying twitch from him. His reaction sends a surge of pleasure through you as he hits that sweet spot, causing a kaleidoscope of sensations that make you see stars.
Your unrestrained moans fill the room, a symphony of desire that intertwines with the rhythmic sounds of your bodies colliding. The sight of Yoongi unraveling beneath your touch fuels a primal arousal, and you revel in the raw passion that courses through every fiber of your being.
“Fuck!” you pant.
“I’m gonna come,” you confess, the words escaping on a ragged breath, as you impale yourself on his dick. You’re body trembling as you hold the moment, savoring the anticipation before the inevitable plunge into ecstasy.
With a tender touch, you withdraw your hands from his throat, leaning down to kiss him. Your lips meet his in a dance of passion, tracing a path from his mouth to the very spots your fingers had claimed on his neck moments ago.
His low, guttural groan harmonizes with the rhythm as you ascend, reclaiming your perch on him. The dance begins anew, your body moving with purpose, riding the waves of pleasure set in motion by each calculated bounce on his throbbing length.
Yoongi's hands eagerly envelop your breasts, his fingers dancing with the rhythm of your fervent movements. With each descent onto him, you feel a surge of pleasure building, the shared pursuit of ecstasy driving you both towards the brink of blissful release.
His fingers deftly find your sensitive nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. The sensation is so intense that a fractured, high-pitched man escapes your lips, your back arching involuntarily in the exquisite dance of pleasure and pain.
As your walls instinctively clench around his pulsating dick, you witness the pleasure etched across his face, a delightful scrunching of his features that mirrors the ecstasy coursing through both of you.
“Yoongi, I’m com—,” you gasp, a desperate plea laced in your voice. Your words are unnecessary; the vice-like grip of your walls and the erratic cadence of your breath already convey the impending release that hangs thick in the air.
“Come all over my dick,” he smirks through a groan, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Watch yourself fall apart in the mirror.”
How can this man ignite such an intense flame within you? The knot in your stomach tightens once more, and as you surrender to it, a primal, drawn-out moan escapes your lips, echoing the depths of your desire.
With unyielding eyes, you lock onto your own reflection in the mirror as ecstasy courses through you, marking the moment you climax on his d*ck. Your rhythmic bouncing falters, but Yoongi, sensing your need, seizes your hips and propels the pace, driving you deeper into the intoxicating whirlwind of pleasure.
Your mouth hangs open, breaths rapid and erratic, akin to the aftermath of a sprint, while every inch of your body throbs with the residual heat of a fervent blaze.
“So beautiful—FUCK!” he moans, powering into you with an astonishing velocity, sending shivers down your spine.
His hold on your hips tightens, your hands finding refuge on his sculpted chest for support. Your body teeters on the edge of weightlessness and grounding, as if you'd unravel if Yoongi's firm grasp on your hips faltered.
Despite the fatigue washing over you, a surge of determination courses through your veins. Summoning the last reserves of your strength, you entwine your fingers around his neck once more. You sense the impending release in Yoongi's every movement, and you're determined to be the catalyst that propels him over the edge.
The moment your grip tightens around his throat, a powerful surge reverberates through his dick within you, sending intoxicating waves of pleasure coursing through your body. It's an electrifying sensation, making every touch between you more intense and satisfying.
With an intense squeeze, you lock eyes with Yoongi, a plea in your gaze. “Fill me up, Yoongi.”
In a primal release, he surrenders to the moment, thrusting into you with an erratic rhythm, coating your walls with the warmth of his climax.
“Ahh,” he pants, the rush of air filling his lungs as you release your grip on his neck, both of you engulfed in the aftermath of shared release.
You watch him in amazement as his fervent thrusts subside, and he eases into the embrace of your bed, a portrait of passion painted across his beautiful face.
As he gradually softens within you, you take the initiative to lift yourself off him, both of your essences clinging to your skin, a residue of your shared passion that you welcome without reservation.
As you recline beside him, a soft chuckle escapes your lips, a shared breathlessness enveloping both of you. The air in the room is charged with the echo of passion, leaving a tangible energy that binds your entangled forms together.
Breathless and sporting a satisfied grin, he turns to you, his eyes filled with a post-passion glow. “Fuck that was incredible,”' he murmurs, capturing the shared intensity of the moment in the curve of his smile.
An undeniable contentment colors your voice as you respond, “Yeah,” savoring the echoes of pleasure that linger in the air.
Suddenly, a spark of realization ignites within you, propelling you to move with swift purpose. You crawl back on top of him, a burst of energy that startles him, like a surprise in the midst of shared afterglow.
“Why did you leave me?” you inquire, a tinge of accusation laced with the bitter notes in your voice. “Without a word or a farewell. Why did you disappear without a trace?”
His eyes widen momentarily before giving way to an expression of anguish and sadness. A tug at your heart intensifies, as his face alone tells a story you fear can't be good.
He begins with a heavy admission, meeting your eyes with earnest sincerity, “My brother died.”
Your words stumble out in a rush, “Oh, God! I'm so sorry!” The unexpected revelation leaves you fumbling for the right response.
His words flow, carrying a weight of anger and grief, “It's alright. ButI felt so much anger and grief, you know?” he explains, “so much so that I couldn't shapeshift and was stuck in my cat form.”
You exhale a soft ‘aha’ at his words, and the realization washes over you— he was grappling with his own demons, just as you were.
“When I'm consumed by intense emotions, I lose control of my ability to shapeshift, and, and—” You witness a tearful welling in his eyes, prompting you to gently cup his cheeks, reassuring him that it's okay.
“I just wanted to be alone and I didn’t want to burden you…” A few tears spill from his eyes, and you tenderly catch them with your gentle fingers.
You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, finding solace in the curve of his neck, where his soft minty scent envelops you like a comforting embrace.
“I am so fucking sorry you had to endure that. I understand, truly. But you would never be a burden to me,” you express, gazing into his eyes with a tenderness that echoes your sincerity.
“I want to be there for you,” you declare, your own tears mirroring the empathy in your eyes.
“Ah, shit. I didn’t mean to cry. But, you know, I understand,” you say, your words accompanied by a wry smile as tears trickle down your face and onto Yoongi’s cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Kitten. I know. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” 
He seizes your cheeks, tugging you into a tender and unhurried kiss. Time loses its grip, and you're oblivious to the remnants of his seed mingling with your essence, creating a slippery trail between your pussy and his still-slick pelvis.
Lost in the rhythm of your kisses with Yoongi, you surrender to the moment, where every touch feels like a missing puzzle piece seamlessly falling into place.
The two cups of coffee are long forgotten.
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Authors note (3): Thank you so very much if you have made it this far 😭 I know this story is a lot – I’ve been dealing with a lot of different stuff for many years, and some of it just got to be too much a few weeks ago, and this story popped into my head. It was therapeutic to write. I don’t know if people will like it or not, but in the end, that’s not what it’s about. It will just exist here.
If you struggle with any of these subjects or emotions, you’re always welcome in my inbox – I’m not a trained psychologist or anything, though! But sometimes it is better to voice your feelings, than struggling in silence. Everybody’s welcome 🫂
I hope you’re doing well. Thank you for you 💜
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inkdrinkerworld · 1 year ago
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hey bae. your writing is impeccable, and i was wondering if i could get jamie with shy!reader. like they're at a party or something, and she doesn't want to ruin his night by telling him that shes not having fun, and she doesnt want to be there, but he figures it out anyway and takes her home.
you can feel the music pounding behind your eyes. there's too many people and it's all too loud for you but you want to stick it out.
james is laughing and having fun, so you want to stick it out even more.
people have been stepping on your toes for the past ten minutes and when one of them bumps their elbow into your ribs you huff. james turns to you, eyes dancing with humour and you plaster a smile to your face.
"m'gonna go look for the girls," you kiss his cheek and take off before james can say anything. you make a roundabout trip to the kitchen, back room and then to the garden, finding a lemon tree to sit beneath.
you're alone for five minutes, content to looking at the fallen lemons for a 'perfect' one when james finds you.
"been looking for you," he sits beside you, legs stretched out where yours are criss crossed. "didn't find the girls?" he asks and you shake your head.
"got side tracked by the lemons," you show him the small mound you've got growing on your right.
james hums, hand reaching to your chin. "are you okay?" he asks, thumb holding your chin so you're facing him. james' brown eyes are searching as he looks at you, he makes it hard to keep things from him when he looks at you so earnestly.
"yeah," you try anyway. james nods, letting your chin go before letting his head rest on the trunk of the tree.
"think i'm ready to head home, angel." he says sweetly, blinking at you slowly as you lean your head near to his.
"weren't you having fun?" you ask, rolling the lemon in your hand.
"yeah, but m'feeling tired," he leans his temple to yours. "wanna cuddle you in bed."
you realise he's giving you an out, a way to go home and get all cozy in bed with him like you so desperately want. still, you feel bad if he leaves when he was having fun.
"are you sure? siri and remmy won't give you shit?" james shrugs, kissing the tip of your nose quickly.
"don't care if they do, wanna love on my girl," your belly rolls at how sweet james is and your heart does an extra beat at how fondly he looks at you.
"okay, we can go," james smiles, standing and holding his hand out to you. "can we take the lemons?" you ask and james laughs, a sweet, melodic sound.
"yeah, angel. want me to hold them?" there's around 12 lemons at your side and you give 6 to james.
as you're walking out, remus stops you as james gets his keys and your jacket, "here, i snagged the last iced tea for you." you smile at remus, nodding in thanks- of all james' friends, he understood your shyness the best.
"see you losers tomorrow," jams says, helping you into your jacket before zipping it up. "we're going, m'tired." sirius and remus nod, waving you out as james opens your door.
"thanks jamie," you murmur, setting your lemons at your feet.
"nothing to thank me for, angel. whenever you wanna leave, we can leave. don't be afraid to say okay?" you nod, thankful for james' inability to feel offended when you voice your needs like some other people have.
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maconthepen · 1 year ago
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I want to quit my job.
I want to get a new job.
I want to live in the city next to a cafe where they know my name and start making my coffee before I've finished walking through the door.
I want to live in a house in the middle of nowhere where I make my coffee with a Moka pot, swaying to the sound of a Billie Holiday record. My house will have a garden full of vegetables and bees, and in the middle of that garden, there will be a lemon tree just like my best friend's nonno used to have.
I want to go to cooking school.
I want to learn how to brew beer.
I want to go back to university and study literature so I can spend my nights immersed in Marlowe and Shelley and the Brontës and Alasdair Grey.
I never want to school again. Instead, I'll study the law and psychology and design from the storyteller armchair in the corner of my living room.
I want to travel, I want to run, to pick up a few outfits and fuck off and call myself by a new name and cut my hair and wear clothes I'd never believe I could wear.
I want a home in the place I was born and a cat and a husband who will happily talk with me about Star Trek for three hours.
I want move to Italy.
I want to make love to a woman again.
I want to live a thousand lives. Sometimes the impossibility of that makes me so angry I get breathless. And when I dig beneath the anger, I realise it's not anger at all. it's fear. Fear that I am not living any kind of life while I lie in my bed half the day dreaming about all of this with fog in my brain and muscles that don't remember how to give someone a hug.
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alchemistc · 4 months ago
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want you more than a melody | bucktommy 1/1
For @rcmclachlan whose humor cures fevers and who eagerly encourages me poking at the insides of Tommy's brain
“What are you looking for?” Tommy asks, and doesn’t linger at all on how at home Evan looks, just rifling through his things. He’d caught him sorting Tommy’s mail, last weekend, nothing overly curious, just piles of junk mail sorted away from the bills and the single postcard from his nephew, fingers drifting over the stocky block letters of Tommy’s name before he realized he’d been caught out, lips squeezing in like a kid tasting his first lemon. “The key to your china cabinet,” Evan tells him, still sorting, keys chiming merrily against each other. “Second drawer to the left of the fridge, little brass thing. It’s where I keep my ring cutter,” Tommy tells him, expanding heart and weak joints and all, as Evan grins at the joke and stalks halfway across the room in two wide, long-legged steps.
read on ao3
“Evan,” Tommy says, eyeing the bouquet in Evan’s hand and the grin on his face. “These are unnecessary,” he tells him, even as he’s reaching for them, wrapped up in brown paper and tied with twine to keep the stems in place. He curls his pinkie over Evan’s fingers just to watch him bite his lip and duck his head to hide the blush.
“I saw them and they made me think of you,” Evan says, without a hint of a flirt, sunflowers and baby’s breath and black susans all pouring loose from the bundle as Tommy shifts his weight to let Even through his door.
And Tommy is... Tommy is the dull edge of a blade, blunting itself over the years so that it can’t open skin by accident when it lashes out. Tommy is the sprinkle of rain after a storm has washed away the shoreline. Tommy is the weed that grows through the cracks in the pavement no matter how many times it’s sprayed and plucked.
No one has ever seen a flower facing towards the sun, reaching, grasping, drinking in the sunlight, gorging itself until it’s stalk barely holds its head up, and thought of Tommy.
Tommy takes a deep breath and presses a kiss to the swirl of Evan’s cheekbone.
He once again reminds himself, as Evan shucks off his shoes and wanders off towards the kitchen without so much as a backward glance, that this is new. New territory for Evan, a new way of dating for Tommy, everything is new new new and bright: splashes of light cutting through the trees, dappling across his face in flashes, twenty miles over the speed limit on his way out of dodge. New, in that he’s been on ten solid dates with the man, never mind the way they keep inviting each other over for quiet nights in four, five times a week. New, in the way he still doesn’t know Evan’s favorite color but he knows the way he sounds when Tommy angles just right and hits that spot deep inside, a broken little noise that Tommy has swallowed with his tongue just to see if it tastes as good as it sounds. New, in that Evan can navigate his kitchen with ease, but he’s still learning the planes of Tommy’s skin beneath his tongue.
Evan is rattling through the keys hooked next to the garage door when Tommy clears the hallway with his bouquet in hand. “What are you looking for?” Tommy asks, and doesn’t linger at all on how at home Evan looks, just rifling through his things. He’d caught him sorting Tommy’s mail, last weekend, nothing overly curious, just piles of junk mail sorted away from the bills and the single postcard from his nephew, fingers drifting over the stocky block letters of Tommy’s name before he realized he’d been caught out, lips squeezing in like a kid tasting his first lemon.
“The key to your china cabinet,” Evan tells him, still sorting, keys chiming merrily against each other.
“Second drawer to the left of the fridge, little brass thing. It’s where I keep my ring cutter,” Tommy tells him, expanding heart and weak joints and all, as Evan grins at the joke and clears half the kitchen in two wide, long-legged steps.
“You’d be glad I had it, in a pinch,” Evan tells him, tongue pressed to the backs of his teeth as he pulls open the drawer and finds the key.
“The pinching is what concerns me.”
Evan is... adventurous. He’s only seen flashes of it, really — kinks laid out in cagey flirtations, implications of the things he’s never tried before, and the many, many things he has, and Tommy isn’t a prude by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s certainly finding himself open to trying a lot more things than he’d ever considered, every time Evan hints at them.
Evan returns from his journey into the dining room with one of his grandmothers glass vases in his hands, cradled carefully, even though Tommy is fairly certain it had cost her two dollars at an estate sale the year before she passed. It’s the only bright one in the bunch, yellow browning a bit with age but still brighter than all the subdued jars and knick-knacks that fill the rest of the cabinet. He’s got it in the sink, a sponge already in his hand swiping away accumulated dust from the crevices while he runs water over it, and before Tommy has really made it past the feeling bubbling under his skin that he’s never going to catch lightning in a bottle like this again, he’s presenting a vase filled halfway with water, the packet he’s apparently had in his back pocket since he saw the bouquet in Trader Joe’s already dumped in to preserve the flowers.
Tommy almost doesn’t want to hand them over, when Evan reaches for them. He does, and doesn’t make a noise even though he sort of wants to hold on to them for an eternity, regardless of whether or not that leaves his hands unavailable for other things.
“Are we —?” Tommy feels all of five, all of the sudden, half a question escaping his lips before he can stop himself, not enough sharp, bitter words cutting across his curiosity to silence him, quite yet.
Evan looks up from rearranging two stems with the precision of an engineer. No. He knows too many engineers. This is the work of a particularly skilled sculptor taking the measure of a block of stone before taking a tool to it.
Tommy leans forward and presses both hands to his kitchen island and sinks all of his weight into those anchor points. “Sometimes I’m worried we’re moving too fast,” he admits, the breath leaving him in a whoosh at the confession. Evan blinks. Stares down at the flowers, the twine already tossed in the trash can, the bouquet already stretched out across the other side of the island where Evan is remaking his gift into something Tommy will see every day for weeks when he gets home after a long day.
“Do you... not like the flowers?” Evan looks — lost. Concerned. A little wounded, and Tommy had known the moment he opened his mouth that that was a possibility but the concern on his part runs deep enough to wear at the grooves under his skin that tell him he’s not meant for something like this.
“I love the flowers. They’re perfect. You’re perfect. I love —.” Tommy grimaces. Ten dates. Ten dozen kisses. Two — no three meet-the-family events. A grand total of just a few months, where they’ve barely given themselves time to breathe, to spend a night apart where one of them isn’t kipping in a bunk at their respective stations. “I’ve been trying to find a single thing I don’t love about you for as long as I’ve known you.”
Evan snorts, his grin a little stunted, now, trying to hide the way his breathing isn’t quite as even as it usually is with Tommy right there in the room with him. “There’s plenty of things. Ask anyone. I’m - I’m needy, and I’m a perfectionist, and a real terror with a clipboard, according to everyone who’s ever known me. I — I jump into things, headfirst, and I don’t think about where I’m going until I’m too far out to turn back.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” Tommy presses, feeling like he’d rather his bones went supernova and steamed him from the inside out than hear the answer to that question.
Evan looks upset, unsure, for half a second before something settles in his expression. “I’m not doing that. Not — I’m not doing that with you. I — you said set the pace. And this is... I want this. I want this with you. Are you — are you with me on that?”
Tommy swallows. He’s always been — there’s always been a reason, before now, to settle in at a slower pace. Something sedate, something smart, something that doesn’t make Tommy feel like he’s leaking out all the shit from his past that’s always tempered him, before.
When Tommy was eleven, he’d spent an afternoon wandering the culvert behind his parents trailer, rooting through weeds and swampy little pockets of silt, uprooting dandelions and chickweed, yarrow and Queen Anne’s lace, chickory and henbit until his hands were stained green and his jeans were caked in mud. He’d sat on an overturned bucket along the fence line with a pair of his moms good scissors and snipped the ends off his flowers until he had a nice, clean bundle to bring to his mother.
His dad’d smacked him upside the head when he tumbled in through the front door, rattling something loose inside Tommy that he’s not sure he ever recovered, and then he’d taken the bouquet and dumped it out back by the burn can before his ma ever got home.
“I’m with you,” Tommy says, and blinks with watery eyes. “I just want to make sure I’m not taking this somewhere in my mind you weren’t planning on leading me to.”
Tommy is aware that what Evan has spent the last five or so years looking for isn’t just a fuller understanding of his sexuality. He is aware that within that time frame he’s been looking for more than just a label. Abstractly, Tommy is aware that Evan had fully understood the ramifications of inviting Tommy to his sisters wedding with half a failed date under their belts. No matter what he’d implied to Hen and Karen, all those weeks ago, a medal around his neck and a decently large piece of cake in his hand just in case Evan caved to the temptation and wanted a bite of his own, the pace Evan has set has been brutal not just in his seemingly insatiable libido. He wants to talk, constantly, about dumb shit that happened throughout the day, and interesting facts he’s discovered on his way down a research hole, he wants to talk about their deepest fears and darkest desires and the most vanilla thing Tommy loves during sex, he wants to talk about their families and their friends and the strangers they saw in the park on their after-dinner walk.
The problem with talking so much is that it has given Tommy ample fuel to feed the little fire inside his chest that Tommy has been offering a single log at a time over struggling coals for a few decades, and it’s burning through kindling rapidly now.
Evan seems to decipher something in Tommy’s expression. He rounds the edge of the island, curves a hand over one of Tommy’s, where he still has half of his weight pressed in. The other hand he raises towards Tommy’s face, pinky extended. “We get one too-much-too-soon a day, right?” Evan asks, because — God this is not the first conversation they’ve had where one of them has spiraled, a bit.
Tommy nods, shifting his weight so that he’s not digging his palm into the countertop with a couple hundred pounds of pressure when he raises his own hand to link their pinkies.
“I’m cashing in on the whole week,” Evan tells him, and Tommy’s breath stutters on the exhale.
“Last week, or the coming week, because you’ve definitely already used at least three.”
Evan scowls. “Put me in the red in your books, if you have to.”
Tommy uses his pinky to tug at Evan’s.
“I’m — you know I’m still figuring things out. There’s — there’s a lot of context I was missing for a really long time that I’m trying to — but the point is that I’m not... every single thing I do and say to you is on purpose. When I tell you I wanna spend the whole weekend with you and I’m a little jealous that you’ve already planned something with Eddie in the middle, I — I mean I want to spend my free time with you. When I text you at random hours of the night about the history of circumcision I’m only thinking about your dick a little bit, I’m mostly just... thinking about you, and wanting to talk to you even if you won’t see it until you wake up. When I buy you flowers I’m — I’m thinking about which vase in your grandma’s china cabinet they’re gonna look best in, and I’m — I’m thinking about the fact that you never stop me from snooping in your cabinets and letting me feel like I belong here. When I talk to you about my parents I’m not needling you for information on yours, I’m just — I just want you to know every stupid thing about me that I’m still worried might be too much.”
“It’s not,” Tommy murmurs, and watches the way Evan’s Adams apple bobs when he swallows.
“I know we — I know there’s still a whole lot of things we don’t know about each other. I know. I know that we both have trauma we haven’t hashed out, and — and we haven’t even really fought, so I don’t know if you’re a yeller or if you’re just gonna give me the silent treatment for a week until you feel like you’re ready to talk. I just know...” The pressure on his little finger squeezes tight. “I just know I wanna figure it all out with you.”
Tommy is eleven, nursing the sting of his father rapping his knuckles across his forehead and tossing the fist of weeds next to the burn can. Tommy is fifteen, staring at the star quarterback chugging a beer in the firelight reflecting off the water at the bottom of the quarry. Tommy is twenty-three and staring at the empty bunk beside his while his fellow soldiers murmur about a dishonorable discharge. Tommy is thirty-one, wishing Sal wouldn’t be so obvious about his disdain for whatever latest bullshit Gerrard is spewing. Tommy is thirty-seven and holding a mans hand in a crowded room and no one is looking, no one cares.
Tommy is forty-one and shaking the hand of a man who doesn’t seem to know how to introduce himself, eyes darting across Tommy’s face like he’s seeing something he wasn’t aware he was looking for.
Tommy is five, his mothers soft voice bleeding into the space between his fathers friends smashing bottles against the fence line out back, and her hand is in his hair and her eyes are sparkling and dark in the dusky light hitting her at an angle through the window.
“All of it?” Tommy asks, just to be sure. Evan ducks his head to catch Tommy’s gaze.
“Every last bit. Also, if I need to slow down, you — you gotta tell me.”
“I don’t want you to slow down,” Tommy tells him, and finally, finally, the weight that has settled into the floor, rooted him in place, seems to ease. “I just wanna catch up to where we’ve already marked the finish line.”
Evan scoffs. “Weren’t you listening? There — there’s no finish line.”
Tommy is forty-one, and there is a bouquet of bright, loud flowers that remind someone of him splashed across his kitchen island, and a beautiful man doing an absolutely terrible job at pretending they’re not both gliding their littlest fingers over the adjacent digit.
“Too-much-too-soon?” Tommy asks, ready to cash in his own, and Evan grins.
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artdcnaldson · 3 months ago
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thinking abt mean art taking care of patrick’s sister and letting his feelings for her show but then pretending it didn’t happen the next day sighhhhh
oughhghhh <3
You're so trashed from a little kickback with the tennis team— it makes you nervous to be around Art's friends and actually talk to them, to have to seem good enough to be around Art, to excuse how much you cling to him and follow him around. Because, really, what business does a random freshman have with him?
So maybe you overindulge. Maybe you kept taking shots and downing heavy handed mixed drinks to seem cool, to fit in. Doesn't matter that Art wasn't drinking that much, that you wound up getting sloppy and embarrassing. After a few hours, he grabs your arm and tells everyone he's taking you home.
"Jesus, you're a mess," he mumbles as you stop at what seems like the third tree just on the walk back to your dorm to puke. He holds your hair back in one hand, rubs your back with the other as you sob and spit thick, stringy saliva.
It takes work for him to manage to get you out of your clothes, which would be almost laughably ironic if it wasn’t for the pathetic state you were in. Mascara running down your cheeks, lipstick and gloss smeared on your face, the stench of liquor oozing from every pore.
“‘M sorry,” you slur as he tugs down your skirt. “I was bad. Embarrassed you.” You’re openly weeping, an almost adorable pout making your bottom lip jut out.
He wants to say that, yes, you did embarrass him, that you were sloppy and loud and clingy and it made him regret even inviting you. But you’re looking at him with glazed, wet eyes, little hiccup-y sobs wracking your body.
“No, you didn’t,” he lies. He holds your cheek in his palm and you sigh like he’s offered you a glass of fresh water after you’ve been stranded in the desert. The reverence you hold for him never loses its novelty. It makes his chest twinge with affection. “Everyone else was so drunk, they weren’t even paying attention.”
You sniffle and nod. “Sorry I threw up so much.” Your eyes are so watery they shine in the low lamplight of your dorm. He guides you back to the bed, helps you get settled in beneath the blankets. It reminds him of the winter you were sick with pneumonia when you were fifteen, right before he left for his freshman year at Stanford.
Bundled up in bed, ashen and clammy, looking at him like a savior because he made his grandmother’s “cure all” soup. Except now, he’s just offering you a Gatorade from your mini fridge.
After you’ve managed to get something other than vodka and cheap mixers in your system, he settles on the bed beside you, runs a hand through your hair, petting you affectionately. You curl up with your head against his chest, eyes still wet with tears that soak through to his shirt.
Art doesn’t fall asleep. In the morning, you’ll wake up with a fuzzy memory of getting back to your dorm, of drinking yellow Gatorade and soft touches against sweaty skin. Your mouth tastes like lemon lime and bile and your clothes smell like Art. You have a lingering sense of guilt in your stomach that you can’t find the reason for.
if I was weird or too much last night i’m sorry can’t rlly remember past those drinks w the weird radioactive glow
Art’s response is swift, and brief.
you were but it’s fine
It’s about as sweet as he’s willing to get when you’re not naked and panting beneath him or drunk out of your fucking mind. You’ll take what you can get.
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rita-repulsa-ke · 5 days ago
Text
A Dance with Death
“Look, there’s dancing!”
Agatha glanced over, and yes, there were people with instruments and a circle full of men and women in each other’s arm, doing simple country dances, no skill at all. “That certainly is some kind of dancing.”
“…We could…?"
Neither of them were shocked when Agatha's face screwed up like she had bitten into a lemon. "No," she said. Rio, a step behind her as always, pressed up closer, her weight settling against Agatha's back, hand on Agatha's hip.
"Agatha," her lips were near the other woman's ear, the words a barely audible hiss. "I want to dance."
"Do you even know how?"
That got a soft huff of laughter, warm air tickling over sensitive skin. "Yes, Ags, I know how to dance. Everyone knows how to dance."
"Pray forgive me, Lady Death, I had no idea you were so worldly."
There was a moment of silence from behind her, overstretched. "Agatha, do you not know how to—"
"Of course I know how to dance," Agatha snapped.
"Prove it."
"…You are seriously overestimating how petty I am, if you think I'm going to be drawn into this just to prove to you that I can—"
Rio caught her hand and tugged her forward. She was surprisingly strong, but that wasn't what got Agatha moving.
What got Agatha moving was the ground under her feet drawing her forward like a conveyor belt. Rio glanced back and grinned, a smile as wide as a chasm and almost as deadly.
Agatha's forehead had creased in annoyance, but most of her attention was on the ground beneath her, towing her along. "How are you even doing—" she protested.
"Magic," Rio said.
Agatha pressed her teeth together to keep from answering. By now, she should have been used to Rio's magic working in impossible ways, but she wasn't, because it was still impossible.
"Stop," she said, and the ground beneath her feet stilled at once, Rio turning fully back to look at her, hand still in Agatha's. Their eyes met, Death waiting as patiently as she always did.
She could afford to be patient. She was the final end. All things came to her in time.
"Come on then," Agatha said after a moment, and now it was her turn to step past Rio and tow her along. "I thought you wanted to dance."
She didn't look back. She didn't want to know what expression her lover was wearing.
They stepped into the circle as one song ended and the next began, attracting a few odd looks. Someone murmured, "Witches."
Agatha ignored all of it, settled her hand on Rio's hip as the music struck up again.
After a few beats, Rio beamed at her. "You can dance!" she said, and Agatha rolled her eyes, even as she danced silly country jigs, her arm looped through Rio's.
"Of course I can," she said. "What aren't I good at?"
"Nothing, beloved," Rio murmured, her eyes lit by moonlight, and in them, Agatha saw not death, but nature unchecked, the unbridled power of a summer's storm, glorious, breathtaking, capable of reminding even the biggest person of how insignificant they were.
It struck Agatha that she was so beautiful.
The song came to an end, and Agatha drew the woman she loved to her, kissed her, claimed her, reminded them both who Death belonged to. Rio staggered against her, clung, fingers dug into Agatha's dress.
"Mine," Agatha said when she let go, her hand lingering on the other woman's flushed cheek. "All mine."
Rio managed a very small nod, then flicked her fingers over Agatha's shoulder
A man who had grabbed a heavy branch and was mid-swing went flying backwards, hitting the tree behind him with crash.
"They are witches!" someone yelled, as though that weren't entirely obvious.
Agatha laughed aloud, a well-practiced witchy cackle, even as the rain began to fall, a sudden, unexpected downpour that drenched everyone present and caused a flurry of running and shrieking. "We are indeed," she said, catching Rio's hand and levitating both of them into the air, purple magic swirling around her. "Witches! Hellspawn! Daughters of Satan! Flee before our might!"
Rio had buried her face against Agatha's shoulder sometime during this little performance, shaking with laughter. "Ags, aren't you overdoing it a little?" She glanced down. "Anyway, I think they're all gone."
"Good," Agatha said, her eyes only on Rio. She extended a hand. "You wanted to dance, didn't you? Dance with me, my love."
Rio stared, her breath catching in her throat, and then she smiled, radiant as the dawn above the trees. She offered Agatha a surprisingly courtly bow, which Agatha returned with a curtsy. Rio took her outstretched hand and high above the forest, with the rain slowing and turning to mist around them, Agatha Harkness danced with Death.
It's a good night for fluff. Try conversations in the dark or Death Sleeps In
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hookhausenschips · 3 months ago
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Between The Lines {LN4}
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Summary: Y/N, a 23-year-old woman from the Bahamas, reunites with her brother and his racing friends, including Lando Norris, who has always harbored feelings for her despite their complicated past. As they navigate the tension, secrecy, and the allure of forbidden love, Y/N and Lando must decide whether to confront their emotions or continue living between the lines of what could be.
WC: 8k (she’s a long one)
Requested? Yes/No
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Warnings: angst, toxic relationship, jealousy, sexual tension, strong language, allusions of smut
you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •
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Y/N’s POV
The sun was setting as I stepped out of the airport and into the warm embrace of the Portuguese breeze. It carried with it the scent of the ocean, the kind that instantly reminded me of home—the Bahamas. As much as I loved my life in California, there was something about being by the water that grounded me, like I was reconnecting with a part of myself I’d left behind. My curls danced in the wind as I walked towards the taxi stand, my suitcase rolling along behind me.
The drive to our family’s vacation home was a familiar one. Even though it had been years since I’d last been here, I knew every twist and turn of the road by heart. The white-washed walls of the house came into view, nestled against the cliffs that overlooked the Atlantic. It was a place full of memories, of laughter and late-night conversations, of sun-soaked days and quiet moments under the stars. But as much as I loved this place, there was a heaviness in my chest that I couldn’t quite shake.
I had come here to prepare the house for my friends, to create a space where we could all unwind and enjoy each other’s company. But the moment I stepped inside, I knew this trip wasn’t going to be just about catching up with old friends. This was about revisiting the past—whether I was ready for it or not.
I ran my fingers over the cool marble countertop in the kitchen, taking in the familiar sights and smells of the house. Everything looked just as it did when I was last here, though a bit more worn with time. The white curtains fluttered in the breeze, and the scent of fresh lemons from the trees outside wafted through the open windows.
“This place hasn’t changed a bit,” I murmured to myself, smiling at the nostalgia that wrapped around me like a warm blanket.
But as much as I wanted to lose myself in the peacefulness of the house, I couldn’t help but think about what was coming. My brother, Keylon, had mentioned he’d be stopping by with some of his friends before heading back to the UK. I hadn’t seen him in years, not since I had left to pursue my career and school. And with him, Lando Norris and Max Fewtrell would be here too. I couldn’t help the way my heart skipped a beat at the thought of Lando. 
Lando and I had always shared a unique connection, one that lingered in the background of our interactions. When I visited Keylon in the UK, Lando was always there, and I couldn’t ignore the way he looked at me—like I was something more than just his best friend’s little sister. His crush on me was obvious, but we never acted on it. Timing, distance, and life had always gotten in the way. And then years passed without a word.
Now, we were about to be in the same place again. The thought sent a shiver down my spine, a mix of anticipation and nerves. I wondered if he had changed, if he still felt the same way. Or if we’d simply drifted too far apart.
As I unpacked my suitcase and started setting up the house for my friends, I let my thoughts drift back to those times in the UK. The nights when Lando and I would sit on the porch, talking about everything and nothing, with his quiet admiration always lingering just beneath the surface. I wondered what it would be like to see him again after all these years.
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway snapped me out of my thoughts. My heart rate quickened as I walked to the front door, anticipation bubbling up inside me. I opened the door just as Keylon stepped out of the car, his familiar grin lighting up his face.
"Y/N!" he called out, his voice filled with excitement as he rushed over to give me a bear hug. "It's been too long, sis!"
I laughed as I hugged him back, the years melting away in that moment. "It really has, Key. You haven't changed a bit."
"Neither have you," he replied, pulling back to look at me. "Still the same little sister I remember, just as stubborn and beautiful as ever."
I rolled my eyes playfully. "Flattery will get you nowhere. But thanks, I guess."
Before I could say more, my eyes drifted over Keylon’s shoulder, landing on the figure emerging from the other side of the car. And there he was—Lando Norris. My breath caught in my throat for a second. He looked different, more mature, more confident. But his eyes, those bright blue eyes that had always seemed to see right through me, were the same.
"Y/N," Lando greeted me, his voice deeper than I remembered, but still carrying that same warmth.
"Lando," I replied, trying to keep my tone casual even though my heart was pounding in my chest. "Long time no see."
"Yeah, it has been," he said, and for a moment, something passed between us—an unspoken acknowledgment of the years that had separated us and the connection that still lingered.
Max appeared next, a broad grin on his face as he gave me a quick hug. "Y/N, it’s good to see you! This place is amazing as always."
I smiled at Max, grateful for his easygoing nature that helped break the tension. "It’s good to see you too, Max. Glad you like it."
As we all stood there, the air around us was thick with nostalgia and something more—something electric that neither Lando nor I seemed ready to confront just yet.
"Come on, let’s get inside," Keylon said, slinging an arm around my shoulder. "I’m starving, and I’m sure you’ve got some of that famous Bahamian food waiting for us."
I chuckled, grateful for the distraction. "Of course, Key. I wouldn’t let you starve on my watch."
But as we headed inside, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this trip was going to be more complicated than I’d anticipated. The past had a way of creeping back in when you least expected it, and with Lando here, I had a feeling it was going to hit me full force.
I spent the next hour trying to focus on the tasks at hand—unpacking, arranging towels, making sure the kitchen was stocked. But my mind kept drifting back to the earlier reunion with Keylon and Lando. The air between us was thick with unspoken words, and I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something had shifted. 
As I fluffed the last pillow on the couch, I heard the front door open, followed by the sound of familiar laughter. Keylon’s deep voice echoed through the hallway as he called out, “Y/N! We’re here!”
I took a deep breath and turned, just in time to see him bounding into the living room with Lando and Max in tow. They brought with them the energy of old times, and suddenly, it felt like we were back in those carefree days when we were all just a bunch of kids with no real worries. But now, there was an undercurrent of tension, one that I wasn’t sure how to navigate.
“Hey, sis!” Keylon grinned, his arms full of grocery bags. “Figured we’d help stock up on some essentials.”
I smiled, grateful for the gesture. “Thanks, Key. You know me too well.”
Lando stepped forward, offering a small smile that made my heart do that stupid flip again. “We picked up some snacks too. Figured we’d be needing them.”
I raised an eyebrow, trying to keep things light. “Snacks, huh? You’re still obsessed with those terrible gummy worms, aren’t you?”
His smile widened, a flash of the boy I remembered. “What can I say? Some things never change.”
Max chimed in, holding up a bottle of wine. “And I got this. Because, you know, we’re adults now, and adults drink wine.”
I laughed, grateful for Max’s easy humor. “Classy, Max. I’ll make sure to break out the good glasses for that.”
As they settled in, I found myself watching Lando out of the corner of my eye. He seemed more at ease now, joking with Keylon and Max as they unpacked the groceries. But every so often, I’d catch him glancing in my direction, his gaze lingering just a moment too long before he looked away.
“So,” Keylon said, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over us. “We’ve got the whole crew coming in tomorrow. You ready for the madness, Y/N?”
I chuckled, though the idea of a full house made me a little nervous. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Who all is coming, again?”
As the conversation flowed, Keylon rattled off the list of names of people who would be arriving tomorrow. “Keegan, Ed, Tom, and Martin Garrix,” he said, ticking them off on his fingers. “Plus, Max’s girlfriend, Pietra, and Lando’s PR girlfriend, Magui.”
Lando, who had been quietly listening, suddenly nudged Keylon with his elbow, a sharp yet playful jab. "Keylon, seriously?" he muttered, giving him a pointed look.
Keylon blinked, looking confused for a moment before realization dawned. “What? It’s true, isn’t it?” he responded with a mischievous grin. “I mean, that’s pretty much what she is, right?”
Lando sighed, shaking his head, though there was a small, almost embarrassed smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You could’ve just said girlfriend, you know,” he mumbled under his breath.
I watched the exchange with amusement, unable to resist a chuckle. The playful dynamic between the two of them was something I’d always loved. Despite the years and the fame that had come between them, some things hadn’t changed.
“Don’t worry, Lando,” I teased, trying to ease the tension. “I’m sure she’s more than just your PR girlfriend.”
Lando shot me a grateful look, but I noticed the way his shoulders seemed to relax just a bit. “Thanks, Y/N,” he said, his tone lighter now. “But Keylon’s always been terrible with labels.”
Keylon rolled his eyes dramatically. “You know I’m just messing with you, man. But seriously, she’ll be here tomorrow, so you’d better be ready to play the perfect boyfriend.”
Lando let out a low groan, but there was a spark of humor in his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be ready.” But as he glanced at me, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to his reluctance than just the teasing.
The mention of Magui’s name sent a tiny jolt through me, but I kept my expression neutral. “Right. Sounds like a full house.”
Max shot me a teasing grin. “Don’t worry, Y/N. We’ll keep the chaos to a minimum.”
“Yeah, right,” I replied with a smirk. “I know better than to trust you guys when it comes to that.”
As we settled into the evening, the house began to fill with the sounds of laughter and the familiar banter between old friends. Keylon and Max were quick to launch into stories about their racing adventures, their voices overlapping as they competed to see who could tell the wildest tale.
I found myself drifting toward the kitchen, needing a moment to breathe. The sight of Lando laughing with my brother warmed my heart, but it also stirred something deeper, something I wasn’t quite ready to face. I busied myself with preparing a quick snack, chopping vegetables and arranging them on a plate, trying to focus on the mundane task.
But I wasn’t alone for long. The sound of footsteps behind me made me pause, and I turned to find Lando leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched me.
“Need some help?” he offered, his voice softer now that we were alone.
I smiled, though my heart was racing. “Sure. You can chop the tomatoes.”
He moved to the counter beside me, and for a few moments, we worked in companionable silence. The tension between us hadn’t disappeared, but it felt less heavy now, more like a comfortable weight that we were both learning to carry.
“So,” he said after a while, his tone casual. “How’s life been treating you?”
I shrugged, trying to keep my voice light. “Busy. Work is… intense, but I love it.”
“Firefighter and EMS, right?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he glanced at me. “That’s… that’s incredible, Y/N. Seriously.”
His genuine admiration made me smile. “Thanks, Lando. It’s not always easy, but it’s worth it.”
He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I can’t imagine doing something like that. But I’m glad you found something you’re passionate about.”
“What about you?” I asked, turning the conversation back to him. “How’s everything with the racing world?”
He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “It’s… good. Busy, as always. But sometimes I miss the simpler times, you know?”
I looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the flicker of something in his eyes—something vulnerable. “Yeah, I get that. Life has a way of getting complicated, doesn’t it?”
He met my gaze, and for a moment, it felt like we were the only two people in the world. “It does. But sometimes, it’s nice to remember the good things, too.”
The unspoken words hung between us, and I felt my breath catch. There was so much we weren’t saying, so much that needed to be said. But before I could find the courage to speak, Keylon’s voice echoed from the living room.
“Y/N, Lando! Get in here! We’re about to start the movie!”
I blinked, the moment broken, and forced a smile. “Guess that’s our cue.”
Lando gave a small nod, but his eyes lingered on mine for just a second longer before he turned away. We headed back into the living room, where the others were already sprawled across the couches, the TV flickering as Keylon scrolled through the movie options.
As I settled into my seat, I couldn’t help but glance at Lando, who sat across the room. Our eyes met briefly, and for the first time in years, I wondered what it would be like to let go of the past and embrace whatever was happening between us. But that was a thought for another time. For now, I would enjoy the reunion, the laughter, and the memories, even as the tension simmered beneath the surface.
The following days were a blur of laughter, music, and memories. The house, once quiet, now buzzed with the energy of everyone arriving. Keegan, Ed, and Tom showed up first, quickly turning the living room into a chaotic mess of luggage and snacks. Martin Garrix arrived soon after, bringing with him a playlist of tunes that kept the party vibe alive. Pietra, Max’s girlfriend, fit right in, her infectious smile and friendly nature making her an instant hit with everyone.
And then there was Magui.
She arrived late in the evening, her presence immediately commanding attention. Tall, stunning, and perfectly put together, she walked into the house like she owned it, greeting everyone with a dazzling smile. But when her gaze landed on me, I felt a subtle shift in the air. The warmth she had shown the others cooled slightly, and her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she said, “You must be Y/N. Lando’s told me so much about you.”
I forced a smile, sensing the underlying tension. “Nice to meet you, Magui. Welcome to our home.”
She nodded, her expression polite but distant, before turning her attention back to Lando, who had come to greet her. I watched as he wrapped an arm around her waist, leaning in to give her a quick kiss. But even then, his eyes seemed to flicker toward me, just for a second, as if checking my reaction.
It didn’t take long for Magui to make her presence felt. Throughout the evening, she stayed close to Lando, always positioning herself beside him, touching his arm, his shoulder, making it clear to everyone that he was hers. And Lando, for his part, played the role of the attentive boyfriend, though I couldn’t help but notice the tension in his posture, the way his smiles seemed just a bit forced.
The days were a whirlwind of activities—exploring the nearby town, lounging on the beach, late-night barbecues, and impromptu dance sessions in the living room. There was no shortage of fun, but underneath it all, I could feel the undercurrents of unspoken emotions.
Lando, in particular, seemed to struggle. Whenever Martin Garrix or Keegan would sidle up next to me, their flirtatious banter turning up a notch, I noticed the way Lando’s jaw would clench. His eyes would follow us, and though he never said anything, his quiet, simmering jealousy was palpable. 
One evening, after a long day at the beach, we all gathered around the outdoor fire pit, roasting marshmallows and sipping on cocktails. Keegan, ever the charmer, slid onto the bench beside me, his arm casually draping over the backrest.
“So, Y/N,” Keegan began, his voice playful as he leaned in a little closer. “Tell me, how is it that a beautiful woman like you is still single? Or are you just hiding your boyfriend somewhere?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “No boyfriend, Keegan. Just focused on work, I guess.”
“Ah, work. Always getting in the way of fun,” he replied with a grin, his eyes twinkling in the firelight. “Maybe we can change that while you’re here.”
Before I could respond, I noticed Lando stiffen across the fire pit, his gaze fixed on Keegan’s arm resting behind me. Magui, sitting beside him, seemed oblivious to the tension, chatting away with Pietra about some event they’d attended recently.
Martin, who was seated on my other side, chimed in with a chuckle. “Careful, Keegan. Y/N’s got a lot of admirers. You might have some competition.”
Lando’s expression darkened just slightly, and I caught the flicker of frustration in his eyes. He leaned forward, interrupting the conversation. “Y/N’s too smart to fall for your cheesy lines, Keegan.”
Keegan smirked, unfazed. “Maybe, but there’s no harm in trying, right?”
I rolled my eyes playfully, trying to defuse the situation. “Okay, boys, calm down. We’re here to have fun, remember?”
But despite my efforts, the tension lingered, and I couldn’t ignore the way Lando’s gaze kept drifting toward me, a mixture of jealousy and something deeper in his eyes.
As the evening wore on, Magui’s subtle hostility toward me became more apparent. Every time I tried to engage with Lando, she would swoop in, steering the conversation back to herself or pulling him away with some excuse. It was clear that she wasn’t comfortable with my presence, and I couldn’t blame her. After all, the history between Lando and me was something she could sense, even if she didn’t know the full story.
One night, after another long day of exploring and socializing, I found myself alone in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. I was lost in thought when I heard footsteps behind me. Turning around, I saw Magui standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Hey,” I greeted her, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Need something?”
She gave me a tight smile. “No, just wanted to talk. You and Lando… you go way back, huh?”
I nodded, sensing where this was going. “Yeah, we’ve known each other for a long time. Through my brother.”
Magui’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I figured as much. He talks about you sometimes. Fondly, of course.”
I set down the dish I was holding, meeting her gaze directly. “Look, Magui, I’m not trying to cause any problems. I’m just here to spend time with my brother and our friends.”
She studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable. “I’m not worried, Y/N. Lando and I have something real. But I just wanted to make sure we’re clear on that.”
I smiled, though it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Crystal clear.”
She nodded, her smile returning as if the conversation had never happened. “Great. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
As she left the kitchen, I let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of her words settle over me. It was clear that whatever was happening between Lando and me wasn’t going unnoticed. And if I wasn’t careful, things could get messy. Very messy.
The tension between Lando and Magui only grew over the next few days. I noticed the little things—how they’d bicker over small details, how Magui would criticize Lando’s behavior around me, and how Lando’s patience seemed to be wearing thin. It was like watching a slow-burning fuse, and I knew it was only a matter of time before it exploded.
It was late, well past midnight, and the house had finally quieted down. After another long day of adventures and late-night antics, everyone had drifted off to bed, leaving the house in peaceful silence. But I couldn’t sleep. My mind was too restless, swirling with everything that had happened over the past few days—the tension with Magui, Lando’s simmering jealousy, the unspoken feelings between us that seemed to grow stronger with each passing moment.
I slipped out of my room and made my way to the pool, hoping the cool night air would help clear my head. The water shimmered under the starlight, and the gentle sound of the waves crashing against the shore in the distance created a soothing background noise. I sat down at the edge of the pool, dipping my feet into the water, and stared up at the stars, letting my thoughts drift.
It wasn’t long before I heard the soft sound of footsteps behind me. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. I could feel his presence even before he spoke.
“Can’t sleep either?” Lando’s voice was low, almost a whisper, as he came to stand beside me.
I glanced up at him and shook my head. “No. Just… too much on my mind, I guess.”
He nodded, understanding flickering in his eyes as he took a seat beside me, dipping his feet into the pool as well. We sat in silence for a few moments, the only sounds being the gentle ripples of the water and the distant waves.
“There’s a lot going on, huh?” he finally said, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid of saying too much.
“Yeah,” I replied quietly, my eyes still fixed on the stars. “More than I expected.”
Lando let out a slow breath, his gaze focused on the water in front of him. “I’m sorry about Magui,” he said after a pause. “She can be… intense. I know she hasn’t exactly been welcoming.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said, though the tension between us was impossible to ignore. “I get it. I’m… I’m the past, and she’s your present. It makes sense that she’s protective.”
Lando looked at me then, his eyes searching mine. “Y/N, it’s not that simple.”
I nodded, still staring at the stars, trying to keep my emotions in check. I turned to face him, finally allowing myself to ask the question that had been weighing on me for days. "Lando, this... this thing between us, it's complicated. You’re with Magui, and she’s—"
Lando cut me off with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as if he was about to say something that had been weighing on him for a while. “Y/N, there’s something you should know about Magui and me. Our relationship... it’s not what it seems.”
I turned to look at him, confusion knitting my brows. "What do you mean? You’re together. She’s your girlfriend."
Lando hesitated, his eyes darting away from mine as if he wasn’t sure how to explain. “Magui and I… it’s not real. I mean, we’re together for the cameras, for the press. It’s a PR relationship—a publicity stunt to boost both of our images.”
I blinked, taken aback. “Wait, what? Keylon wasn’t actually joking? So, you’re not actually...?”
He shook his head, looking almost relieved to finally be telling someone the truth. “No. We’re not in love, we’re not really dating. It’s all for show. The media eats it up, and it helps both of our careers. But behind the scenes... there’s nothing there.”
I stared at him, trying to process what he was saying. “So, all this time... you’ve been pretending?”
Lando nodded, his expression serious. “Yeah. It was easier that way. No complications, no distractions. Just focusing on racing and keeping up appearances. But seeing you again… it’s made me realize that I can’t keep pretending. Not anymore.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, the weight of his confession sinking in. “Lando, that’s... a lot to take in.”
“I know,” he said quietly, his gaze locked on mine. “And I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner, but... it’s complicated. Everything’s complicated.”
My mind raced as I tried to make sense of it all. Part of me felt relieved—relieved that Magui wasn’t the deep, meaningful relationship I’d feared. But another part of me felt conflicted, knowing that even if their relationship wasn’t real, it still carried the weight of the public eye, of the world watching every move he made.
“You’re not worried about what happens if people find out?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Lando shrugged, a hint of resignation in his expression. “It’s crossed my mind, to be happy when I'm not. Pretending that what I really want isn't standing right in front of me."
His words hung in the air, heavy with truth and vulnerability. I could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he was struggling between what was expected of him and what he truly felt. My heart ached for him, knowing how difficult it must be to live under that kind of pressure, to put on a show for the world while burying his own feelings.
I swallowed hard, the air between us thick with tension. “And Magui?”
Lando ran a hand through his hair, looking conflicted. “She’s… she’s great. Really. But…” He trailed off, his eyes searching mine as if looking for answers.
“But what, Lando?” I pressed gently, needing to know where we stood. “What do you want?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. He just looked at me, his eyes filled with a mix of emotions that I couldn’t quite decipher. Then, without warning, he reached out and took my hand, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through me.
“I don’t know if this is right,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “But I can’t stop thinking about you. About us. About what could have been… and what might still be.”
My heart pounded in my chest as I looked into his eyes, torn between what I knew was right and what my heart was screaming at me to do. I could feel the pull between us, the undeniable chemistry that had always been there, simmering beneath the surface.
“Lando…” I began, but he cut me off, his voice urgent.
“Y/N, I’ve tried to move on. I’ve tried to be with someone else, to build something new. But every time I’m with her, I think of you. I think of what we had… what we could have. And I don’t know if I can keep pretending anymore.”
His words hung in the air, heavy with emotion, and I felt my resolve weakening. This was dangerous, and we both knew it. But in that moment, with the stars shining above us and the world quiet around us, it felt like the only thing that mattered was the two of us.
Without thinking, I leaned in, closing the distance between us. The moment our lips met, it was like a spark ignited, a fire that had been smoldering for years finally bursting into flames. The kiss was desperate, filled with all the pent-up emotion and longing that we’d been holding back.
Lando’s hands found their way to my waist, pulling me closer as the kiss deepened. My fingers tangled in his hair, and for a moment, it was like nothing else in the world existed but the two of us. The cool night air, the distant waves, the stars above—they all faded away, leaving only the heat between us.
We broke apart for a breath, our foreheads resting against each other as we tried to catch our breath. “This is crazy,” I whispered, though I couldn’t bring myself to pull away.
“Maybe,” Lando murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “But it feels right.”
The tension, the desire, the years of unresolved feelings—it all came crashing down on us, and suddenly, the consequences didn’t matter. Not the fact that he had a girlfriend sleeping inside, not the fact that this could ruin everything. All that mattered was that we were here, together, and we couldn’t stop ourselves.
Before I knew it, we were kissing again, more urgently this time, our hands roaming as we lost ourselves in the moment. The world fell away, and all that was left was us—the feel of his lips on mine, the way his touch sent shivers down my spine, the undeniable connection that had always been there.
When we finally pulled apart, breathless and overwhelmed, reality came crashing back. We were still by the pool, still in the middle of a situation that could have serious consequences. I could see the regret flickering in Lando’s eyes, but also something else—something that told me he wasn’t ready to let this go.
“Y/N…” he began, but I shook my head, placing a finger to his lips.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “Not tonight.”
We sat in silence for a few moments, the weight of what had just happened settling over us. There were so many things left unsaid, so many questions that still needed answers. But for now, we both knew that this wasn’t the time to face them. There would be consequences to deal with, choices to make, but they would have to wait until morning.
For now, we just sat there by the pool, the night wrapping around us like a blanket, both of us lost in our own thoughts. The passion of the moment had passed, but the connection between us remained, stronger than ever. And as we sat there in the quiet, I couldn’t help but wonder—what would come next?
The next morning, everything felt heavier. The sunlight streaming through the windows seemed too bright, almost accusatory, as if it knew what had happened the night before. My stomach churned with unease as I went about my morning routine, replaying everything over and over in my mind. What had I done? What had we done?
The house was lively, filled with the usual banter and laughter, but I felt disconnected, like an outsider observing from a distance. At breakfast, I sat quietly, picking at my food while the others chattered away. Magui was seated next to Lando, her hand casually resting on his arm as she talked to Keegan. The sight made my chest tighten, guilt gnawing at me. I couldn’t look at her without feeling like I had betrayed some unspoken rule, even though I knew the truth about her and Lando’s relationship.
Lando caught my eye from across the table, his expression serious and searching, but I quickly looked away, unable to meet his gaze. I didn’t want to confront the emotions swirling inside me, didn’t want to acknowledge the turmoil we’d unleashed.
After breakfast, I found an excuse to slip away, retreating to the quiet of the beach. The rhythmic crash of the waves provided some solace, but it couldn’t drown out the thoughts racing in my head. I felt torn in so many directions—caught between what I wanted, what I feared, and what I knew was right.
“Y/N.”
His voice, soft yet urgent, made me freeze. I didn’t turn around. I knew who it was, and I knew what he wanted to talk about. But I wasn’t ready.
“Can we talk?” Lando’s footsteps crunched in the sand as he approached, but I stayed where I was, staring out at the horizon as if it held all the answers.
“What’s there to talk about?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.
“Last night,” he said simply. “We need to figure out what happens next.”
I finally turned to face him, and the look in his eyes—so earnest, so determined—made my heart ache. “Lando, last night... it was a mistake.”
He frowned, stepping closer. “A mistake? You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” I insisted, wrapping my arms around myself defensively. “We got caught up in the moment, but it doesn’t change anything. You’re still Lando Norris—famous, in the spotlight—and I’m... well, I’m just me. This world, your world... it’s not mine.”
His frustration was palpable, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Y/N, stop running away from this. From us. You know last night meant something—it wasn’t just a mistake. Don’t try to brush it off like that.”
“I’m not running,” I lied, taking a step back from him. “I’m being realistic. This... whatever this is between us, it can’t work. It’s too complicated, and I don’t want to be the reason things get messy for you.”
“Things are already messy,” he countered, his voice rising slightly. “But I don’t care, Y/N. I don’t care about the complications or the risks. I care about you.”
His words hit me hard, and for a moment, I almost let myself believe him. But the fear, the doubt, was stronger. “Lando, you have a life—a career, a public image to maintain. I’m just a distraction.”
“You’re not a distraction!” he said fiercely, reaching for my hand, but I pulled away before he could touch me. The hurt in his eyes was clear, but I couldn’t let myself get caught up in it.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered, shaking my head. “I won’t be the one to complicate your life even more.”
“Y/N, don’t push me away,” he pleaded, taking another step toward me. “I’m not letting you go that easily.”
“Maybe you should,” I shot back, my voice cracking with the effort to hold back tears. “Maybe it’s better for both of us if we just... forget about last night.”
“I can’t forget it,” he said quietly, his tone filled with a desperate honesty. “And neither can you.”
His words hung in the air, and for a moment, all I could hear was the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. He was right. I couldn’t forget. But that didn’t mean I was ready to face the consequences either.
“I need time,” I finally said, my voice trembling. “Time to figure out what this all means.”
Lando looked at me, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and frustration, but he nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll give you time. But I’m not giving up on this—on us.”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Instead, I turned away and walked down the beach, putting distance between us. Lando didn’t follow, but I could feel his gaze on me, filled with all the things left unsaid.
As I walked, the uncertainty gnawed at me, but one thing was clear—I wasn’t ready to give in to whatever was between us. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
For now, all I could do was keep running.
The days that followed were tense, filled with an unspoken tension that lingered in every interaction. Lando kept his distance, respecting my need for space, but I could feel his eyes on me whenever we were in the same room. It was as if he was waiting for the right moment, waiting for me to stop running.
I spent most of my time avoiding everyone, especially Lando. When the group went out, I stayed behind, claiming I needed rest or had work to catch up on. But the truth was, I didn’t know how to face him—or myself—after everything that had happened. I was caught in a web of my own fears, struggling to untangle the threads of what I felt and what I knew was right.
That night, after days of avoiding everyone and drowning in my own thoughts, I decided to join the group. Maybe it was the loneliness finally getting to me, or maybe I just needed a distraction from the whirlwind of emotions that had consumed me. Whatever it was, I found myself standing in front of the mirror, trying to remember what it felt like to let go and just have fun.
I chose a deep emerald-green dress that hugged my curves in all the right places. The satin fabric shimmered under the soft light of my room, falling just above my knees with a thigh-high slit that added an extra edge to the look. The plunging neckline made a statement, and I decided to forgo any jewelry, letting the simplicity of the dress speak for itself.
My hair was styled in soft locs that cascaded down my back and shoulders, the natural texture adding an effortless elegance to the look. I’d taken the time to weave a few gold accents through the locs, catching the light as I moved and adding a subtle sparkle to the overall style. The locs framed my face perfectly, enhancing the smoky eye makeup that gave my gaze a mysterious allure.
Taking one last look in the mirror, I gave myself a nod. I looked good, and for the first time in a while, I felt good too. Tonight, I wasn’t going to let anything—or anyone—bring me down.
When I walked into the living area where everyone was gathered, the conversations died down, and all eyes turned toward me. Keegan was the first to break the silence with a low whistle, his grin wide and mischievous. “Damn, Y/N! You’re killing it tonight.”
Martin quickly followed with his own whistle, nudging Keegan playfully. “She’s been holding out on us, mate. Didn’t know you had it in you, Y/N.”
I laughed, shaking my head at their antics. “You two are ridiculous.”
But it was Lando’s reaction that caught my attention. He stood frozen in place, his eyes locked on me as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. There was a mix of emotions playing across his face—surprise, admiration, and something deeper that made my heart skip a beat. For a moment, the world around us seemed to fade away, and it was just the two of us, locked in that intense gaze.
Magui, who had been standing next to Lando, didn’t miss the exchange. Her eyes narrowed as she glanced between us, her grip tightening on Lando’s arm. She quickly masked her irritation with a forced smile, but the bitterness in her voice was unmistakable. “Well, isn’t this a surprise? I didn’t think you’d make it out tonight, Y/N. I suppose it’s good you’re finally joining the fun.”
Her words were laced with sarcasm, and the tension between us crackled in the air. I met her gaze, refusing to back down. “Yeah, I figured it was time to stop hiding and enjoy the night.”
She smirked, tilting her head slightly. “Well, let’s hope you can keep up.”
Before I could respond, Lando finally snapped out of his trance and cleared his throat. “You look amazing, Y/N,” he said, his voice a little too soft, a little too sincere, causing Magui’s glare to sharpen.
“Thanks, Lando,” I replied, giving him a small smile before turning my attention back to the group. “So, are we heading out or what?”
The others quickly rallied, eager to start the night, but the tension lingered in the air. As we made our way out of the house, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this night was going to change everything, one way or another. And as Lando’s gaze lingered on me, even as Magui tried to pull him closer, I knew he felt it too.
The club was a blur of flashing lights, pulsing music, and bodies moving to the rhythm. It was loud, chaotic, and exactly what I needed to drown out the noise in my head. I let myself get lost in the atmosphere, dancing with Keegan and Martin, laughing at their jokes, and trying to push away the tension that had followed us from the house.
But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape the weight of Lando’s gaze. Even in the crowded room, I could feel him watching me. Every time I turned around, he was there—across the bar, on the edge of the dance floor, always close but never approaching. It was as if he was waiting for the right moment, waiting for me to let my guard down.
Magui, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as subtle. She stayed glued to Lando’s side, her possessive grip on his arm a clear message to anyone who dared to come too close. She danced with him, whispered in his ear, and made sure everyone knew they were together. But it was all so forced, so obviously a performance, that it only added to the tension between them.
At one point, I caught Magui glaring at me from across the room, her eyes full of thinly veiled contempt. She leaned in to say something to Lando, her voice low but her expression unmistakable. He nodded distractedly, his gaze still flicking over to me every few moments. Whatever she said didn’t seem to have the intended effect, because his attention never wavered.
After a while, I needed a break from the dancing, so I made my way to the bar to grab a drink. As I waited for the bartender, I felt someone approach. I turned, half expecting it to be one of the guys, but instead, it was Lando. His presence was electrifying, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Hey,” he said, his voice barely audible over the music. He leaned in closer so I could hear him. “You okay?”
I nodded, taking a sip of my drink to steady my nerves. “Yeah, just needed a breather.”
He studied me for a moment, his eyes searching mine. “You look amazing tonight, Y/N. I mean, you always do, but tonight...”
“Thanks,” I replied, my voice soft, feeling a flutter in my chest. His compliment was sincere, and it only made everything more complicated. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I try.”
We stood there for a moment, the silence between us charged with unspoken words. It felt like there was so much to say, but neither of us knew where to start.
Before I could think of anything to break the tension, Magui appeared at Lando’s side, her smile tight as she slipped her arm through his. “Lando, babe, let’s go dance. We’ve barely had any time together tonight.”
Her voice was sweet, but the look she shot me was anything but. It was clear she wasn’t thrilled about Lando and me talking, and she was making sure I knew it.
Lando hesitated, his eyes lingering on me for a moment before he nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
As they walked away, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of something—jealousy, frustration, regret? I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that no matter how hard I tried to distance myself, Lando had a way of pulling me back in. And as I watched him dance with Magui, his movements mechanical and his smile forced, I realized that maybe I wasn’t the only one struggling to figure out what came next.
The rest of the night passed in a blur. I danced with the others, laughed at their jokes, and tried to pretend that everything was fine. But the tension between Lando and me remained, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to explode.
As we left the club and headed back to the house, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was far from over. Lando and I had unfinished business, and sooner or later, we were going to have to face it—whether we were ready or not.
The drive back to the house was quiet, the energy from the club fading into a tense silence. I stared out the window, watching the lights of the city blur into darkness as we left the crowded streets behind. My mind replayed the events of the night, the fleeting moments with Lando, Magui’s possessive glares, the way I’d felt Lando’s eyes on me even when he was dancing with her.
When we finally arrived back at the house, everyone seemed drained. Keegan and Martin stumbled inside, still laughing about something that happened at the club, while Max led Pietra to their room, the two of them whispering softly to each other. Magui, with her usual sharp tone, excused herself and headed to the bedroom she shared with Lando, giving me one last cutting glance before disappearing up the stairs.
Lando lingered behind, standing awkwardly in the doorway as the others dispersed. His gaze flicked to me, and I could see the struggle in his eyes—the internal battle he was fighting. He wanted to talk, to address everything that had been left unsaid between us, but he was trapped in his own confusion, caught between his obligations and what he truly wanted.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to give him that chance. The thought of another conversation filled with half-truths and what-ifs left a bitter taste in my mouth. But a part of me—a part that had been buried for years—ached to hear what he had to say. To know if he felt even a fraction of what I was feeling.
“I’m heading to bed,” I said finally, breaking the silence. My voice came out steadier than I expected, even though my heart was pounding in my chest. “Goodnight, Lando.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. Instead, he just nodded, a look of regret flashing across his face as I turned away.
I made my way upstairs, my footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway. As I reached my room, I paused at the door, my hand hovering over the handle. I could still feel Lando’s presence downstairs, the weight of his indecision pressing down on both of us. For a brief moment, I considered turning around, marching back down those stairs, and demanding answers. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not tonight.
I slipped inside my room, shutting the door behind me with a soft click. The silence was deafening as I kicked off my heels and sank onto the edge of the bed. The night had left me emotionally drained, and all I wanted was to shut my eyes and forget everything. But sleep didn’t come easily.
Minutes passed, or maybe hours—I couldn’t tell. The house was eerily still, and the only sound was the occasional rustle of the wind outside. I was finally starting to drift off when I heard it—a soft knock on my door. My heart lurched, and I held my breath, hoping it was just my imagination playing tricks on me.
But then it came again, louder this time.
I hesitated, my mind racing. Who could it be?
Another knock, more insistent now, followed by a whispered, “Y/N, it’s me.”
Lando.
My pulse quickened, and I found myself frozen in place, unsure of what to do. Part of me wanted to ignore him, to let him stand out there and grapple with whatever he needed to say. But another part of me—the part that had always struggled to keep my distance from him—couldn’t resist.
Slowly, I stood up and made my way to the door. My hand trembled as I reached for the handle, and I hesitated for just a moment longer before finally opening it.
Lando stood there, his expression a mix of determination and vulnerability. His usual confidence seemed to have abandoned him, leaving behind a rawness that I wasn’t used to seeing. For a moment, we just stared at each other, the air thick with everything we hadn’t said.
“Y/N, I can’t keep doing this,” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse. “I can’t keep pretending that I don’t—”
“Lando,” I interrupted, my own voice barely a whisper. “We can’t. It’s too complicated.”
“I know it is,” he replied, stepping closer, his eyes searching mine. “But that doesn’t change how I feel. I’ve tried to push it away, to ignore it, but I can’t. Not anymore.”
His words sent a shiver down my spine, and I felt the walls I’d built around my heart start to crumble. But I couldn’t let myself fall into this trap again. Not when so much was at stake.
“Lando, you have a girlfriend,” I reminded him, my voice shaking slightly. “And she’s right down the hall.”
He flinched, guilt flickering in his eyes. “It’s not real, Y/N. You know that. It’s just for show, for the cameras. But what I feel for you... that’s real. It always has been.”
His confession hung in the air between us, heavy and dangerous. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. Every instinct screamed at me to shut the door, to end this conversation before it went too far. But instead, I found myself drawn to him, unable to tear my gaze away.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. “I don’t know if I can trust you.”
His expression softened, and he reached out, gently taking my hand in his. The warmth of his touch sent a jolt of electricity through me, and for a moment, I allowed myself to revel in the feeling.
“Then let me prove it to you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Just... don’t shut me out, Y/N. Not again.”
I stared at him, torn between the intense connection we shared and the voice of reason that told me this was a terrible idea. The past had taught me how easily things could fall apart, how quickly emotions could become entangled in a mess of hurt and betrayal.
But as I stood there, on the precipice of something that could either destroy us or finally bring us together, I knew one thing for certain—I couldn’t run from this forever.
“Okay,” I whispered, barely able to believe the word had left my lips. “But no more games, Lando. This has to be real.”
His eyes lit up with hope, and he nodded, squeezing my hand. “No more games. I promise.”
And just as I started to let my guard down, just as I began to believe that maybe, just maybe, we could make this work, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway. Both of us froze, and my heart dropped as the door at the end of the hall creaked open.
Magui’s voice, sharp and cutting, sliced through the silence. “Lando? What the hell is going on?”
Our eyes met, panic flashing between us. The moment of truth had come, and there was no turning back now.
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