#Driftwood side table | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

iraot · 17 days ago

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SUMMARY A coastal town where the sea never forgets, and the tide sings for what was once sacrificed. WORD COUNT 16,814 PAIRING Rafayel x F!Reader | 18 + Only AO3 trigger warnings; there is depiction of body horror, descriptive fear, and a gothic horror feel.

For weeks before her departure, the sea begins bleeding into everything she dreams. Sometimes it laps gently at her ankles while she walks alone through foggy marshes; other times it claws skyward in enormous, hungry waves that never crest. She finds herself speaking languages she doesn’t know, mouthing syllables that taste like blood and pearl dust.

Through it all, one voice persists—low, lilting, and threaded with a coaxing amusement that unsettles more than comforts.

Even in dreams unmoored from water—dust-choked highways, elevators plummeting through mirrored shafts, hotel rooms painted with endless doors—he remains. A breath at her ear, a murmur from behind glass, never rising above a whisper but impossible to ignore.

‘Little driftwood,’ he says, like it’s her name, his affection buried in something older than sentiment. Each time she jolts awake, her throat aches as though she’s been speaking in her sleep.

Nights lose their shape. She either sinks into hours of black, dreamless weight or floats just beneath waking, caught in a suspended kind of awareness where every creak in the floor sounds like a wave breaking. Her bed begins to smell faintly of algae, her pillowcases tinted gray near the seams. Sometimes she finds crusts of salt at the corners of her eyes, tongue sharp with brine, though she hasn’t left her apartment in days.

The final dream comes heavy, too vivid to ignore. She’s underwater without drowning, suspended before a figure who shouldn’t be able to exist—long dark hair moving like strands of ink, tangled with coral-colored chains that pulse faintly with light. His body remains indistinct, almost too bright to look at directly, but his eyes hold a clarity that breaks something inside her.

They are not human, not even close, and they’re looking only at her.

She wakes before dawn, mouth dry, heart beating to a pattern she doesn’t understand. She watches it pulse at the hollow of her throat, checks her watch, and then pulls out her travel packet to confirm what she already knows. The rhythm matches the local tide table precisely. Outside, traffic moves like nothing’s changed, but she senses it—something has already reached out. Something wants her close.

Bayrun reveals itself in pieces, hunched low beneath a constant shroud of fog, the kind that hangs like soaked linen between rooftops. Nothing about the place moves quickly; window shutters sway loose on hinges, paint peels in slow curls from doorframes, and salt-warped signs hang crooked on rusted brackets. Streets narrow into alleys without warning, paved in uneven stones that glisten perpetually damp. A single diner squats beside a weather-beaten chapel, both places looking closed no matter the hour.

Locals are seen more often than heard. Faces pass behind smeared windows or vanish around corners just before she can make eye contact. No one waves. Even children, when glimpsed, speak in hushed voices and glance over their shoulders as if someone, or something, is always listening. It’s a town built for secrecy, or maybe one long practiced in it.

Her driver, Evan, doesn’t talk much once they pass the town’s faded welcome sign—just nods at landmarks she wouldn’t otherwise recognize. He smells faintly of kelp and engine grease, his nails stained from working the docks. When he speaks, it’s without looking at her, as though saying the words aloud too clearly might give them power.

“That house you’re staying in?” he mutters. “Wind always sounds like whispering in there…”

Later, after an uneasy stretch of road where the forest presses close on both sides, he adds, “Tide’s been off lately. Pulls wrong. Be careful near the shore after dusk.” The way he says “pulls” makes her stomach tighten, like it’s a living thing and not a part of nature’s design.

As they crest the ridge that overlooks the coastline, technology begins to fail in quiet stages. Bars of cell signals vanish, one by one. The truck’s radio dissolves into a whine of static, persistent even after he turns the volume down. Her phone vibrates once in her pocket, not from a message but a glitch—its compass spinning in tight circles before freezing north toward the sea.

Down below, the house slumps against the curve of a dying bluff. It stands alone, closer to the waterline than reason allows, separated from town by a thread of cracked asphalt and a mangled stretch of dune grass. The pier beside it stretches half-collapsed into the waves, ribs of it jutting from the water like something skeletal and dead. Weathered timbers lean sideways, windows clouded over by salt and time.

Evan stops the car and says nothing. After a long pause, he lifts her bags from the trunk, sets them down without meeting her eyes, and drives off.

Gravel crunches under her boots as she steps away from where Evan left her. His taillights vanish into the fog without a word of farewell. Salt air thickens with each step she takes toward the slouching house. Its outline sharpens the closer she gets—tilted walls, swollen shingles, the suggestion of once-white trim now blistered to gray.

A cracked walkway leads to a porch that groans beneath her weight. Boards shift underfoot, warped with moisture and age, nails sunken deep into soft wood. No sound comes from within, but the front door yields with a reluctant creak when she touches it. Hinges drag, and for a moment it feels like something resists from the other side.

Inside smells of mold first, then something sharper beneath—sweet and metallic, like copper steeped in seawater. The air clings, heavy, already settling in her hair and in her clothes. Dust motes drift in the watery light filtering through salt-blurred windows. Furniture sits where it was likely abandoned, shaped by years of quiet neglect.

She moves through the first room slowly. Floorboards cry out under her weight, but once she pauses, they keep creaking on their own, like the house is stretching after a long sleep. A fireplace stands bricked over, cold and forgotten, its mantle thick with grit. Shadows gather in the corners too quickly and retreat too slowly.

Upstairs, her bedroom faces the sea. The window doesn’t latch properly. She tests it twice and finds it opens without effort even when the night outside is still. Damp has sunk into the walls here, every surface feeling just shy of wet. Her skin prickles when she steps near the window frame, as though crossing into a threshold she hadn’t known was marked.

In the hallway, a narrow mirror hangs crooked beside the bannister. At first glance it seems unremarkable, but something’s wrong with the glass—her reflection shivers slightly at the edges. At dusk, it shifts more dramatically. Her neck elongates, her pupils darken. Her hair seems to sway even though the air stands dead still.

Over each window, tucked into the woodwork, rests a carved symbol. Circular and crude, gouged deep into the frames, just above where the sun could reach if it tried. She touches one absentmindedly. Her breath catches before she can stop it, a pressure blooming in her chest that fades only when she steps away.

Water doesn’t behave right in the house. Faucets release a hiss before any stream appears, and the liquid runs brown for the first few seconds, then clears to something clear but not clean. She leans close to the bathroom sink, ear near the basin. From somewhere deep in the plumbing comes a sound—low and melodic, almost human, almost sung.

Boxes sit half-emptied along the walls, their contents scattered across dusty furniture in attempts to make the house feel less hollow. Curtains are drawn open to let in the gray light, though it does little to chase away the damp that clings to everything. Her suitcase lies open near the foot of the bed, clothes unpacked into warped drawers that close unevenly. The place feels quieter now, as if it’s watching.

She steps out onto the porch with her phone, searching for signal where the air feels thinner, cooler. Two bars flicker into existence, wavering, then steady. Fog drapes low across the bluff, swallowing the pier in segments. Seagulls circle without calling.

When the call connects, there’s a pause, a delay—then Tara’s voice filters through, too bright, slightly distorted.

“Holy shit, you made it! What’s it like?”

She leans against the railing, watching the horizon. “Wet. Foggy. You’d hate it.”

Tara laughs. “Sounds like your kind of place.” A pause follows. “How’s the house?”

There’s no easy answer for that. She glances back through the doorway, where shadows nest along the crown molding. “Old. Noisy. The window in my room opens by itself.”

“That’s... comforting.”

She doesn’t mention the symbols yet. Or the mirror. Or the way the pipes hum as if listening. “It’s fine. I’ll settle in.” Her voice doesn't sound convincing, even to herself.

“You okay?” Tara’s voice shifts, softens. “You sound weird. Not like… bad weird. Just…”

“Just tired,” she says quickly. “Jet lag. New place. You know.”

Static rustles at the edge of the call. For a moment it sounds like someone else is breathing into the line, just beyond the signal. Tara doesn’t seem to hear it.

“Text me tomorrow,” her friend says. “Don’t go full recluse on me. Promise?”

“I promise.” She doesn’t hang up right away. Keeps the phone against her ear long after the line goes dead, waiting to hear if anything else wants to speak.

–

The fog lifts slightly the next morning, enough to see the town more clearly from the bluff. Paths of salt-scarred pavement wind through grasses flattened by constant sea wind. She pulls her coat tighter before stepping off the porch, the house behind her creaking once, almost like a groan of protest. Gravel shifts beneath her boots as she makes her way down the hill.

Bayrun doesn’t look bigger up close. If anything, it seems to shrink around itself—narrow alleys squeezed between leaning buildings, signage faded to near-invisibility. No traffic passes her on the road, just the slow wheeze of wind through power lines. A handful of locals linger near storefronts that don’t appear open but aren’t closed either. Faces lift to glance at her, then quickly look away.

She stops at a small general store near the church. A bell overhead rings flatly when she steps inside. Shelves sag with canned goods and brittle plastic packaging, everything covered in a fine, sticky dust. Behind the counter, a woman with sharp eyes and a sallow expression watches without speaking.

“Morning,” she offers.

The woman nods but says nothing in return.

“I’m staying up near the old pier. Came in for a few things—tea, maybe batteries?” Her voice sounds too loud in the cramped space.

“Tea’s down that aisle,” the woman says finally. “Batteries too, if any’re left.” Her accent is coastal but drawn out, as though words drag through water before reaching her lips.

Aisles are tight and uneven. Some items look untouched for years, others recently shifted, like someone had just passed through. She finds tea, not her brand, but something floral in a tin with rust at the seams. Batteries lie loose in a cardboard box, none matching. She takes what looks usable and returns to the counter.

The woman doesn’t ask for ID or introduce herself. As she rings up the purchase, her gaze lingers. “Storm season’s early this year. You should be careful out there near the cliffs.”

“I heard the tides are strange.”

“Strange doesn’t cover it,” the woman mutters. “Things go missing when they shouldn’t. Found a whole fishing skiff washed up with the engine still running. No one aboard.”

She hesitates, the tin of tea cold in her hand. “Does that happen often?”

“Not before. Now…” The woman presses her lips together, the rest left unsaid.

She takes her things and leaves. Outside, fog curls tighter again, choking out sunlight. Someone stands across the street for a moment, barely more than a shadow, then slips out of sight behind a building. She doesn’t follow.

Instead, she walks slowly back toward the bluff. Bayrun’s quiet is not the silence of abandonment—it’s the silence of breath held, something waiting beneath the rhythm of waves.

She returns to town twice more in the days that follow, always under a fog that never burns off entirely, no matter how high the sun climbs. It takes her only a few hours to learn the shape of Bayrun—four intersecting streets, each one narrowing as it nears the water. Most buildings are wood-faced and drooping, their paint cracked like old skin, their signs hung at odd angles as if the town itself is trying to shrug them off. No traffic lights, no chain stores, just shuttered windowpanes and the persistent sound of gulls circling without ever landing.

People here do not act afraid of her, but neither do they meet her fully. They offer smiles that reach the corners of their mouths but never touch their eyes. Every conversation is brief, every gesture efficient. When she speaks, they listen; when she asks, their gazes slide away like oil on water. It’s not rude. It’s caution.

She starts asking gentle questions—small ones at first. About tide shifts, sonar disruptions, strange sonar echoes in her equipment logs. A lobsterman named Clay nods once, then shrugs, cleaning his knife with the hem of his shirt. “Equipment don’t work here long,” he says. “Shorts out. Freezes. Gets… confused.”

At a bait shop, another man leans against a freezer of chum and squints at her printouts. “Things live under the shelf that shouldn’t,” he mutters. “Don’t go trawling deeper than you need to.”

She presses further, asks if they’ve noticed a pattern to the tides—something to explain the anomalies in her data. An older man standing nearby scoffs without turning around. “It’s best not to ask the sea to explain herself,” he says. “She doesn’t like it.”

No one laughs, not even as a courtesy. No one seems to think any of it is a metaphor.

At the grocer, the air inside feels colder than outside, despite the lack of refrigeration. She picks up lemons, their skin thin and spotted, and reaches for tea she doesn’t intend to buy. The woman at the register watches her too long, hands resting still on the countertop. Pale skin, wrists threaded with old burn scars or salt rashes—it’s hard to tell.

As she approaches to pay, the woman tilts her head slightly, looking through her more than at her.

“One of his,” the woman mutters, voice just above breath. “Poor thing.”

She blinks. “I’m sorry?”

The woman doesn’t repeat herself. Eyes lower to the register. Mouth tightens. Change is counted precisely, handed over with averted gaze. Nothing further said.

She leaves without pushing. On her way out, a boy playing with a length of kelp near the curb pauses to watch her. His lips are blue though it isn’t cold, his fingernails dark around the cuticles. He says nothing, only taps once on the side of his head, like listening underwater. Then he turns away.

The tide recedes further than usual on the third morning, drawing a jagged line of foam-slick rocks down the shoreline. She walks the beach with a notebook tucked under her arm, but doesn't open it. Her eyes are caught by the clusters of children gathering at the water's edge—quiet, barefoot, faces smudged with sand and sea spray. They speak in low tones, not laughter, not play.

They squat near the tidepools, dragging sticks and broken shells across the damp sand. What they draw stops her cold. Human figures, or close to it—hair flowing in long tendrils down their backs, arms ending in wide-spread fingers webbed like amphibians. The eyes are always oversized, black, round like voids. Shackles encircle the wrists and ankles in each drawing, always. No adult calls them back or stops them.

She watches a girl sketch an elongated figure whose mouth opens in a jagged spiral. The child steps back to admire it, then begins another beside it, as though the process isn’t a game but a duty. When she approaches, the children scatter—not in fear, more like instinct. One girl looks back once, her expression unreadable. The stick falls from her hand and remains behind.

Back at the house, wind pushes against the siding in slow, rhythmic pulses. The pier groans, its ruined slats clattering against one another as the tide begins to climb again. She steps onto the porch, arms full of supplies from town, and pauses. Something glistens darkly at her feet.

A fish, gutted neatly down the belly, lies on the threshold. Not just left there—it’s been pierced clean through with a length of pale driftwood. The stick has been sharpened crudely on one end, driven through the fish’s body and into the porch itself, pinning it like an offering. Scales shimmer dully in the low light. Blood has soaked into the grain of the boards.

No note, no sign of who left it. The air feels colder here, though the wind has died. She looks up sharply, but no one is in sight. Not on the beach. Not among the dunes. Only gulls turning slowly overhead, silent. A line of seaweed has been arranged across the far edge of the porch in a twisting spiral—too deliberate to be accidental.

The equipment begins to fail in slow, inexplicable stages. First, her hydrophone records nothing but long stretches of silence punctuated by sharp bursts of static—irregular, almost pulsed. Then her temperature sensors report readings that fluctuate wildly within the same minute. She reruns the diagnostics, replaces cables, double-checks power sources. Everything appears normal until it isn't.

One night, while reviewing her audio logs, she hears it layered beneath the static: not distortion, not feedback, but a voice. Male. Familiar in a way that makes her hands shake before she even understands why. It doesn’t say her name—never does—but it speaks with a tone that feels intimate, woven through with a knowing that burns at the edge of her memory.

You found me. You forgot why.

The voice comes again in different recordings, never where she expects it. Sometimes it’s hidden behind crashing surf in a file she doesn’t remember making. Other times it rides the background hiss of her malfunctioning monitor, quiet until she leans in, then rising as though responding to her proximity. Her name is absent, yet she feels called.

The sea never forgets her offerings.

Words coil through her mind when she tries to sleep, slithering between thoughts like ribbons of kelp in dark water. She doesn’t dream anymore—not the way she used to. Now she lies awake in half-sleep, listening to whispers echo off the corners of her skull. They don’t speak with urgency, only certainty.

He never says who he is, but it's like she knows anyway, yet the details escape her. The voice doesn’t beg. It doesn’t lure. It waits. Certain she’ll come. Certain she already has.

–

Time begins to shift, subtly at first. She notices it while reviewing her logs—files mislabeled, audio timecodes she doesn’t remember recording, entire segments clipped as though someone had already edited them. Her watch runs a few minutes fast, then slow, then fast again. She blames fatigue. The salt air. The isolation. Excuses come easy until they stop making sense.

Ten minutes disappear one morning between boiling water for tea and pouring it. The kettle screams on the stove, half-empty, though she doesn’t recall lifting it. Her notebook sits open to a page she hadn’t written yet, scrawled with half-legible symbols in a hand that could be hers, but rushed, crooked, salt-stained.

Thirty minutes are lost another day while walking the shoreline. She steps from one dune to the next, and the light shifts too far for the time she thinks has passed. Her legs ache as though she’s walked farther. Seaweed clings to her ankles. Her recorder blinks red when she pulls it from her bag, already capturing something low and wet and rhythmic she doesn’t remember hearing.

The worst is the night she wakes on the floor. Cold wood against her cheek. Her head throbs like she’s fallen, though there’s no bruise. Around her, silence hums too loud. She lifts herself slowly, only to find damp patches on the floorboards trailing away from the foot of her bed—footprints, bare, too long between steps to be hers. Water seeps into the edges of the rug like it had been dripping from a body.

She follows the prints to the hallway, but they vanish at the top of the stairs. No open windows. No puddles in the entry. Just the house, breathing. Watching. Waiting.

She finds the journal by accident, hunting for matches in a rust-flecked drawer behind the stove. Her fingers brush paper, not cardboard—a soft crackle, the unmistakable weight of old binding wrapped in damp linen. Mold blooms along the spine, and the first few pages have fused together from time and moisture. Her hands hesitate only briefly before opening it.

Ink has faded in places, smudged by salt or touch, but the handwriting is tight and looped, unmistakably feminine. The dates span nearly eighty years ago. The entries begin plainly: garden notes, complaints about damp rot in the walls, descriptions of morning fog. No name is given, just pronouns, references to family long dead. The voice is patient at first, observant, solitary. Then it changes.

Midway through, the entries sharpen. Language grows clipped, phrasing more intimate and agitated. Margins fill with sketches—spirals, waves, what might be eyes. She flips ahead, breath catching as she sees whole pages of repeated lines, written hastily, obsessively:

He dreams through me.

I saw him in the pool, bound and waiting.

I heard my mother call to him before she drowned.

The ink darkens here, pressed harder into the paper, as though written in a frenzy. Some words appear over and over, buried between sentences—below, mouth, teeth, song. One page is heavily creased and nearly torn in the middle, a scrawl barely legible through the overlap:

He is the tide when it’s wrong.

His hunger made it beautiful.

Toward the back, her thumb pauses on a page that feels different—half the sheet nearly torn from the binding, the ink slanted with urgency. The words The Bound One appear near the top, followed by a frantic attempt to cross them out with diagonal slashes. Underneath is a map, hand-drawn in rough pencil. She recognizes the coastline—Bayrun’s crooked harbor, the pier, the bluffs. One area near the cliffs has been circled twice, hard enough to tear through.

Beneath the map, a word is repeated over and over, sometimes alone, sometimes embedded in half-formed sentences: Bride.

Bride. Bride. Bride of the deep. Bride to the voice. Bride, again, again.

She stares at it until the words start to waver. Something shuffles in the walls behind her. Not rats. Not wind. A sound like someone exhaling slowly against the back of her neck. When she turns, the kitchen is still. The drawer hangs open like a mouth.

She didn't sleep that night. The journal lies open across her lap, its damp pages breathing in the candlelight. Wind presses gently against the windowpanes, steady and rhythmic like someone whispering just outside. Her eyes return to the map again and again, tracing the coastline, following the etched lines toward the circled inlet beyond the cliffs—an area not shown on any modern chart she’d studied for her research.

At dawn, the light turns white and watery. Mist crowds the bluff as if reluctant to lift. She dresses with mechanical slowness, wraps the journal in an oilcloth, and tucks it beneath her coat. Boots sink into the soft soil as she makes her way inland, then north toward the cliffs. The usual sound of gulls is absent. Even the sea seems to hush in anticipation.

No trails lead to where the map directs her. Grass gives way to stone, jagged and uneven, slick from the ocean’s breath. Her compass turns once, then stops. She puts it away. Past a bend in the cliffs, she sees the narrow path—hardly more than a fracture in the earth, descending toward a hidden pool carved into the coastline. Water rests inside, unnaturally still, as though waiting for permission to move.

The shape of it matches the drawing exactly. Ringed by black rock, barnacle-crusted and sharp, the pool pulses with a current she can’t see but feels. Her breath shortens. This place isn't on any map she’s ever studied. No townsperson has mentioned it. She kneels at the edge, touching one gloved finger to the surface. The water is warm.

Something moves beneath. Not a fish, not a current—something larger, coiled, deeper. The pressure that rises in her skull is immediate. Not pain. Not yet. A presence. Wordless at first, then forming slowly into shape.

You’re close now.

She stands abruptly, retreating several steps, heart hammering in time with a distant rhythm she doesn’t understand. The pool ripples. No wind touches it. Seafoam gathers around the rocks in symmetrical curves, spiraling inward.

On the cliff above, a shape watches—tall, too tall for any person, unmoving. She blinks, and it’s gone.

Back at the house, the journal feels heavier in her hands. Her fingertips sting where they touched the water. She peels off her glove and finds the faint outline of a spiral curling in her palm, raised slightly as if burned into the skin.

Later, when she tries to call Tara again, the line rings once before dying. Her phone won’t restart. In the silence that follows, her equipment begins recording on its own. Not static this time. Not white noise.

A low voice, just above a whisper:

You are already becoming.

Bride.

Sleep no longer feels like sleep. She lays down sometime after midnight, closes her eyes, and the next thing she knows, sea air is filling her lungs again. Damp grit clings to her soles, her nightclothes stained with salt and black sand. She always wakes just before sunrise, standing motionless at the edge of the tidepools, toes nearly brushing the water. The pool’s surface lies glass-still, unnaturally reflective, its depths dark even in morning light.

Her body bears the evidence—hair tangled with seaweed, skin cool and damp, calves streaked with streaks of bruising that match the shape of sea rock. There are scrapes she doesn’t remember earning. Once she finds barnacles caught beneath her fingernails. Her sheets are never in place when she wakes, her pillows on the floor, sand in the corners of the room where none should reach.

The path she takes varies, though her final destination does not. Sometimes she wakes facing the pool, sometimes with her back to it, as if she’s just finished whispering to the water. She tries locking her bedroom door, even moving furniture against it, but each time she wakes outside again, further down the slope, closer to the tide. Whatever takes her down there moves her without force. Her legs obey. Her will floats somewhere far behind.

She asks a fisherman about the pools once, a man who’s spoken to her before. He tightens his mouth and pretends not to hear. When she presses, he mutters, “People don’t go down there anymore. It’s not ours.” His eyes fix on her palm where the spiral still lingers, now faintly bruised with deepening color. He turns away quickly.

She questions others, with less subtlety. Two women outside the chapel ignore her completely, even as she speaks directly to them. A man sweeping outside the post office pauses, leans on his broom, and says, “You don’t belong in that part of the shore.” When she asks why, his answer is simple: “We remember.”

No one mentions what they remember. No one meets her eyes when she returns to town.

That night, she binds her ankles with a scarf and sets her phone to record. The footage cuts off at 3:17 a.m.—just before dawn. When she reviews it later, the final frame shows her standing beside the bed, eyes open, mouth moving silently. Her hands hang at her sides, fingers slightly curled, as though holding something invisible. Her expression is serene.

The next morning, she wakes as usual on the rocks. Her scarf lies knotted neatly beside her, bone-dry. A small fish skeleton rests near her feet, its bones arranged in a spiral. She knows without a doubt that she placed it.

The dream returns with a weight that feels heavier than sleep should allow. She is underwater, but not drowning—never drowning. Rafayel is there, his body luminous beneath the surface, hair spreading around him like dark smoke. He reaches for her gently, his fingers cool but steady as they cradle her face. Their foreheads touch, and though the water distorts all sound, she hears his voice clearly, not in her ears but inside her skull.

You remember now, he breathes, even though her lips haven’t moved.

You always come back to me.

Chains cross his chest, slick with algae and barnacle scabs, pulsing slightly where they meet the hollows of his collarbones. They don’t restrain so much as mark him, ceremonial, sacred, a reminder. His eyes are wide and black, not empty but full—of pressure, of old want, of the weight of the deep. His breath does not stir the water, yet she feels it ghost across her cheek.

She wakes with her hands clenched in the sheets, mouth dry with the taste of brine. Dampness presses into her skin—not sweat, not entirely. Seaweed lies tangled around her thighs, half-twisted into the sheets, slick with saltwater. It smells fresh, as if pulled moments ago from the low tide rocks, still alive enough to curl faintly at the edges.

Heart thudding, she stumbles to the bathroom, flips on the mirror light, and stares hard into her reflection.

It holds for a moment. Just long enough for her to feel foolish.

A split-second—her body remains still, but not alone. Rafayel stands behind her, towering, his presence undeniable even in the narrow glass. Hands rest on her shoulders, long fingers splayed, thumbs just below her collarbones. His expression is not cruel, not mocking. He smiles, soft and possessive, like someone who has waited a very long time and can finally see the shoreline again.

She spins around. Nothing. The mirror steadies, showing only her. She reaches up, slowly, touches the place where his hands had rested. It burns faintly beneath her skin, not pain—more like memory.

Night falls in heavy layers, the house thick with shadows that feel neither still nor benign. Every window reflects too much darkness, the glass catching shapes she can’t quite see—tall, pale lines at the edge of her vision, vanishing when she turns her head. She moves through the house slowly, barefoot, the floorboards cool and restless beneath her steps. Wind presses against the frame in soft pulses, not gusts but breathing, measured and coaxing.

Her name drifts into the hallway, spoken low and drawn out—once, then again. No question in it, just the sound of it tasting itself in the air. She pauses near the stairs, her hand braced on the warped banister, listening. The voice is hers. Every syllable mimics her exact pitch, her inflection, yet she knows it isn’t truly her speaking.

When she responds—just a whisper, no louder than a thought—the voice deepens. It pours through her bones like warmed saltwater, slippery and thick.

Say it, it murmurs, now fully him, no longer pretending.

Say my name.

Her throat constricts. The air feels charged, breathless. No resistance rises. The name has lived beneath her tongue for days, curling, blooming, pressing upward.

“Rafayel,” she breathes.

The house reacts.

Glass rattles in every windowpane. Walls groan. The tide outside crashes with impossible force, sending spray high enough to slap the porch. Pipes below the floor thrum low, like a throat clearing. Somewhere upstairs, the warped mirror shivers in its frame.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t question. A smile rises slowly across her lips, unbidden. It doesn’t feel like hers entirely, but it fits her mouth perfectly.

Rafayel’s voice wraps around her from within, a purr of satisfaction curled in the back of her skull:

Good girl.

Something in her, something that was always waiting, exhales in answer.

The research begins like ritual. She wakes early, hours before the fog thins, moving through the warped hallway with quiet precision—boots laced, coat zipped, notebook tucked under her arm, recorder blinking red as it rides in her pocket. The air in the house never warms, never dries, but her breath is steady now, practiced. She sets out toward the shore with a kind of reverence, as though the cliffside path is hallowed ground.

Beneath her, the trench waits.

The data refuses to behave.

Depth sensors throw inconsistent returns—one cast reads two hundred meters, the next almost double, then less than half. It's as if the seabed reshapes itself when unobserved. She begins tracking it manually, making careful notations in waterproof ink. Sometimes she sits on the rocks for hours, just watching the pool, waiting for that moment the surface changes—when light bends too sharply, or the reflection disappears entirely for a breath. The equipment fails most when the pool is still.

The hydrophone pulses irregular static again. When she replays it later, there's a low harmonic in the background, a resonance too structured to be noise. It sounds less like distortion and more like something sung slowly into a cave, half-mouthed syllables on the cusp of meaning. She plays it backward, filters it, slows it down. The tone sharpens at 3:13 a.m. every night without fail.

The deep-sea thermometer probe dips past what she thought was the bed—then drops farther. A vertical column of heat pulses up through the trench like a breath. She plots it on a graph, sees the peak form a slow rhythm. Heartbeat, maybe. But of what? The ocean doesn’t breathe like this. The readings suggest something alive. Something huge. And moving.

Vials stack beside her bed, samples drawn meticulously, labeled by hand:

Bayrun Coastal Shelf – 04:02 – Dense fog, no wind – 17.6°C – Salinity Normal (Odor: Algae/Blood)Trench Rim, Low Tide – 03:47 – High humidity – 19.4°C – Salinity Elevated – Microbio. activity: ExtremeTidal Pool Center – 02:59 – No wind, mirror surface – 21.8°C – Heavy mineral content – Fluorescence under UV

The last one glows faintly at night. Not just under the lamp, but in the dark—soft blue like bioluminescence, though nothing in the water should emit it. She stores it wrapped in black cloth in the bottom drawer, but it stains the lining of the container with the shape of the tidepool spiral. No matter how tightly she seals the vial, a faint brine smell leaks out.

Her laptop syncs sporadically. Files duplicate without prompt. Timecodes revert to symbols she doesn’t type—looped curves, rough crescents, crude glyphs scratched over her own text. At first she thought it was a system glitch. Now she’s not sure the machine is hers anymore.

She uses analog instruments more often now—barometers, pH strips, a weathered compass that she doesn’t trust but carries anyway. Digital depth readers spike and go blank. The sonar device once returned a full page of blank screen… then a burst of frames so fast they burned out the LED.

She flipped through the printed screenshots later, one by one. In them, something rises. Shadowed, long, sinuous. Not a whale. Not a trench shelf. Something swimming—not past, but up. Her own coordinates are visible in the corner.

Rafayel speaks through the white noise again that night.

You’re measuring the shape of my reach.

She closes her eyes, not in denial—she believes him now, wholly—but because it’s easier to hear when she stops looking. Her ears ring with pressure. Her skin itches beneath her clothes. In the mirror, her pupils widen again. Her blood doesn’t feel cold anymore. The house creaks once—long and low—and the spiral in her palm burns like a whisper trying to get out.

When she logs the next morning’s entry, the pen moves slightly faster than she does. She thinks she wrote “Tide pull 04:31 – stronger than expected,” but the paper reads: Bride tide, 04:31 – responding. Her handwriting, but not her words.

The samples from the trench develop slick film across their surface, though no bacteria cultures explain it. When she leaves one uncapped on the desk for an hour, a ring of black residue stains the wood, spreading outward in delicate whorls like veins. She wipes it clean with bleach. It reappears two days later. Only this time it’s wider. And spiraled.

One night, just before sleep takes her, she places a contact mic against the vial itself and listens.

Thump.

She leaves the recorder running and pulls her knees to her chest on the bed, staring at the shadows creeping up the windowframe. Something low rattles in the pipes again—lower than human, not words, just want.

Another sample from the shelf gives her mild chemical burns along her wrist, like salt rubbed raw into the skin. Yet she doesn’t feel pain. The mark darkens to the same bluish bruise-tone as the spiral on her palm. Her flesh accepts it. Welcomes it. When she wraps it in gauze, she thinks she hears it sigh.

By the end of the second week, she no longer checks tide tables. She feels the shifts—tension winding through her ribs, a throb in the soles of her feet. Her dreams swim closer to the waking world. The data doesn’t frighten her anymore. The anomaly isn’t in the ocean.

It’s in her.

And it’s growing.

—

She only meant to shift the supplies—tea tins, spare batteries, backup reels of wire—but the shelf is unstable, and the warped wood beneath her boots gives at the wrong angle. The whole thing tilts with a shudder, toppling forward in a clatter of metal and broken glass. One jar rolls to a halt against the floorboard with a soft clink, then disappears.

It doesn’t bounce.

She kneels, fingers sweeping through dust and splinters, and finds the edge—slight but deliberate. A section of the floor depressed just enough to flex when weight shifted. Not warped. No damage. A hatch.

Her nails catch the groove, and with a slow tug, the board lifts. It comes up easier than it should. Someone carved this, not by accident but with purpose.

Beneath: a cavity in the joists, dark and dry. She expects mold, dead insects, maybe a nest. Instead, there’s cloth—old linen, sea-stained and brittle with time, bundled tight around a set of objects resting close together.

Three books.

She draws them out one by one, hands trembling not with fear but anticipation. The air around the hidden space is cooler, heavy with the scent of brine and something older—faint iron, damp leather, the brittle perfume of ink and secrets long sealed.

The first is the most mundane. A local almanac, bound in navy-blue cloth now warped and sun-faded. The title is barely legible in flaking gold: Bayrun Weather and Maritime Almanac – 1863. Its pages are thin and delicate, handwritten in looping script, filled with tide charts, eclipse diagrams, lunar phases, but annotated heavily in the margins with notes not found in any scientific ledger. She flips to a marked section and finds:

Fog rolled in too thick to see the shorelight. Birds are absent. Children woke crying—said they saw a man under the waves. Spoke no word, only watched. Sounded the bell twice, but it rang soft as if underwater. Marked the tide as unnatural. Moon still full.

Three sheep were lost. One was found gutted at the waterline. No prints. Clocks off by thirty-eight minutes across the harbor. Marked page again in case he returns. If so, note the shift in salt level and proximity of bride-dreams.

She reads it twice. The phrase bride-dreams sets her jaw tense. The rest sounds like… well. Her life, lately.

The second book is leather-bound, the cover engraved with a faded emblem she can’t identify—something between a sun and a spiral, ringed with toothlike flares. Inside, the handwriting varies. The first entry dates to 1714; the last ends abruptly in 1849. It's a compendium, not a journal—a passed ledger. The voices change from one woman to another, but the experiences rhyme like inherited nightmares.

I felt him before I saw him. My belly went cold. The sea didn't move but my skirt clung wet to my thighs. He walked the beach with no prints left behind. I stayed indoors three nights and still heard the song—inside the stove, in my sister's voice, even in the silence between waves.

When my child drowned, I dreamt of him cradling her in his lap. His arms are not flesh. They are current and hold. She smiled with her mouth closed. I woke up bleeding from the nose and the sea still in my throat.

My mother taught me not to speak his name. My grandmother did the same. It is not a name. It is a net. It binds both ways.

Each woman signs only with initials or not at all. Some pages are blank except for charcoal sketches—spirals carved into tideflats, a woman with gills beneath her breasts, children walking backward into the surf with their mouths sewn shut. Several entries mention the bound one, and once, a phrase repeated five times along the inner margin: He loves his brides, but he does not keep them.

The third book doesn’t have a title. No printing press touched it. It’s thick, hand-bound with thread pulled so tight through the spine that the leather buckles at the edges. Pages of vellum, some dyed with seawater or ink made from things she can't identify. Every line written in the same hand, the same strange, curving script—ornate, fluid, like runes softened by waves.

It’s not any known language. She knows this with the clarity of obsession. No alphabet matches it. No online translator gets close. But her eyes linger too long on one page and something happens. A shiver runs behind her teeth. Her fingers twitch, like she almost moved them to mimic the shape of the letters without deciding to.

She turns the page.

Her lips move.

No sound comes out, but her throat strains, and her tongue folds around syllables that have weight.

Memory or instinct? She doesn't know.

Some pages have diagrams—concentric shapes that make her skull ache when she stares too long. Not maps, not quite. Some show anatomical renderings, but not of human beings. One set of sketches details a long-limbed figure with gill slits beneath its jaw, eye sockets flooded with black, and barbs trailing from the back of the skull like fin-spines. The image disturbs her less than it should. Her first thought is: he’s older in this one.

On the final page, someone—perhaps the writer, perhaps not—pressed a crude print of a hand. Webbing between the fingers. Faint bruising at the wrist. Below it, three symbols: the spiral, a crescent-shaped hook, and the unfamiliar glyph that now sometimes appears on her laptop.

She sets the books aside and opens her recorder. Her voice shakes:

“Recovered three texts from the subfloor cavity beneath the north wall storage shelf. All materials water-damaged, pre-1900 origin, significant non-English script. Note repetition of spiral motif, reference to entity matching behavioral profile observed in trench recordings. Will attempt transcription of unknown script in controlled setting.”

The recorder flickers, static whispering between her breaths.

Then: a low, pleased sound, almost a sigh.

You’re reading me again.

She doesn’t flinch. Not anymore. She closes the third book gently and presses her fingers against its cover.

The leather is warm.

–

The dreams return like a tide slipping back in—unrelenting, certain, and no longer solitary. Rafayel still waits at their center, luminous and still as a pillar sunk into the sea’s blackest trench, his voice curling around her mind in the now-familiar cadence of ownership, of promise, of endless, tidal need.

But now there are others.

The voices of women begin to coil through her sleep like threads of song—high, strange, keening harmonies that feel older than the words they almost form. They move around her in the water, sometimes glimpsed only in flashes: a hand brushing her ankle, hair long as seaweed winding around her waist, eyes too dark, too deep to reflect anything but hunger. They speak in layered voices that echo without air, each syllable pricking along the edges of her ribs.

We were meant to be. But not enough. Not whole. Not her.

He called and we came. But the seals held. He needs one.

We are not bitter. We are not cast off. We serve now. We sing.

In dreams, they circle her, caressing—not possessive, not jealous, but reverent, even tender. They do not touch her like sisters or strangers. They touch her like offerings, parting her hair, brushing salt from her brow, laying bare her chest like a priestess being prepared for sacrifice—not to harm. To reveal. Their hands are cool, and never stray where they’re not allowed. It is not for them to claim.

Because he is always there.

Even when she cannot see him, she knows the difference in pressure. Her dreams deepen when he arrives, the water thickening like silk against her skin, every nerve lighting with his proximity. Rafayel does not announce himself with thunder or command. He enters her dream the way the sea enters a wound—slow, complete, inevitable and when he speaks, the other voices hush.

My bride. My blood-anchor. Mine.

Sometimes she sees him, rising from the deep—a shape of radiant shadow, chains across his chest humming faintly with light, strands of hair drifting like ink in a still tide. His eyes catch her like hooks, no cruelty in them—only a hunger so profound it bends reality around it.

He never asks.

He never forces.

But when he touches her—his hand against the small of her back, the pads of his fingers trailing along her thighs, his breath ghosting across her lips though no air moves—her body opens for him like water cleaved by oars.

His mouth never needs to meet hers, not in the dream, not yet. But she wakes each time gasping, tasting salt, her breath ragged and her inner thighs slick with need. Sometimes it’s sweat. Sometimes it isn’t. The sheets are damp in ways that defy comfort. Her tongue is coated in brine, her breath shallow, and always—always—she aches between her legs like she’s just been touched for hours by hands that knew her too well.

In one dream, she feels him behind her. Not pinning—holding. His fingers wrap around her hips like they were made for it, anchoring her in the water while his mouth moves along the nape of her neck. She can’t speak. Her voice doesn’t matter. Her body does. Her skin hums against him, her spine arches without thought, and his voice whispers through her skull, viscous and slow:

Let them sing. You’re mine. Only mine.

The others do not interfere. They chant now, low and ritualistic, floating in circles around the moment of her pleasure. Not jealous—joyous. Like midwives. Like attendants.

The seals break as she softens. As she opens. As she drowns in him.

They say this like scripture, over and over, as she feels his body grind into hers—not with violence, never—but inevitability. Pressure and heat and depth and the sense that she’s being filled not with cock but with presence. His need crashes into her like waves over reef, slow at first, then relentless, rolling until she shakes with it. No pain. Just stretch. Just belonging.

Her breath escapes in the dream—not moans but choked cries, hot and wet and helpless.

“Ahn—haa, Rafayel, fuck—” she gasps, even as seawater slips down her throat, and she comes in her sleep so hard her fingers curl into her pillow, her body bowing under phantom weight, thighs trembling violently.

She wakes soaked.

Every night now. She wakes tangled in damp sheets, her inner thighs sticky with arousal so potent it leaks down the insides of her knees. She doesn’t touch herself during the day anymore. She doesn’t need to. Every time she closes her eyes, he takes her again, fills her again, presses her against the ocean floor or cradles her in the trench’s arms and moves inside her like gravity itself.

He gives her pleasure so slow it shatters. So intense it rewrites.

The other women—if they can still be called that—appear during daylight, too now. At the corners of her eyes. In reflections. Their shapes never hold for long, only hints: long hair swaying in glass, a gleam of scales not on skin but woven into clothing, necklaces of tooth and driftwood. Their smiles are knowing, not cruel.

She reads more of the bound journal. The script comes easier now. She doesn’t translate. She understands.

The failed brides—they were not punished. They were repurposed.

They are the chorus. The keepers. The ones who cradle the seals between their teeth and keep them until the true one arrives.

And when they see her in the mirror, they nod—not with envy.

With relief.

She’s the one. The mouth of the deep. The ache in the tide.

He wants the ache of flesh and warmth, the pulse of blood he can taste in her wrist, the tremble of her thighs when he breathes against the back of her neck and her hips lift without asking. He wants her voice when she cries out and claws the sheets, drenched and delirious with how badly she needs to feel him again.

She starts sleeping naked, because clothes always end up soaked and just like every night, the song begins again.

One seal breaks. Two. Three. You call to him when you moan. We hear. He hears. So close. So close. Bride.

And in the deepest part of sleep, Rafayel whispers against her throat, words like fingers threading her open:

No more seals. Soon. I will rise for you.

And in her dream, she shudders, gasping—

“Please.”

–

The wind tore through Bayrun that afternoon with a ferocity not seen in weeks, but it wasn’t the kind of storm that made people batten hatches or rush home. It was the quieter kind, the mean kind, the kind that seeped into bones and whispered along windowpanes, insinuating itself into every frame, every gap in the wood. She pulled her coat tighter as she stepped through the iron-framed door of the town archives, the bell overhead ringing with a dull, waterlogged clunk as if weighed down by the salt air. The building itself was hunched like everything else in Bayrun—short, squat, dark as wet stone. The wood floors groaned as she walked, swollen from decades of damp. It smelled of old sea charts and mildew, of drying glue and rotting thread, of things forgotten on purpose and stacked too neatly to be casual.

The clerk—Reese, a man who looked like he’d once had a thicker neck and a thinner gut—rose behind the desk in the front alcove, his shirt yellowed where it had been white and his fingers callused around the spine of a naval log. He looked up the way people do when they know who’s coming before the door opens, eyes glassy with something between recognition and dread.

“Looking for something specific?” he asked, not quite hostile, not quite polite.

She offered a nonchalant smile, the kind she’d practiced for years. “Old maps. Tidal records. Anything that hasn’t been digitized.”

He hesitated for just long enough to matter, then nodded toward the back shelves with a twitch of his chin. “Past the shelving cabinet, left side. We’ve got boxes of unsorted material. Be careful. Some of it’s falling apart.”

She thanked him and moved down the aisle, her boots making soft sounds against the warped floorboards. She could feel his gaze stay on her longer than necessary—watching the way she moved, not with curiosity, but suspicion. As though she might reach into the shelves and pull out something she wasn’t supposed to know existed. And he’d be right.

The back alcove was colder, though the storm hadn’t crept in. It was the cold of things left untouched too long. The walls were lined with metal drawers whose handles had rusted, and thick folders stacked like sediment—nautical charts, faded ship logs, fragile ledgers wrapped in twine. She began slowly, leafing through the labeled folders, running her fingers down titles etched in ink long faded to a gray ghost of their former selves. But as the quiet thickened around her, her movements grew more deliberate. One folder yielded an old port registry, its cover cracked open along the spine. A map tucked between its pages caught her eye—dated 1836, Bayrun’s coastline sketched in heavy charcoal. The outline looked familiar, but a note in the margin sent a jolt through her chest.

“Spiral seen again. Low tide. Screaming from below.”

She folded it neatly and slid it into her satchel, fingers twitching slightly. No hesitation.

Another folder, mislabeled as export tax records, held a slim ledger with pages so thin she could see her fingers beneath them. Half the entries had been crossed out or sliced away entirely. Some had survived—one, dated in curling ink and no year she could make out, read plainly:

“Third seal intact. No signs of strain. Her dreams remain shallow. Replace charm at the bluff marker before the next moon cycle.”

Beneath that, scrawled messily in a smaller hand, as if by someone in a rush or on the edge of breaking:

“We don’t remember placing it. But it’s always there.”

Her hand trembled as she closed the book and slipped it into the deepest fold of her coat. The air behind her felt warmer suddenly, too close. She turned and found Reese standing no more than a pace away, his eyes narrowed as if he were seeing something beyond her shoulders.

“Find what you needed?” he asked, voice low, but too even to be casual.

She smiled again, slow and professional. “Still browsing.”

His gaze dropped to the bulge of her satchel, lingered, then slid away without comment. “Try not to remove anything,” he said flatly. “A lot of those haven’t been copied yet.”

“I’ll be careful.”

He didn’t follow her as she walked toward the front, but she felt his eyes on her back all the way out the door. The bell above didn’t ring when she pushed it open, as though something had placed a hand against it, muffling the sound.

The storm had thickened. Rain came not in drops but in fine mist so dense it hovered like breath. The town looked drained of color—gray stones, pale fog, the distant shimmer of water pressed against the horizon like a bruise. She kept her hood up and walked quickly, boots sinking slightly into the sodden gravel as she made her way toward the market row. The wind had fallen away into that heavy, electric quiet that came before something much worse. Her thoughts swam, heavy with maps, ledgers, notes that confirmed far more than she was ready to admit.

She almost didn’t see the woman until they collided at the edge of the street.

Anwyn stood there as though she’d been waiting. Her gray dress was soaked to the knees and clung to her thin frame, hair wild and loose, strands plastered against her cheeks. Her eyes, however, were dry—bright, yellow-ringed irises in a face lined by salt and time. Up close, she smelled of nettles and cold stones and something darker, something old.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, both wet, both silent, both knowing.

“You’re still walking upright,” Anwyn said at last, her voice soft but edged, like a knife wrapped in lace. “That won’t last much longer.”

The girl blinked, breath catching in her throat, the weight of the ledger pressing against her ribs. “Excuse me?”

Anwyn didn’t smile, didn’t laugh. She looked at her wrist—the one where the spiral still faintly bruised the skin—and then raised her gaze, locking onto her eyes with terrible gentleness.

“They’ve started, haven’t they?” she said. “The dreams.”

The words struck like a stone dropped in a well. The world around them faded. The rain kept falling, but it fell without sound. No people walked the street. The air pressed inward.

“You feel him even when you’re awake. That pressure. The heat in your chest. The tremble in your knees.” Her eyes narrowed, not cruelly. “You feel the ache. The way your thighs twitch when you hear his name. You wake soaked. Shaking. That’s not coincidence.”

She swallowed, mouth dry despite the rain. “What do you know about him?”

“Everything. Not enough.” Anwyn stepped closer. “You can’t unring that bell, child. Once it’s been sounded, it sings on its own.”

“I didn’t ring it,” she said, words coming too fast. “I didn’t mean to. I came here for research, that’s all—”

“No.” The word cut her off, quiet but absolute. “You came. That was the bell.”

She felt dizzy then, as if the earth had tilted slightly beneath her. The wind turned and curled around her shoulders. The sea, she thought, had turned to look.

“Is he real?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

Anwyn’s expression didn’t change. “He’s older than real. The sea made him because she needed something that would never leave her. And now he needs something that will never leave him.”

The storm gathered again around the corners of buildings. The grocer’s sign rocked once, twice. Something unseen knocked against the eaves above them—soft and slow, as if knocking to be let in.

“I remember your voice,” Anwyn murmured, lowering her hand to brush her pendant—carved bone, ancient and smoothed by decades of touch. “I heard it in the water. Before you ever came. Before you were born. You don’t think you belong to him. You do.”

The girl shook her head, backing a step, heart hammering. “What is he?”

Anwyn smiled then, a tragic thing.

“I stopped asking,” she said. “My mother asked. She came home one night with no tongue. The sea gave her back, but not all of her.”

The wind shrieked once across the open square, a long, high whine that didn’t sound like wind at all.

“He’s not coming,” Anwyn whispered, eyes unfocused now. “He’s rising.”

Anwyn didn’t speak right away. After that last sentence—He’s not coming. He’s rising—she seemed to retreat into memory, her gaze gone unfocused, her hand still resting lightly against the carved bone at her neck. Rain traced slow lines down her face and clung to her lashes, but she didn’t blink. The girl stood rooted before her, the ledger still tight beneath her coat, its weight a heartbeat against her ribs, and though she opened her mouth to ask something—anything—Anwyn spoke first.

“My great great aunt walked into the sea naked,” she said at last, voice thin now, spun from the same gray threads as the storm around them. “Smiling.”

The girl blinked, momentarily stunned. “What?”

“She was nineteen. Never married. Said she heard music in the fog—songs that tasted like salt and gold. Said she saw people dancing on the tide, with long hair and mouths that opened too wide.” Anwyn’s gaze came back to her then, steady and calm.

“She told her mother she wasn’t afraid. Said she wanted to meet the one who sang so sweetly. And then she walked straight down to the water without a stitch on her.”

“Did they stop her?”

“Found her footprints in the sand. Nothing else.” Anwyn looked past her now, toward the sea hidden behind the shops and homes, behind the fog and the pitch-black water beyond. “The tide came in wrong for a week after. Horses wouldn’t go near the bluff. Lanterns wouldn’t stay lit.”

She turned her head slowly, the rain dripping from her chin.

“They said it was the devil, back then. When I was small. Said girls like her were troubled, full of sin, and that the ocean knew how to spot weakness.” She gave a bitter half-smile. “Then they started calling it hysteria. Said it was fever. Or madness. Or women wanting escape.”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice to something more private.

“But it was never that. It was always him. Down there. Bound. Hungry. Loved.”

That word—loved—landed heavier than the others. The girl flinched without knowing why. Something in her belly tightened, not from fear, but recognition.

Anwyn’s gaze dropped to her again, sharp with meaning.

“He’s not cruel, you know,” she said. “Not unless he’s kept waiting too long.”

A gust of wind twisted down the alley beside them, flinging rain into the gaps of her coat, turning her hair wild around her face. The grocer’s sign creaked above them, a lonely, bone-dry squeal like a mouth trying to speak.

“They tried to erase him,” Anwyn continued, voice rising above the wind now, no longer whispering. “The men who came from across the sea with their new crosses and their clean churches. They built pews where tide-altars used to stand. Dug up stones etched with the spiral. Burned the ones who remembered.”

A pause. She took a long breath, closed her eyes.

“But memory doesn’t live in books. It clings to brine and lichen. It gets under fingernails and in marrow. And the stories… the stories waited.”

She opened her eyes again, and the girl could see something flickering behind them. Not madness—certainty.

“There were always mothers who whispered to their children, ‘Don’t go barefoot near the pools after dark. Don’t follow the singing. Don’t answer voices in the fog.’ Not because it was myth. But because the last time he rose—” Her mouth twitched. “It cost us. Cost her.”

The girl’s lips parted, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t want to stop this. She needed more, but not all at once. Anwyn’s words had the shape of a story not ready to be told in full. It was unraveling in slow, wet threads, and she knew better than to yank them.

“He hasn’t stirred in a long time,” Anwyn murmured, quieter now, as if talking to herself. “The water’s been calm. The pools shallow. But we’ve all felt it lately, haven’t we? That hush in the waves. That tilt in the tide charts. The sea holding its breath.”

The girl nodded slowly, almost involuntarily.

“I’ve been listening,” Anwyn said. “The birds fall silent in the morning now. The gulls don’t cry when the tide turns. And the wind keeps pushing people toward the shore.”

The words hung there between them.

Rain pattered harder against the rooftops. Somewhere, deep in the direction of the cliffs, a foghorn moaned once—distant and low, too low for anything still docked in the harbor.

Anwyn stepped closer once more, her presence overwhelming in its certainty. Not aggressive. Not threatening. Just… inevitable.

“The bride before you,” she said, and something in her tone cracked slightly. “She died protecting the village. Gave herself to stop him. Broke her own bond.”

That landed like a lead weight in her chest. Not fully understood, but undeniably true. The words slid through her like a key into a rusted lock.

“He hasn’t risen since,” Anwyn said, and looked her full in the face. “He’s waited.”

She could barely breathe.

“And now,” Anwyn whispered, “he wants her back.”

For a long time, neither of them moved. The storm pressed against them like a living thing, not roaring, not wild—just watching. Waiting. A soundless breath held by the sea. Anwyn stepped back first, her gaze lingering like the last warmth of a fire. Her fingers brushed the edge of her bone pendant once more. Then she turned.

She didn’t walk toward any destination. She moved into the narrow slit between the market wall and the butcher’s old shack, a place that should’ve held only shadows and runoff. But she slipped into it like it was a corridor, and vanished into the mist.

The girl stood alone.

Water streamed from the gutters and soaked the cuffs of her jeans. Her satchel pulled heavy against her shoulder, and in her pocket, the spiral-marked hand tingled faintly with warmth, as if something underneath the skin were beginning to turn.

In the back of her throat, the salt tasted sweeter than it should. Though she told herself she wouldn’t, her eyes lifted toward the fog, toward the shape of the shoreline beyond the rooftops because somewhere out there, just beneath the waves, something was remembering her, and it would rise.

—

The morning she chooses to go out on the water, the world is unnaturally still. The kind of stillness that feels deliberate, not passive. Fog has burned away in long silver skeins, the sky pale and dry as bone, the sea smooth as oil beneath her boat. The harbor is silent. No gulls circle. No engines hum. Even the wind holds off as if giving her space.

She doesn’t ask anyone for help.

By now, the town watches her movements the way one watches a sealed jar—half expecting something to hatch inside. She loads the rowboat herself in the gray light before sunrise, testing the balance of her instruments, checking the seals on the equipment case three times though she already knows it won’t matter. Her fingers tremble only once, when she presses the lid shut. Then she pushes off from the weather-beaten dock, the oars slicing through water that doesn’t resist.

No one sees her go.

Bayrun recedes behind her with all the slow majesty of a place surrendering to forgetfulness. The coastline flattens into a low smear of fog-washed cliffs, the trees along the bluff bending always inland, always away from the sea. She rows steadily, legs braced, eyes on the open mouth of the trench far ahead. Her breath stays even. Her pulse, not quite.

The surface of the water grows stranger the further she moves from shore. It no longer ripples in proper patterns. It glistens with too much clarity, reflecting the sky like glass that doesn't break when touched. Her oars leave no wake. The air grows warmer, though the sun hides behind high cloud.

She powers on the sonar.

It glitches immediately—just a quick chirp, then a whine that turns to silence. The hydrophone follows suit. No sound comes back from the water below. Not even ambient hum. Not fish. Not current. Just a vast and total absence, like the sea had swallowed its own voice.

She checks the wires, the settings. Nothing responds.

She drops a probe to take depth. The line spools for far too long. Then it jerks.

Not with tension. With breath.

She freezes. The boat sways once, gently. Not a wave. A ripple, as if something beneath her had exhaled.

Reaching the edge of the trench, she slows her breathing, leans forward slightly, and peers over the rim of the boat. The surface is black now, a perfect mirror of the hull, of her face, of the sky above—but deeper than shadow, deeper than water.

That’s when she hears it.

At first, it’s not sound so much as sensation. A vibration in the enamel of her teeth, a low thrumming that coils up the base of her spine and radiates outward. She presses one hand to her sternum, instinctively, and feels the resonance there—steady, ancient, calling. It isn’t music. Not exactly. It’s too slow for melody. Too long between tones. But it curls like singing, moves like breath, widens like a spiral.

The sound bends through pitch in ways that shouldn't be possible—shifting not from note to note, but from pressure to presence. It isn’t human. Not quite female. It has the rise and fall of something breathing through stormclouds. The syllables are felt rather than heard, rubbing against her bones with aching intimacy.

She closes her eyes and the world tilts.

The last thing she sees is the reflection of her own face on the water—except it isn’t moving with her. The eyes are open too wide. The mouth is slightly parted, like waiting to sing.

Then nothing.

No splash. No scream. Just absence.

She doesn’t know how long she’s gone. In the dream, the world is dim and silver, light diffused as though seen through miles of seawater. She floats without effort, body suspended in liquid too warm to be real. Around her, they come.

The sirens.

They don’t look like stories say they should. They aren’t fish from the waist down, and they don’t smile with needle teeth. They’re beautiful in the way tidal rifts are beautiful—long, soft-limbed things with hair like ribbons of kelp and eyes that glow too gently to be safe. Their bodies glide with a grace that doesn’t belong to vertebrates, and their fingers are too long, too knowing.

They circle her.

One drifts close, trails a hand along her jaw, then her collarbone, humming low and intimate against her shoulder. Another brushes past her thigh, hair tangling around her hips. Their skin is cold silk, smooth and endless. They don’t speak. They don’t need to.

Their humming fills her.

Each vibration burrows deeper, from skin to tendon to womb. She moans softly, breathless in the dark water. Her nipples harden from the chill of them, her thighs clench and then loosen, parted slightly without resistance. It isn’t erotic the way human touch is—it bypasses thought and goes straight to need. Her body accepts them like salt accepts blood.

And still, they do not take. They prepare.

Because he is there. Watching.

Rafayel.

He stands—or floats?—far beyond the others, past their circling limbs, past their caressing hands. The water around him glows faintly with pulsing gold. His eyes are black and full of it, rimmed in molten metal, fixed entirely on her.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.

He just waits.

The other sirens part around him like currents, always in motion, but never touching. They hum his silence into her skin. Their hands guide her closer. Every pulse of their song drives her toward him like a tide pulling inward.

He is the deep pressure waiting behind the whisper. He is the stillness in the eye of the storm.

Her heart pounds.

She reaches for him.

And wakes.

Her body slams back into itself all at once—gasping, lungs heaving. The sky overhead has shifted. Late afternoon, dimmed by cloud. She lies curled in the bottom of the rowboat, limbs splayed as if flung there, her throat raw and her lips cracked dry. The equipment is still dead. The sea around her is still slick, too quiet.

Her boat drifts slowly, aimless. Her hair is wet with more than sweat. Her clothes cling cold to her body, and her thighs ache. Not from exertion. From absence. Inside her skull, the echo of the song still hums faintly, too slow to be music, too deep to be silenced.She doesn’t remember rowing back. She isn’t sure she will.

That night, the song doesn’t recede with the tide. It lingers, expanding—an infection made of sound. It swells within the walls of the old house like moisture, seeping into the grain of the floorboards, the cracks in the foundation, the humming bones of the plumbing. The pipes vibrate faintly beneath her fingertips when she presses her hand to the bathroom sink, not with water pressure but with rhythm, soft and deliberate, the beat of something ancient just below hearing. The melody echoes faintly in every corner—low and layered, the same shifting harmonics that filled her chest on the water, now rising from the dark throat of the drain, coiling in the window glass, vibrating against her skin like a lover’s breath.

It doesn't leave when she leaves a room. It follows. She inhales and it’s in her lungs. She exhales and it thickens behind her teeth. She opens her mouth to speak and realizes her tongue already knows the next note.

When she looks into the mirror above the sink, her reflection doesn’t blink in time with her. Her own face is mouthing something—slow, rhythmic syllables shaped with quiet ecstasy. Her lips part gently, eyes half-lidded, lost in trance, and for a moment she watches herself, heart frozen. She isn't humming. She isn't making a sound. But the mirror-self sings without breath, lips forming each note of the sirens’ call with aching grace.

She backs away slowly. The mirror doesn’t.

She runs her palms down her face and finds sweat. Not from fear. From heat. Her body radiates it in waves, a pulse in her groin, a prickling dampness along the backs of her knees, the line of her throat. Every time she tries to think about anything else—about science, about sleep, about escape—the melody rises behind her eyes again like blood rushing up her spine.

She opens the journal, hoping for context, for relief, for instruction. The pages resist at first, damp and swelling at the seams, but she finds the entry scrawled between drawings of spirals and tide marks, the ink blotched with haste or desperation.

The sirens come when it’s time. They pull the chosen to the gate. He cannot unbind until the bride walks into the blood pool.

The words hit her like cold water poured over the crown of her head, running down her spine in jagged lines. He cannot unbind. The gate. The blood pool. She doesn’t know what it means entirely, but the word bride sets her jaw tight. She’s seen it too many times now. Heard it. Felt it whispered across her skin as Rafayel watched her from beyond the sirens, silent and burning.

Sleep offers no shelter.

She tries. She truly does. She lays down with cotton stuffed in her ears, a pillow pressed hard against each side of her head. She hums other songs under her breath—childhood lullabies, sharp dissonant noise, anything to drown it. She plays static through her phone’s speaker at full volume. But the melody slips around it all, threading through the fabric of her bones like something grown rather than heard.

When sleep takes her, it doesn’t hold her down—it lets her go. She doesn’t dream. She wanders.

She wakes kneeling in the tideflats beneath the full moon, her hands sunk into wet sand, the shoreline ghost-white in the mist. Her nightgown clings to her like a second skin, soaked through, transparent over her breasts and thighs. Sand is embedded deep in her knees, her hair tangled with kelp and sea-foam. Her throat burns with salt, her fingernails are cracked and full of grit, and her mouth is half open, still forming the melody like a prayer too old for language.

She stumbles upright, breath catching, and turns to look back at the house.

It’s too far. She doesn’t remember walking. She doesn't remember waking.

The tide laps gently at her ankles—warm, deliberate, like a hand stroking upward. The pools around her flicker with movement beneath their mirrored surface, flashes of long limbs and gleaming eyes beneath inches of still water. She steps back and the song surges louder, not in her ears but in her chest, blooming from her diaphragm outward like a second heartbeat.

She tries to scream. Nothing comes out but a note. One long, shuddering hum.

She plugs her ears. She clamps her hands over them hard enough to hurt, tears leaking down her cheeks, sobs pressed into the hollow of her throat. But the sound doesn’t fade. Her bones hum with it. Her teeth ache. Her spine thrums like a tuning fork struck by a divine hand.

She stumbles back to the house at dawn, barefoot, cuts on her soles from hidden rocks, feet torn and bleeding. Her sheets are drenched when she lies down, her skin still hot and salty, her thighs trembling faintly from exertion she doesn’t remember. When she presses a hand to her pelvis, she feels warmth still lingering, a low throb that has nothing to do with cold or fear.

She closes her eyes and tries to think of silence.

But all she hears is the song.

Calling her home.

The mood in Bayrun begins to shift in ways that no one names aloud. Doors close earlier. Window shutters that once creaked in the night are now reinforced with strips of rusted metal, nailed shut in hasty fear. The market stalls, usually left half-covered and open to the morning mist, are broken down entirely by dusk, their tarps folded so tightly they look shrink-wrapped, suffocated. A child stands in front of the chapel one evening, pointing silently toward the cliffs until his mother grabs him by the wrist and drags him backward without a word. The air holds its breath, and the townspeople follow suit.

She notices the salt first when she comes home—a fine white line, carefully poured across the threshold of her porch. It isn’t crude. Someone took their time, shaping it clean, evenly spaced, as if laying a charm rather than a warning. It crunches under her boot before she realizes what it is. No note. No signature. Just an act of trembling superstition, of protection offered too late to mean anything.

That night, the wind didn't howl. It moans. The sirens’ song crests just after midnight, rolling over the bluffs and through the cracks of her bedroom window like a tide drawn from the chest of the world itself. It isn’t gentle anymore—not the humming promise of dreams, not the sweet lure she once mistook for seduction. This sound is want, raw and visceral. Urgent, like fingers dragging silk off skin. It dances up her thighs, winds around her belly, slips behind her ribs.

The music aches. It caresses her name with notes too fluid for human tongues, rippling through the wood of the house, pressing against her heartbeat until her breath comes fast and shallow. Every part of her tingles—skin flushed, lips parted, nipples stiff beneath the cotton of her sleep shirt. The salt line on the porch should’ve stopped something. It didn’t. Her feet are bare before she realizes she’s standing, moving through the doorway like she’s being poured downhill.

The air outside is thick, humming with static. The moon hangs full and waxy above the tide pools, bleeding silver into the mist. Her soles find every sharp rock, every slick ridge of moss, and none of it hurts. She descends the bluff like someone following the path of a prayer half-remembered, her steps slow but sure, her eyes glazed and shining in the moonlight. No one calls after her. No doors open. The town has gone still, watching from behind curtains as she walks the path they all feared would open again.

Down at the pools, they wait.

The sirens.

They aren’t monsters. They’re nothing like the stories carved into old church pews or whispered through hymnals. Their beauty is overwhelming, not in its perfection, but in its wrongness—a kind of grace not built for land. Their bodies stretch long and soft, the curvature of limbs flowing like ink dropped in water. Hair sways around them in ribbons, dark as oil and lit from within, kelp-slick and moving even when the air is still. Their eyes glow a subtle green, not eerie but intimate. Safe the way a riptide is safe—if you stop fighting.

Their mouths part around the song, sharp white teeth glinting in flashes between syllables that taste like salt and sorrow. They do not speak to her, but the melody becomes her name, sung low and reverent, echoing off rock and wave. They part around her, arms outstretched in welcome, a procession of long-bodied sea-daughters carving a path to the tidal gate. Her feet splash into the shallows and the water doesn’t resist her. It embraces.

One siren brushes cool fingers along her jaw, tilting her face gently toward the sea. Another leans in and presses her lips to the girl’s wrist, tongue darting out in a slow, reverent lick. Their touch isn’t sexual—it’s sacramental. They hum into her skin as if reading her, mapping every inch of flesh like it belongs to them and always has. They don’t claim her. They honor her.

She is not afraid. She is home.

The moonlight strikes the pools at just the right angle, and the color shifts. What was silver becomes crimson. A stain blooms across the water’s surface—dark and thick and blooming outward in symmetrical spirals. Not blood from a body. Blood meant. The pool itself turns red beneath her feet, and the sirens cry out in unison, their final chorus cresting like the wave before the plunge.

And he rises.

From the deepest hollow of the trench, through the heart of the tidal gate, Rafayel emerges.

Naked.

Unbound.

His body breaks the surface like a god cast upward by a sea that could no longer hold him. Water streams down his shoulders, slicking over muscle and shimmer-slick skin that catches the moonlight in shades of opal and oil. His chest is broad, tapering to a torso carved in impossible beauty, marked faintly with the iridescent patterns of coral scars and luminous spiral sigils. Where legs should be, his lower body flares into a glorious tail—plum and cobalt, rippling with transparent fin-fronds, each edge lined in silver. It unfurls behind him in lazy, tidal sways, breathtaking in its grace.

His face is sharper than dreams. Jaw strong, cheekbones high, lips full and parted slightly as if breathing her name into the air. Eyes—those impossible, drowning eyes—glow with a light that isn’t reflected, but generated, blue fire threaded with gold, focused only on her. He does not speak. He doesn’t need to.

Rafayel watches her the way a storm watches the coast. Waiting for her to understand what she already is. When the pool thickens around her ankles, when her body shivers with need and belonging so deep it feels ancestral, her lips part too. The song is still in her, but now it’s not echoing. It’s calling back.

The moment her foot breaks the surface, the pool reacts. Not with ripples, but with light—subtle at first, a soft pulse like a heartbeat beneath the surface, then brighter, stronger, until the water glows with that same impossible radiance that lives in Rafayel’s eyes. She steps forward without hesitation, water climbing her calves, her knees, her thighs. Every inch of skin the sea touches comes alive, not with chill, but with sensation—like breath held too long and finally released. Gooseflesh blooms across her arms, not from cold, but from recognition.

Her heartbeat synchronizes with the melody echoing up from below, not separate from it anymore. It’s a measure within the song. She feels the rhythm in her chest, in her spine, in the curl of her toes against the silt. Her body -s to hum—not in sound, but in resonance. The water welcomes her like a lover's mouth, curling along her thighs, licking the curve of her belly, rising up to kiss the underside of her breasts with reverent slowness. The pulse of the sea is inside her now, each beat pulling her deeper, inviting, enveloping, inevitable.

The sirens, once circling, once watching, drop silently into the glowing pool around her, their long bodies sliding beneath the surface without splash or struggle. One by one, they vanish into the depths with elegant flicks of hair and tail, their eyes never leaving her until the last moment. Their song doesn’t fade—it submerges, a chorus continuing below, a hymn vibrating through the bones of the water, winding tighter and tighter around her soul.

Rafayel stands at the center of it all. Still and radiant.

He watches her the way hunger watches softness.

And then he moves.

He doesn’t swim—he glides, his tail propelling him forward in smooth, fluid arcs. His arms are strong and bare, marked faintly with bands of iridescent skin that catch the light as he reaches for her. Fingertips trail along the water’s surface until they meet hers.

When he touches her, the world changes.

“My beloved bride,” he says, and the words hit her like thunder breaking inside her lungs.

There is no question in his voice, no plea. It is not a title he grants her. It is a truth he names aloud.

Her fingers tangle with his. Her breath hitches. Her thighs press together instinctively, not to resist—but to hold in the tremble.

The water climbs higher. Her skin responds. It ripples where the ocean kisses her, as if remembering something it was never told but always knew. Her vision blurs slightly as warmth courses through her veins, not heat from within, but from beneath, the pulse of the deep seeping upward, finding her blood, her marrow, her womb. Her body arches slightly, her nipples tightening, her mouth parting in a gasp that becomes a moan.

Not pain. Not fear.

Release.

She doesn’t scream. She sings.

Her voice isn’t hers alone anymore. It carries the echo of every bride before her, of every offering the ocean accepted and claimed. The melody rises from her throat in unbroken pitch, long and clear, the language wordless but full. Rafayel’s eyes flare brighter, gold threading blue, his mouth slack with awe, lust and longing so old it makes her bones ache to match it.

As her voice rises, so does the light beneath the water.

The pool glows red-gold now, not blood but something more sacred—transition, consummation, awakening. Her thighs shudder as the water caresses her inner seams, flickering up the line of her back, fingers of current stroking the crease where her ribs give way to soft belly. She throws her head back and opens her mouth wider, voice breaking into layered harmonics. Her body begins to shift—not changing, not deforming, but yielding. No webbing. No gills. Just the ocean remaking its claim.

Her spine arches. Her skin gleams and the sea sings through her.

Rafayel groans low, a sound that vibrates the air, the water, her teeth. His chains—those thick bands of coral and metal coiled across his shoulders and chest—glow for one final moment, then begin to unravel. They don’t shatter. They dissolve, like salt kissed by rain. Thread by thread, link by link, they fall away from him, slipping into the water like offerings returned.

His body glistens, finally unbound. Every inch of him is glorious, terrible, divine. His tail lashes once in the water, powerful and beautiful, spreading arcs of color that ripple outward like wings unfurling. He floats toward her, weightless and full of purpose, and the tide accepts them both, closing above their heads as the surface shivers and stills.

The gate is open.

The bride is home.

It is not death. It is undoing—a peeling away of everything that tethered her to air and silence, a shedding of false anatomy, a molting of mistaken humanity. The moment the water closes over her head, the change begins. It isn't slow. It isn't kind. But it is necessary.

Something splits along her ribs—first one side, then the other—thin lines cracking open like mouths learning to speak. Gills, four per side, bloom like wet petals from her skin, dark and red and raw. She convulses, instinct screaming against it, and water floods her lungs. She thrashes once, arms clawing at the space around her as panic takes her—but the breath doesn't kill her.

It feeds her.

The salt slides deep, and the craving rises with it. Her body settles into the intake, ribs expanding in rhythm with the tide. The water is thick in her throat, but it moves clean, welcome. The panic fades like it was never real, only an echo from a world she no longer belongs to.

She opens her mouth, and the scream that bubbles forth is not of terror. It is of transcendence.

Her legs convulse violently, spine arching, muscles tightening to the point of tearing. She feels her bones shifting beneath the skin, warping, bending inward—not breaking, but folding, redrawing their purpose. Her thighs fuse at the seam, calves curling in, feet retracting as the skin along them splits open with a wet, slick sound. She chokes again, not on water, but on the rush of sensation as her flesh tears and heals in the same breath, smooth scales bursting forth like blossoms under heat.

It hurts. But the pain is holy.

Fins erupt from the center of her back, thin ridges of translucent membrane edged in violet light. More follow at her wrists, flexing instinctively like second hands, then from the backs of her thighs, flaring outward in slow, sensual arcs. Her pelvis breaks with a sharp internal crack, the sound drowned in water but felt—a moment of rupture, her hips narrowing, realigning. Nerve endings scream, then settle into place. Her stomach shivers, muscles clenching uncontrollably as something below opens.

A new slit forms where her thighs once met, the flesh parting slick and seamless, throbbing faintly with new need, as though awakened into a body designed to crave touch through current, not skin.

Her arms float outward. Her back arches. Her hair spills around her in coils of shadow and ink, dancing in slow loops through the glowing water. Her mouth parts, lips plush, eyes wide—and they are no longer eyes made for land.

They have gone silver.

Not gray. Not white. Mirror.

She sees him through them. And more—she sees herself. Reflected in his gaze.

Rafayel drifts closer, the light from the tidal gate shining off his skin, casting patterns across his chest, his tail, the long curve of his shoulders. His wings—those beautiful, finned extensions of tail and thigh—fan outward around him in weightless majesty. His eyes, glowing blue rimmed in gold, take her in fully. Not with hunger.

With reverence.

He reaches for her slowly, as if daring not to disturb the moment. His hand hovers just shy of her cheek.

“You were always going to return to me,” he breathes.

His voice ripples through her, vibrating through gill and bone and belly. It strokes the slit between her legs, teases the skin behind her knees, makes her scalp tingle with recognition.

“I made this body for you.”

The words land like gravity. Like the truth. Like destiny clicking into place after lifetimes of waiting.

She floats before him, panting, raw, made of light and blood and sea. Her reflection shimmers in the red-gold water around them. She does not reach for him.

She offers herself.

She drifts in the warm dark, suspended in the cradle of the sea, no longer tethered by gravity or breath. Her gills flex gently with the rhythm of the current, each pulse a song of survival made effortless. Her tail moves in slow, exploratory arcs, muscle alive with power she hasn’t yet tested but already knows. The water holds her like she was born in it, like she never belonged anywhere else. There is no fear, no question, just the hum of salt and blood and memory settling into place.

Rafayel floats just beyond reach, body gleaming where light touches his skin, his tail flicking once, lazily. He watches her—not with hunger alone, though it lives there in the depth of his eyes—but with something deeper. A kind of awe, as if even now, unchained, whole, he still does not believe she has returned.

His expression softens, something old in him unraveling. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, the words barely disturbing the water. No grand explanation. No lingering guilt. Just truth, offered quiet and unguarded.

She doesn't need to remember the whole story. It sits inside her like silt at the bottom of a still pool—something buried, but not gone. There had been fire in him once. Anger. Hunger. After they turned from him, when they scraped the altars clean and offered their prayers to another sky, he had risen with a fury that drowned the coastline in weeks of storms. She had stopped him—not with chains, but with her body. Her life. She had gone willingly into the depths and let the sea take her before he could take them.

But that was another life. And she is not that girl.

She is this.

She is the salt and the slit and the silver-eyed thing that now curls softly through the waves like a ribbon unspooling. She is not bound by sacrifice. She is made for him.

He drifts closer, his chest brushing hers, the heat of his skin shimmering through the cold tide. He looks at her as if he’s seeing his own reflection.

Voice low, reverent. “You are my very soul.”

She moves without hesitation.

Her arms wind around his waist first, then her tail follows, coiling around him in a slow, sure embrace. Their bodies fit together like current into hollow, each press of skin familiar, inevitable. He leans into her touch, baring his throat slightly, allowing her to lead—not in surrender, but in understanding.

He opens to her—not just arms, not just mouth, but every inch of him. His fins relax. His breath deepens. His body yields and she takes him.

The shift between reverence and instinct is seamless, like breath slipping into moan. As her coils tighten around him, Rafayel’s chest heaves once, muscles flexing beneath the shimmer of his skin. From the split at his groin, something begins to emerge—first one cock, thick and slick, unfurling like a flower beneath moonlight, then another, just as long, both veined with pulsing lines of blue and violet, glowing faintly at their base. The flesh is wet with ocean heat, ridged slightly, textured to drive her mad. Just beneath the head of each, knots swell gently, throbbing with restrained need—waiting, ready to claim.

She gasps, and the sound is broken music. Her newly formed slit answers before thought can intervene—flesh parting, pulsing, wet with readiness. The ache is unbearable in its precision, a demand her body was sculpted to meet. Instinct blooms. She knows what he is. What she is. What this is for.

Her tail winds around his like a noose of silk and muscle, pulling him flush to her, bodies tight as coral in tide. She grinds her hips forward, her slit guiding the first cock to her entrance, and the head slips past her folds in a single breathless moment—hot, hard, perfect. She moans aloud, voice catching as he fills her inch by inch, her inner walls twitching around him, slick suction drawing him deeper. Her arms tighten around his shoulders as the second cock presses low against the lower edge of her slit, insistent.

Her body shudders.

A pause—then her cunt opens again, wider this time, stretching impossibly. The second shaft pushes inward, a slow, impossible claim. Her slit seals tight around them both, muscles flexing in wet, rhythmic pulses as he sinks into the base. She feels full—not just stretched, but claimed, locked. The sensation is indescribable, a divine overwhelm. Her back arches, gills flaring wide, breasts heaving against his chest.

Inside her, the shafts shift—not independently, but together, rubbing, grinding, stimulating her from within. Her walls flutter around them, each throb pulling a cry from her throat. Rafayel moans low, mouth brushing her neck, hips rocking gently—not thrusting, but grinding, pushing deep in slow, tidal pulses. There’s no rush. No chaos. Only need. Only union.

“You take me like a god should be taken,” he breathes into her, voice breaking.

Her head falls back, mouth open in a wordless gasp as pleasure coils hot and hard in her belly. She clutches tighter around him, her tail moving in slow waves to keep their bodies pressed, sealed. The ridges of his cocks stroke every nerve, every ache, and the pressure builds inside her, exquisite and unbearable. Her moans rise higher, sharper, until they break into pure sound—a song, high and layered, ultrasonic, carried through the water like an aria of lust and divinity.

The sea responds.

Coral pulses open. Anemones flare. Shoals of fish scatter and whirl, moved to frenzy by the echo of her pleasure. She is more than a woman now. She is song.

His knots swell thick, stretching her even more. She groans into his shoulder, eyes rolling back, and Rafayel bites down gently—just above her collarbone. Not to wound. To mark. His teeth press into her skin with careful reverence, and that final pressure breaks her wide open.

He cums inside her—hot, thick, endless.

Each pulse is a shock wave, twin shafts throbbing deep, filling her with divine heat that floods every hollow in her. Her belly swells slightly, not grotesquely, but visibly, her skin tight and glowing where his seed fills her. She milks him with long, rolling contractions, her slit sucking around the base of his knots, locking tight, sealed. His moans mix with hers now, a duet of ruin and ecstasy.

Her orgasm hits like riptide, gills flaring wide, chest convulsing with each fluttering wave of bliss. Her cunt clamps down again and again, spasming around him, drawing him deeper still. Her hands clutch his shoulders, nails dragging over the iridescent skin, and she breathes him in—not air, not water—him.

All around them, the sirens begin to sing.

It is no longer mourning.

It is exultation. They float in concentric circles, arms raised, hair trailing in luminous coils, their voices joining hers in harmony. The sea vibrates with celebration, not worship, but witness. Their goddess has returned—not as myth, not as sacrifice.

As sovereign.

Rafayel holds her through it all, trembling, moaning into her mouth, still pulsing inside her as their bodies remain locked in holy aftermath. The tide has taken its bride and she has taken everything.

They remain joined for what feels like eternity.

No thrusting. No urgency. Just the slow, coiling aftermath—Rafayel’s knots sealed deep inside her, each slight movement a reminder of how completely she holds him. Her arms stay wrapped around his shoulders, her tail looped tight around his lower half, the fin of his spine fluttering faintly as his body pulses out the last waves of seed. Her belly is warm, stretched taut and glowing with fullness, her breathing shallow, more sigh than need. She doesn’t speak. She can’t. Words are for the land. Here, where breath is song and blood is memory, silence says more.

Rafayel rests his forehead against hers, glowing eyes half-closed, his expression open in a way it has never been—stripped bare of rage, of hunger, of pain. He looks at her as if trying to memorize her shape anew, though it’s clear he never forgot. His hands move slowly over her back, over the new slits of her gills, reverent fingers exploring her form with the patience of the

There’s nothing to forgive. The past has settled, the weight of her sacrifice diffused into this union, transformed from sorrow into something holy. His apology lingers in the space between them—not groveling, not weak, but true. And enough.

The sirens begin to fade back into the sea, their bodies streaming past in luminous lines, no longer needed as heralds or guards. They move with joy now, no longer haunted. The song they sang has reached its end, and the silence that replaces it is soft, sated. She watches them go, hair trailing behind like banners of ink, arms wide as they spin into the depths.

Only she remains, held in Rafayel’s arms, marked and filled, reborn.

Eventually, his knots shrink. Her body relaxes around him, the ache giving way to afterglow. He slips free with a soft moan, warmth seeping from her slit in slow ribbons, floating like oil in the red-lit water. Her body trembles slightly at the loss of him, but he holds her steady, mouth brushing her cheek, her jaw, her gills. Not as a god claiming a prize—but as a man reminding her: you are mine, and I am yours.

They rise together through the warm, humming water, their tails brushing, bodies entwined. Above them, the surface waits, silver and soft. The moon still glows, but it looks different now, smaller. Less important. The world up there is a faded thing.

She breaks the surface first, hair slicked back, face upturned. The sea kisses her lips with gentleness. Rafayel surfaces beside her, his hand sliding into hers without ceremony, fingers curling around the web of hers like he’d always been meant to anchor her here.

They float in silence for a time, looking not at the shore, but at each other. Below them, the water still glows faintly, the last traces of the union echoing outward. The wind brushes over the sea like a lover's breath, calm now, satisfied. The cliffs remain untouched. The houses above are dark. No one watches. No one dares.

She no longer wants to be seen.

She knows who she is.

They dive together, smooth as a bladefish, disappearing into the dark beneath. Her laughter carries once, light and strange, followed by his, lower, rougher. The sea swallows the sound and keeps it.

Beneath the surface, life begins once again.

#rafayel x reader #rafayel lads #rafayel ficrec

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actuallybean · 2 months ago

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Holy Virgin* | Part One

You've shared everything with Sam but one thing—your faith. It’s never been a problem… until Heaven turns its gaze on you, and suddenly, devotion takes on a darker meaning. *Contains sexual material, pregnancy, thoughts of suicide/attempted suicide, virginity and has some religious themes: Minors DNI Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader (Platonic), Castiel x Reader (Platonic) Tag list: @mostlymarvelgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing Part Two Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The motel was quiet. Not silent—never truly silent—but quiet enough that the hum of the overhead fan and the occasional rumble of a passing car felt like lullabies. You lay still on the scratchy motel sheets, your body clean, warm, and worn to the bone in that way only a successful hunt could leave you. You could still smell the smoke faintly on your skin—bonfire and salt and something ancient turned to ash—but it was fading now beneath motel soap and Sam’s shampoo.

You’d showered first, standing under the weak spray of lukewarm water until the last of the blood spiraled down the drain. When you stepped out, the mirror was fogged and your hands were shaking—not from fear anymore, just the comedown. The adrenaline. The ache of being alive when something else wasn’t.

Sam had followed after, quiet and steady, his eyes brushing over you with a tenderness he didn’t speak aloud. And when he emerged from the bathroom—hair damp, shirtless, low-slung sweats clinging to his hips—you were already curled beneath the motel comforter, your body tucked on your side, facing the wall. But you hadn’t closed your eyes yet.

Instead, you laced your fingers together, nestled them against your chest, and whispered into the stillness of the dark.

A soft prayer falls from yours lips, as you thank Him for always protecting you and those you love during hunts.

You didn’t speak it loudly. You didn’t even mouth it fully. But it was there—the syllables slipped into the hush like incense, warm and ancient. You never tell Sam or Dean what you pray for. Maybe it was habit. Maybe hope. Maybe just the stars. But after every hunt, after every night you made it back, you prayed.

You weren’t sure when Sam crawled into bed behind you—just that you felt the shift of the mattress, the tug of the sheets, the familiar creak of old springs adjusting to his weight.

And then…

You smelled him.

The faint, clean scent of motel soap clung to his skin—cheap and floral, a little too strong in places, like he hadn’t rinsed it all out. It was a smell you were learning to associate with safety. With aftermaths. With him.

And then his arm came around you, slow and heavy, anchoring you like driftwood in a storm. His chest pressed to your back, warm and solid and real, and that’s when you let yourself exhale.

You were home.

Well, not a real home. Not the kind with picture frames or dinner tables or front doors that stayed locked at night. But the kind of home that showed up in fleeting ways—two queen beds, a flickering lamp with a peeling floral shade, a half-empty mini bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, and Sam’s body wrapped around yours like a shield.

The hunt had ended hours ago. The creature was dead—bones burned, salt lines scattered, incantations spoken. Blood had dried under your fingernails before it was scrubbed away. The job was done. But your heart hadn’t stopped thudding.

You hadn’t quite come down.

Sam’s breathing was slow and deep behind you, the steady rise and fall of his chest a lullaby against your spine. You turned slightly, burrowing closer until your back pressed fully against him, your legs curling around his. You tucked your face into the pillow, whispered again under your breath: “Thank You.”

This time, it wasn’t just to the stars or to whatever god had their eye on you.

This time, it was for him.

You didn’t expect an answer. You didn’t need one.

But then you felt it—the soft brush of his nose against your shoulder, the whisper-warm press of his lips against your skin. He didn’t fully wake, but he shifted closer, his voice gravel-rough and dipped in dreams. “You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded slowly, your lips barely moving. “Just… grateful.”

He didn’t say anything more, but he didn’t have to. His arm tightened around your waist, slow and sure, until there was no space left between you. Just heat and heartbeat and breathing.

And then the world went quiet again.

Not silent.

But safe.

✦

The next morning, Dean was already halfway through a plate stacked with bacon, eggs, and something that might’ve once been hash browns, all glistening with grease, when you and Sam finally walked into the diner.

The little bell above the door jingled half-heartedly as you stepped inside, squinting against the pale sunlight streaming through the windows. You looked rumpled in the best kind of way—like someone who hadn’t planned on being out in public this early. One of Sam’s oversized flannels hung off your frame, the sleeves rolled sloppily to your elbows. It was unbuttoned, just barely covering the hem of your tee and shorts. Your hair was tied up in a loose, lopsided bun, like it had been gathered in the dark and forgotten. There were faint pillow lines creased into your cheek, and a slow, sleepy softness behind your eyes.

Dean looked up mid-chew, his mouth curling into a grin. “Well, well, look who finally decided to roll out of bed.”

You let out a quiet, tired groan and muttered something under your breath about coffee.

“Morning,” Sam said simply, placing a gentle hand on your lower back as he guided you toward the booth across from Dean.

Dean’s smirk widened as he leaned back, one arm slung casually over the back of the booth. “You kids have fun last night?”

Sam paused before sliding in beside you, giving his brother a pointed look. “We slept.”

Dean barked out a dry laugh, stabbing his fork into a sausage. “Yeah, sure. That why you were practically carrying her outta the motel? She looked like she could barely stand.”

You squinted at him, eyes narrowing as you slid into the booth beside Sam and grabbed a sticky laminated menu. “I was tired,” you said flatly.

Dean took a long sip of his coffee, eyes dancing with amusement. “Tired or blissfully exhausted?”

You raised the menu higher, hiding your face behind it. “Dead. On. My. Feet.”

Sam chuckled softly beside you, and you felt the subtle shift of the booth as his leg bumped gently into yours under the table. “Let it go, Dean.”

Dean wasn’t done. “Hey, no judgment. Just saying, you two strolled in like the end of a romance movie. All slow motion and heavy breathing.”

You dropped the menu just low enough to glare at him. “That’s rich coming from someone who once got kicked out of a diner for flirting with a waitress during her grandma’s funeral.”

Dean pointed his fork at you, impressed. “Touché.”

Sam cleared his throat, clearly trying not to laugh, and opened his own menu. “Can we please just order breakfast before this turns into a very awkward therapy session?”

You leaned your head on Sam’s shoulder, stifling a yawn. “Only if someone gets me a gallon of coffee.”

Dean raised a hand and flagged the waitress. “Pot of coffee for the lovebirds. Make it strong enough to revive the dead.”

You groaned again. “I hate you.”

Dean grinned wide, tossing a wink your way. “No you don’t.”

Sam shook his head, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he leaned in and murmured, just for you, “You know he’s not gonna let this go all day, right?”

You didn’t bother to answer. You just nudged his thigh under the table, sighed against his shoulder, and decided—if you had to endure Dean’s teasing—you might as well do it while stealing all of Sam’s pancakes.

✦

Back at the Bunker, it was like exhaling after holding your breath for days.

The iron door groaned shut behind you, the sound echoing through the halls like a sigh. The hunt was behind you now—another salt-and-burn, another corpse that shouldn’t have been walking around in the first place. Your muscles ached in that deep, good way, the kind of exhaustion that only came after surviving. Your body was bruised, bloodied, and sore. But your soul? That was something else. That was quieter now. Lighter.

You peeled off your jacket and kicked off your boots at the threshold like you always did, letting them fall in a clumsy heap beside the door. The stone floor beneath your socked feet was cold, the kind of cold that shot straight up your bones—but you didn’t mind. The Bunker was always cold. Even in the middle of summer. It clung to the air like memory. Like old ghosts still whispering in the vents. But it was the kind of cold you’d learned to love.

Predictable. Familiar. The kind of chill that said you’re home now. The kind of stillness you didn’t flinch at anymore.

Dean dropped his duffel by the war table with a huff and rolled his shoulders like he was trying to shake the weight of the week off. “Shower first or food first?” he asked without turning around, already toeing off his boots.

“Shower,” you and Sam said at the same time.

You turned toward each other, a small surprised laugh shared between you. Not like it was the first time. You always answered in sync.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Jesus. You two are worse than an old married couple.”

You smirked. “Then you’re the crotchety brother-in-law who eats all our snacks.”

“Damn right,” he muttered. “Fine. You two go steam it out. I’ll make grilled cheese or something.”

“Use actual butter this time,” Sam called after him, already tugging you gently by the hand toward the hall that led to your rooms.

“I did use butter last time,” Dean shouted from the kitchen.

“No, you used mayonnaise,” you called back, voice fading as Sam pulled you around the corner. “There’s a difference!”

There was no rush to the shower. No frantic energy. No giggles or teasing touches. You both just… needed it. Needed the quiet. Needed the warmth. Needed the space to come back into yourselves.

The bathroom was softly lit, steam beginning to cloud the mirror as you stripped out of your layers—your tee, his flannel, the jeans stiff with salt and sweat. Sam moved behind you in silence, fingers brushing your spine as he unhooked your bra, careful and gentle like always. When he undressed, he didn’t make a show of it. There was nothing sexual in the way you stood bare before each other. It never was.

Tonight, it was about washing the blood off your hands.

The water was hot—just shy of too much—but you leaned into it anyway. You let it sting your sore muscles, let it run over your shoulders and down your back as if it could carry the weight of the hunt with it.

You stood under the spray while Sam reached for the little bottle of lavender soap you always packed. It was nearly empty now, the cap cracked, the label faded from years of use. You’d had it since your first solo hunt. It smelled like the laundry detergent your mom used when you were a kid. Like sun-dried sheets. Like nights falling asleep in freshly folded blankets and being carried to bed.

It smelled like safety.

Sam poured a little into his hand and stepped close. He worked it through your hair slowly, reverently, his fingers rubbing gentle circles into your scalp. He didn’t ask if you wanted him to. He never did. He just knew.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

The shower didn’t last long. Just enough to feel clean. To feel new again. Like maybe you weren’t just a killer with a rosary in her drawer, trying to make peace with ghosts and God alike.

Wrapped in a towel, you padded barefoot down the hallway with water still clinging to the ends of your hair. Sam was a few steps a head, shirtless, a towel slung low around his hips as he disappeared into his closet in your shared room to get dressed.

You stepped into the room.

It smelled faintly of dust, lavender soap, and old paper. The bed was still rumpled from the last time you both had slept there, sheets half-kicked to the floor. You sat at the edge and reached for the drawer of your nightstand.

There it was.

The rosary.

Black beads, worn smooth in places from years of nervous fingers. The cross was small, cool to the touch, and a little bent at the tips where it had caught on jackets or belts or the lip of your duffel more than once. But you always kept it close. Not because you believed in everything the Church told you. Not anymore. Not after everything you’d seen.

But because it was yours. Because it reminded you of before.

You sat on the bed, the towel tucked tight around your chest, your damp hair curling slowly against the nape of your neck. You held the rosary in both hands, carefully, reverently, like it might break under the weight of your guilt. Or maybe your hope.

Sam stepped out of the closet, now dressed in sweats and a faded tee that clung to his chest, hair still damp. He paused when he saw you, hand braced against the frame.

He stilled.

But he didn’t say anything. He never did.

You didn’t hide it from him. You never had.

You lowered your head and closed your eyes, your fingers finding the crucifix as the rhythm slipped easily from your lips, soft and sure, like breath.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..

The words were old. Older than the monsters you fought. Older than the salt circles and hex bags. And in a world where nothing stayed sacred for long, they still felt like a kind of armor.

You could feel Sam watching you. Not in judgment. Not even curiosity. Just… presence.

You’d felt it since the first time he caught you praying years ago. You thought it might scare him off, the girl who slept with a knife under her pillow and a prayer on her lips. But it hadn’t. He never asked you to stop. Never interrupted. He just watched. Quiet. Steady.

Like now.

You finished slowly, your voice a whisper swallowed by the walls.

…now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

When you looked up, Sam hadn’t moved. He stepped in a moment later, knelt in front of you where you sat on the edge of the bed. His hands came up gently, resting on your knees.

“Do you feel better when you do that?” he asked softly, eyes never leaving yours.

You nodded, fingers curling the rosary back into your palm. “It helps me remember who I was. Who I’m trying to be.”

Sam’s brow furrowed just slightly, the way it always did when he got emotional and didn’t know what to do with it. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your knee. Then another, just above it. His hands were warm.

“You’re good,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to earn that.”

Your throat went tight.

“I know,” you whispered. “But sometimes I forget.”

Sam stood and climbed onto the bed beside you, tugging the blanket around your shoulders. You curled into him without thinking, head resting on his chest, the rosary still clutched in your hand.

Outside your room, the Bunker stayed cold. Still. Waiting.

But in here?

You were warm.

✦

Dean made grilled cheese, and it was good. Greasy, extra crispy, slightly burnt at the edges like always—just the way he liked it, and just the way you’d grown to expect. He used the cast iron skillet because he swore it made a difference, and despite the years of wear, it still hissed like a living thing when butter hit its surface. The kitchen smelled like comfort: toasted bread, sharp cheddar, and salted butter sizzling into golden brown perfection.

You ate curled up on the couch in the library, legs tucked under a throw blanket that had more holes than thread. The bunker’s overhead lights were dimmed to their warmest glow, and the cold concrete walls didn’t feel so stark tonight. Sam sat nearby, a thick old book on Norse mythology propped open on his lap, one foot resting on the coffee table, the other bouncing gently in rhythm with the jazz record Dean had forgotten to turn off. He read with his brow furrowed, thumb tracing lines of faded runes, but he wasn’t really reading. You could feel it in the way his eyes kept flicking toward you—soft, sidelong glances that landed like quiet prayers.

The day passed like that—lazy, low-lit, thick with the kind of silence that only ever came when everyone was safe. You dozed once, head heavy in Sam’s lap, your breathing slow and mouth parted slightly in sleep. At some point, Dean wandered in, smirked, and snapped a photo with a muttered, “New contact photo.” You didn’t stir. Sam just shook his head with a fond smile, brushing your hair back from your face like it was something sacred.

“She looks peaceful,” he murmured.

“She looks like she got hit with a tranq dart,” Dean said, grinning. But even he said it softly.

Later, the record changed. Sam switched it out for a crackling old blues LP, the kind you’d imagine playing in a smoky bar just after last call. You’d pulled out a dog-eared copy of Mere Christianity from the shelf—one of your oldest companions on long, wandering nights—and curled back up in the crook of the couch, flipping the fragile pages with slow reverence. Sam didn’t tease. He never did. Not when you read books full of saints and martyrs and metaphysical longing. Not when you underlined phrases like hope is one of the theological virtues or if I find in myself desires nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.

He watched you sometimes, like he was trying to decipher you—not to fix you, not to challenge you, just to understand. To see what you saw. Like maybe if he looked long enough, he could feel it too—the stillness, the pull, the God you believed in even after all the things you’d seen.

When you got up before dinner to kneel quietly in the corner of the room, he didn’t say a word. He never did. He just turned the music down and kept reading.

✦

That night, after the dishes were done and Dean retreated to his room with a beer and some noir movie humming faintly through the wall, you climbed into bed beside Sam. The covers were heavy, warm with residual body heat, and smelled faintly of cedar soap and clean cotton. As soon as you slid beneath them, you turned toward him out of instinct, curling close. His arm slid around your waist without needing to be asked. You fit there like you'd always belonged.

For a long moment, there was only the soft hum of the Bunker—the buzz of distant fluorescents, the hum of old pipes, the whisper of breath against skin.

“You prayed a long time tonight,” Sam said, his voice just above a whisper, as though to break the quiet too sharply would undo it.

You nodded, head resting beneath his chin. “Felt like I needed to.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, though the pause that followed was full of something heavier. “Just… thinking about my friend. The one who got possessed when we were sixteen.”

Sam didn’t speak. Just waited. You loved that about him—his patience. His ability to leave the silence untouched until you were ready.

“She used to say awful things,” you said quietly. “When the demon was in her. Twisted stuff. Bible verses, but warped. And after we exorcised it… she wouldn’t go near a church again. Couldn’t even look at a crucifix without flinching.”

You swallowed.

“But I did. I kept going. Not because I wasn’t scared, but because I had to believe there was something stronger than that kind of evil. Something bigger. Holier. Something good.”

Sam's hand moved slowly along your arm, not to comfort, but to remind you he was there. Listening.

“You found it?” he asked, after a moment.

You turned your face into his chest, voice muffled. “I thought I did. Still do, most days. But it’s quieter now. Harder to feel.”

Sam pressed a kiss to your forehead—gentle, grounding. “You’re the most faithful person I’ve ever met.”

You smiled faintly, eyes already slipping closed. “You never tease me for it.”

“I admire it,” he said. “Your faith. The way it holds. Like a spine.”

“I wish I could share it with you.”

“You do,” he whispered, tucking his chin against your hair. “More than you know.”

You drifted off wrapped in his arms, the weight of the world falling away with every breath. Warm, anchored. Your prayers still lingered like incense behind your ribs—half-spoken, half-remembered, all holy in their quiet ache.

And in the farthest corner of Heaven, something stirred. Something ancient, something watching.

And something listening.

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sunsetmade · 1 month ago

Text

Two Left Feet

Rafe Cameron x Clumsy! Reader

Summary: Rafe’s girlfriend had always been clumsy—it was just part of who she was. And somewhere along the way, without meaning to, Rafe had started living differently—like his entire purpose had shifted into something simple and instinctive: protecting her.

Rafe had always known she was clumsy. He figured it out on the first day they met, when she tripped on the curb outside the gas station and nearly fell into his chest. He hadn’t even said anything at first—just steadied her with both hands on her hips and stared at her like she was something strange and soft and fragile. She’d apologized, cheeks burning, and he’d just grinned and said, “You good, princess?” like she hadn’t almost face-planted into the pavement.

He liked it, though. That softness. That flustered way she’d look at him. It made him feel—needed. Like he was allowed to take care of someone for once.

Now, months into their relationship, Rafe knew all her patterns. He knew how her feet liked to betray her, how her balance didn’t always show up to work. He could spot the moment before she bumped into a table or missed a step. And every single time, he was there—quiet, steady, and a little smug.

It was little things, at first.

At parties, when the floor got too crowded or someone bumped into her too hard, Rafe would slide his hand down to her hip and hook his fingers through her belt loop. Not possessive. Just… careful. Anchoring her. Like he knew she’d get jostled and stumble into someone’s beer-soaked shoes if he didn’t.

“Stay close,” he’d murmur, brushing his nose against her temple and kissing her cheek like it was nothing.

She always blushed when he did it. But she’d nod, every time, and scoot back into the safety of his side, the denim of her jeans tugging slightly where he kept hold of her.

One night, at a party Kook-style bonfire on the beach, it was worse than usual. She was wearing sandals—bad choice. The sand was uneven and there were crushed cans and driftwood hidden beneath the surface, just waiting to mess with her.

She caught her toe on something sharp and stumbled forward. Would’ve eaten sand if Rafe hadn’t been standing behind her with his hand already halfway to her waist. He caught her easily, arm wrapping around her middle, and tugged her upright like she weighed nothing.

“You alright?” he asked into her ear, a little grin on his lips even as his brow creased with concern.

“I’m fine,” she said, breathless, brushing sand off her knee.

“You weren’t watching where you were walking again, huh baby?”

She made a face making him shake his head with a chuckle.

“Okay, new rule,” he said. “If you’re walking anywhere near wood, fire, or dumbasses with drinks in their hands, I’m holding onto you. Deal?”

She bit her lip to hide the smile. “Deal.”

⸻

It wasn’t just parties.

Rafe learned to walk on the street differently, too. She had a tendency to drift—step too close to the road, get distracted by her phone, or forget to look both ways. So he started doing it for her.

Whenever they walked down sidewalks or across parking lots, Rafe would quietly switch sides so he was between her and the cars. Sometimes he didn’t even realize he was doing it—just a natural instinct now.

She noticed, though.

Once, when they were walking downtown and the light changed, she didn’t realize how close she was to the edge of the curb. A car turned the corner a little too fast, and before she could even flinch, Rafe’s arm shot out across her chest.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t make a scene. Just stepped into her space and gently guided her back with a hand on her waist, his body shielding hers like it was second nature.

“Jesus,” she mumbled, staring at the car that sped off. “I didn’t even see it.”

“You don’t usually,” Rafe said, his voice warm but teasing.

He didn’t move his hand from her waist. Just stood there for a second, close enough to feel her heartbeat flutter against his chest.

“You okay baby?” he asked more quietly this time.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead tugging her close again. “You seriously need a bubble or something.” She just shrugged leaning into his side.

She didn’t mean to be clumsy. It was just how her brain worked—always thinking of something else. Daydreaming, distracted, heart too full to always track where her feet were going.

Rafe never made her feel bad about it. He just… worked around it. Like he’d memorized all the things that could go wrong and made it his job to stop them.

Once, she was trying to help him carry boxes into his truck. She’d insisted—“I can carry things, Rafe, I’m not made of glass.”

And she did carry them. For about ten steps.

Then she missed the bottom stair and fell forward hard. The box flew out of her hands and she hit the ground with a surprised yelp.

Rafe was on her in seconds. He didn’t even ask if she was okay at first—he just knelt beside her, cupped her face, and scanned her with those sharp blue eyes like he was checking for broken bones.

“Where’d you hit?” he asked quickly. “Baby, talk to me.”

“My knee,” she said, cringing.

He looked down. A scrape. Not bad, but it was already bleeding.

He exhaled hard and stood, scooping her up like it wasn’t even a question.

“Rafe—!”

“Nope,” he said firmly. “You’re done carrying things.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, cheeks flushed, while he carried her inside and set her down on the couch. A moment later he came back with the first-aid kit.

She expected him to be annoyed. But he pulled her into his lap inspecting her ankle before cleaning the scrape like it was the most important thing in the world.

“You’re always looking out for me,” she whispered.

He glanced up, eyebrows raised. “Someone’s gotta.”

Her eyes softened.

He pressed a Band-Aid to her knee and kissed it gently, then smiled. “There. Now stop fighting me when I tell you to let me help.”

Some of his favorite moments were the quiet ones—like when they were walking back to his truck after a late-night grocery run.

The parking lot was slick with rain, and she almost slipped on the paint of a handicap symbol. Rafe caught her, as usual, muttering “gotcha” as he pulled her upright by the belt loop again.

After that, he just kept his hand there. Loose and casual but steady. She walked a little slower, careful now, and Rafe let the silence settle between them, his thumb brushing back and forth against the denim.

He liked that she trusted him. That she leaned into his touch without thinking, like her body already knew he was her safe place.

When they got to the truck, he opened the door for her, made sure she was in and buckled, then tossed the groceries in the back.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he looked over at her. “You really would’ve gone down hard if I wasn’t there.”

“Probably.”

He smirked. “You ever think about what you’d do without me?”

“I’d have a lot more bruises.”

He laughed, leaned over, and kissed her cheek settling his hand on her thigh. “Damn right.”

The thing was—he wasn’t always soft about it. Sometimes Rafe got mad when she got hurt, even if it wasn’t serious. Like her being in pain made something twist in his chest.

One quiet afternoon, she reached up into the kitchen cabinet for a mug, stretching on her toes. She didn’t notice the glass bowl teetering on the top shelf—at least, not until it crashed down beside her with a sharp, echoing shatter.

She gasped, stumbling back a second too late. The glass splintered across the floor, and a sharp edge grazed her ankle on the way down. She winced, breath hitching, and looked down to see blood beginning to pool, bright against her skin.

Rafe heard it from the other room—the crash, the yelp, the silence that followed. He rounded the corner fast, eyes scanning the mess. The second he saw her—standing frozen in the middle of it all, one hand braced on the counter, blood trailing down her leg—he stopped cold.

Only for a second.

Then something in him flipped. “Don’t move,” he ordered, voice low and cutting through the air. “Stay right there.”

She stilled, blinking like she hadn’t expected the edge in his voice.

He didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in three strides, grabbing a dish towel from the oven handle on his way. He crouched in front of her, ignoring the glass under his knees, and wrapped the towel firmly around her ankle, hands steady but tight, movements deliberate.

“Rafe, it’s not that bad—” she started, wincing.

“Not that bad?” he echoed, looking up at her, jaw clenched. “You’re bleeding. And you’re standing in a pile of broken glass.”

She tried to shrink back, but his touch didn’t waver. Not rough, just focused. His brows were drawn tight like he was trying to hold something in.

“I just wasn’t thinking,” she murmured.

He sighed, quieter this time. “That’s the problem,” he said, eyes locked on hers. His voice dropped, something raw flickering in it. “You never think about how easy it is for something to go wrong. How fast it can happen.”

Her throat tightened. There was something in the way he said it—like it wasn’t just about the cut on her ankle. Like it was about every reckless second she underestimated how breakable she really was. And how much that terrified him.

She looked at him, sad and soft, and gently reached out, brushing her fingers against his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

He closed his eyes at the touch, like her hand steadied something in him. “I just… I hate seeing you hurt,” he murmured.

“I know,” she whispered, thumb grazing his cheekbone.

He helped her over to the couch, arms under her like she weighed nothing. Once she was settled, he disappeared for a moment—only to return with the first aid kit, quiet and efficient as he cleaned the cut and wrapped it with gentle hands.

Then he stayed there, seated beside her, her foot resting in his lap like it belonged there. He didn’t say much. Just traced soft circles against her skin with his thumb, over and over, eyes down and brow furrowed. Like he needed the quiet. Like he needed to feel her there—solid, safe, breathing—in order to calm the storm still raging under his skin.

A few nights later, they were at a small get-together at Topper’s. The backyard buzzed with lazy music and the low hum of drunken laughter, tiki lights flickering in the warm breeze. Rafe had one arm slung over the back of a patio chair, half-listening to Kelce ramble about some dumb bet he’d lost, but his attention—his instinct—was somewhere else entirely.

She had been beside him a moment ago. He was sure of it.

Rafe glanced to his left, expecting to see the familiar shape of her shoulder brushing his, maybe feel the tug of her belt loop hooked around his finger like always. But his hand came up empty. The space beside him was cold and quiet.

His brows furrowed. He straightened in his seat, eyes scanning the dim glow of the backyard.

“She was just here,” he said under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else.

Kelce kept talking. Rafe didn’t care.

The party blurred around the edges of his focus as a low, unsettled buzz started in his chest. He rose slowly, methodically, like he was trying not to give away the sudden tension threading through his shoulders. A hundred possible things went through his mind, none of them reasonable, but every one of them too loud.

He weaved through the yard, past the fire pit, eyes searching. No sign of her near the snacks. Not by the cooler. Not tangled up with one of the girls on the porch swing. She wasn’t anywhere.

Where the hell did she go?

Rafe ducked inside the house, jaw clenched tighter now, steps heavier. The kitchen was empty except for a couple making out by the fridge. The music from the living room was louder in here—Topper’s playlist cycling through something slow and reverb-heavy—but her laughter didn’t cut through it.

Not in the hallway. Not in the bathroom.

He passed by the guest bedroom, then paused outside the den.

The door was cracked open, light from the hallway slipping across the hardwood. It was quiet in there. Still.

He pushed the door open with the heel of his hand—and there she was.

Curled up on the couch in a little crescent, her shoes kicked off and one arm tucked beneath her head like a pillow. A throw blanket had half-fallen over her legs, tangled with a soft pillow she was hugging to her chest. Her hair was messy from the wind, one hand still loosely curled as if she’d drifted off mid-thought.

Rafe stood there for a second, heart exhaling all the pressure it had built up. Relief hit him so hard it made his chest ache.

She was okay. Just… tired. Curled up like a cat and remote to the world.

He stepped inside quietly and crouched beside the couch. His hand reached out automatically, brushing her hair away from her cheek with the backs of his fingers. Her skin was warm, her breathing even. She stirred at the touch, lashes fluttering open slowly, eyes glassy with sleep.

“Hey,” she whispered, voice all drowsy and soft with a sweet smile.

“You wandered off,” Rafe said, but the edge he’d felt earlier had vanished from his voice. Now it was just low and careful.

Her eyes blinked again. “Got sleepy. Didn’t wanna bother you.”

He shook his head with a quiet, breathy laugh. “Bother me? You think I’m not gonna notice when you’re not next to me?”

She gave a sleepy little shrug, cheek pressing deeper into the couch cushion. “You were talking.”

“I was pretending to listen to Kelce talk about poker,” he corrected, smirking. “Not the same.”

She gave the smallest smile, already drifting again.

“Next time, just tell me, okay?” he said, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “Don’t like not knowing where you are.”

“Mmkay,” she mumbled, reaching out blindly for his hand.

Rafe took it without hesitation, her fingers cold and small in his. He held them gently, like he always did—like she might float away if he wasn’t careful.

“You wanna go home?” he asked softly.

She nodded against the couch cushion. “Only if you drive.”

His mouth curved upward. “Always.”

With a soft grunt, he slipped an arm under her legs and the other behind her back, lifting her into his arms before she could even protest. She curled into his chest instinctively, head tucked beneath his chin, her body boneless with exhaustion.

As he carried her out of the house, he ignored the way Kelce raised an eyebrow or the look Topper shot him from the porch. None of it mattered.

What mattered was the way she sighed quietly against his hoodie, trusting him to carry her through the noise.

⸻

One night, wrapped up together in the quiet hush of their bedroom, she laid nestled against him, legs tangled with his under the sheets. Her fingers moved slowly over his chest, drawing idle shapes, soft and thoughtful.

“You always take care of me,” she whispered, barely louder than the hum of the ceiling fan.

Rafe turned his head, his eyes heavy with sleep but warm as they met hers. He didn’t smile right away—just looked at her for a moment, like he was trying to memorize her voice, the curve of her mouth when she said things like that.

“You let me,” he murmured back, voice rough with exhaustion and something deeper.

She leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth—tender, grateful—then settled back down on his chest, her head rising and falling with his steady breaths.

“That belt loop thing you do?” she said after a moment, voice muffled against his skin.

“Yeah?” he asked, already grinning a little, even before she answered.

“I like it.”

His chest shook gently with a laugh. “Good,” he said, reaching down to run his fingers through her hair. “Because I’m not planning on ever letting go.”

And he didn’t.

Not when they went to the beach and she almost tripped over a rock—he had a hand at her waist in a second.

Not when they were out with friends and she almost walked into a glass door—he caught her shoulders, pressed a kiss to the back of her head, and whispered “Careful, baby.”

Not when she tripped going up the stairs, again, and he just sighed, picked her up, and carried her the rest of the way, muttering “Unreal. You’re a hazard.” with nothing but love in his voice.

He held her belt loop when they walked through crowds. Pressed a hand to her back when the world got chaotic. Protected her like it was written into his bones.

And she let him.

Because being loved by Rafe meant being protected. It meant fingers curled in denim and kisses to scrapes and teasing threats to bubble-wrap her.

It meant he saw her. Knew her. Every messy, clumsy part.

And he loved her exactly like that.

#outer banks #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron fanfics #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe imagine #rafe x reader #rafe cameron x reader #obx fic #obx x reader #rafe cameron #rafe outer banks #rafe fluff #rafe fanfiction

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bullet-prooflove · 1 year ago

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Okay! Since you said I could! I'd love it if you'd try (if you're up for it) if you did, "you were never what I expected" with Reacher!! If you ever feel like writing him, this will be here, lol! I'm glad you like the show!

Tagging: @kmc1989

Reacher finds you in a seaside cottage in Maine. It looks like something out of a fairytale, white washed with a grey roof, honeysuckle running up the outside. The garden is lush, well cared for. Not the place he expected to find the world’s foremost Intelligent asset.

There have always been rumours about The Rose, nothing substantial. He’d thought you were just a myth but then he’d received the packet that Joe had left for him, one that was to be delivered only in the event of his death.

He watches you for a while from the woodland on opposite side of the cottage, trying to get a read on you. You spend a lot of time in the garden with your dog Poppy, the collie snoozes in the shade as you weed the flower beds diligently. That garden, the attention you give to it, it shows focus and dedication, traits that served you well throughout your previous position.

He spends days following you, learning your patterns, your habits. Your mornings start with a walk on the beach with Poppy. She frolics on the sand, while you toss pieces of driftwood for her to chase. You get lunch in the diner where all the locals know you. You go for a run on the beach just before sunset. There’s no sign that your anything other than a normal woman.

At least until the third night he spends watching your home, when he finds himself on his knees in the woods with a Glock jammed into the base of his skull.

“This is getting old.” You tell him as you secure his wrists with zipties. “Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea?”

“You know I can break these?” He says almost conversationally.

“You know I could just shoot you and bury you under the rosebushes.”

It’s at that moment Reacher realises what happened to the men that came after you, the ones documented in Joe’s file. He turns his head towards the roses as he passes them, every single one of them healthy and flourishing. He has to say, he approves of your environmentally conscious approach to body disposal.

You make good on that offer of tea. You keep the gun trained on him while you wait for the leaves to steep inside of the pot. The scent of Earl Grey fills the air and Reacher feels his muscles relaxing despite the precarious situation.

“You are not what I expected.” He finds himself telling you as he sits at the kitchen table, his wrists still bound behind him.

Your gaze flickers up to meet his as you set a mug of tea down in front of him and say.

“That’s what the others thought too.”

Reacher? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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#reacher #reacher x reader #reacher fanfiction #jack reacher #jack reacher x reader

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hannie-dul-set · 8 months ago

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줄다리기 / JULDARIGI — one.

SYNOPSIS. the moment you step foot into the neighborhood you’d sought to forget, you find yourself caught in a seven sided tug-of-war with the longings of the past, and the restraints of the present.

FEATURING. seventeen’s yoon jeonghan, nct’s na jaemin, txt’s choi soobin and choi beomgyu, enhypen’s park sunghoon, zb1’s shen quanrui, bnd’s han dongmin. GENRES. drama, suggestive, psychological, yandere reverse harem (yeehaw!!!), college! au, richkid! au. CHAPTER WARNINGS. swearing, arson, child abandonment, obsessive and possessive behavior, ominous vibes overall, but things are still pretty mellow at this point BWAHAHAH.

WORD COUNT. 13.6k TAGLIST. open.

NOTE. my insanity begins. this reads like a very bad soap opera-ish kdrama with all the cliches you can think of, including terrible male leads HAHHAHAHAHAHA. nothing major happens in the chapter, but a lot of teensy tiny hints are being dropped. would love to hear everyone's dissections of my collection of messed up characters. enjoy!!!

MASTERLIST | NEXT >

THERE IS AN AQUARIUM IN THE KIM HOUSEHOLD.

A large, rectangular box in the space where the hallway and living room meet, filled with rocks, driftwood, plants and a multitude of colorful fish, large and small, all drenched in a glaze of cerulean blue. One of the angelfish swims right in front of you, following the direction of your eyes as you scan it from left to right, almost knowing that you’re looking at it by how it slows down the moment it enters your field of vision— watching you in return with its blank stare.

Seeing this reminds you that your home used to have three. One in the foyer. One in the dining room. One on the second floor landing where you used to play house with your friends. You also remember that you had a koi pond in the garden, of which you’d visit every morning and had once nearly fallen into after leaning over the bridge railing too far after trying (and failing) to count the number of fishes swimming and swirling around.

But that was ten years ago. Maybe nine. Now, the only fish you count is the supply of dried pollock you keep in the store for the bugeoguk on the menu.

“Hey, it’s time to bring the deserts in. Quit spacing out.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you grunt, spinning your heels back into the direction of the kitchen. You pull the towel loosely hanging from your right shoulder, following the footsteps of your co-worker into the hallway. It’s funny how things can just suddenly go wrong— how you can have three aquariums and a koi pond and have it all disintegrate into thin air right before your very eyes.

You walk into the large kitchen, a cart full of sweets and cakes and pastries waiting for you to push out into the backyard dining area of the house. The warm lights lining the wraparound porch are reminding you of what you used to have. The sounds of champagne glasses and cutlery clicking and clattering feel like distant but familiar reveries that leave a bitter taste on your throat.

“Oh, I’ve been dying for something sweet.”

Wordlessly, you set the dishes from your cart onto the table, careful to not brush against the handful of people dining on the table. You’re careful. You’re so, so careful yet you can still feel the stares drilling into your skull while you keep your head down, the hushed yet audible whispers that assault your ears the moment you finish serving one person before moving onto the next. It’s more annoying than anything, really. But you can’t let that expression show through your face.

You make the mistake of locking eyes with one of the members of the dinner, however. It’s brief— no longer than three seconds. Yet three seconds was enough for him to recognize you, and for you to detect his recognition.

There’s nothing but shock and surprise in those eyes of his.

All the deserts have been served. You retreat back into the kitchen with the now empty cart and thank the heavens that you don’t have to come back out there tonight.

“Whew. Rich people chatter way too much.”

You laugh, looking over at Soonyoung who lets out a tired sigh the moment the kitchen doors close. “Work’s not over. Time to clean up.”

Soonyoung and you met just earlier, yet you’re already trying to trip each other over while carrying stacks of dishes to the washing station. He’s a pretty easy going guy. You two would be good friends, but your shift is nearly done. You don’t have anyone to serve here in the kitchen so you two can mess around as much as you want. “Good work today,” says your catering manager after handing you your salary. “I was unsure when I saw you walk into the kitchen today, but you seem pretty experienced with this line of work.”

You smile, blindly counting the number of bills in your hands. “I’ve been waitressing for a long time.” A hundred-fifty thousand. Right on the dot.

He mirrors your expression. “How about working with us permanently?”

“Ah, sorry. I don’t think my schedule can manage. Call me if ever you need another pair of hands to cover for you, though.”

That was the end of today’s job. One of your friends, Seungkwan, called you earlier saying that he had a part-time opportunity for you— working as a server for a catered private family dinner in Pyeongchang-dong, Westwind Crossings. It’s bound to pay well, and you weren’t wrong after earning much more than your daily wage at the diner.

You pack up your things, leaving your apron behind before sneaking off to one of the servant hallways that the head maid showed you earlier. The Kim’s don’t want to see their workers in the same space as they regularly cross, apparently. You grunt and pick up your pace, only to get caught in the mess of corners and turns. Wait, did you have to go left this time or right? Gosh, big houses are so confusing. This is just making you appreciate your cramped home in downtown Seoul even more.

Biting the bullet, you turn left, and what emerges from the other end of the hall isn’t the exit at the side of their house, but what appears to be a lounge area. It had been roughly thirty minutes since the dinner ended. A knot begins to form in your temples the moment three pairs of eyes land on yours.

Shit. This is gonna get annoying. You quickly snap your head back and start to book it, but your feet stutter at the first step.

Your name is called out. God damn it, you really didn’t want to deal with this.

“I knew it!” one of them exclaims. Kim Haera. The eldest daughter of the household and, well, an acquaintance of yours. Former acquaintance really, since the last time you’ve seen here was eight fucking years ago. “Holy shit, the rumors are true! I didn’t want to believe it, but here you are!”

You bite your tongue. You ignore her and start walking again, but you hear a pair of footsteps quickly catching up to your direction and you’re pulled back by the arm, eyes widening, now face-to-face with Kim Haera’s bright and curious eyes. There’s a smile on her face. A big one, like she can’t contain it. “Hey, don’t just run off. We haven’t seen each other in years. C’mon, let’s talk and catch up. I’m dying to know what happened to you.”

From what you can remember, Kim Haera has always been a bit of a bitch. Looks like the years failed to fix her nasty personality.

Haera tugs you out of the tunnel, inside the lounge with three people you’d prefer not be around. “Guys! Do you remember her? Stupid question, of fucking course you do, we used to be over at their place all the time.” Then she abruptly stops, causing you to stumble a little. She turns to you, a snide expression of her face, and the knot in your head tightens. “Well. That was until things went to shit with your family eight years ago, right?”

Your jaw clenches. You manage your breaths. You remember her being awful, but it was never directed to you because she always used to follow you around. To talk shit about everyone in your circle with you listening to make herself seem better than everyone else. Because it was your home that everyone used to frequent. Because it was your family that used to host these dinners, these gatherings, these whatevers.

No, you don’t envy the house you’re standing in right now. You’re just mad that you can’t say anything back because you still want the fucking catering company to give you a call in the future.

“Well, say something.”

“Noona,” a voice interrupts. You look and see it’s Kim Donghyun, Haera’s younger brother. The other kid, Lee Sanghyeok, looks like he isn’t even listening to what’s going on— which you’d have preferred over whatever the fuck Haera is doing. “I think that’s enough.”

Haera ignores him. “Seriously, what happened to you?” she presses on, and you stifle a sigh.

“Mrs Kim disallowed any of the catering staff to enter unauthorized areas and to talk to any of the guests and members of the household,” you finally say with a tight-lipped smile. “I apologize for the intrusion. If you’d excuse me—”

“I’m not done talking to you.”

You’re yanked back, a strain in your shoulder socket as you stifle down a swear. She looks down on the sleeve she wrinkled— the server uniform you’d been wearing all afternoon to evening, stained-white in color. She breathes out a snicker.

“You might’ve been used to looking down on me when we were kids, but it looks like things are different now.” Your head hurts. It’s like maturity never befriended her these past ten years. “Now, tell me. Did you just choose to move after your house burnt down? Or did the Choi’s really screw you guys over?”

“Noona!”

“You just disappeared into thin air after that happened,” she remarks. “The least that you could’ve done was give me a heads up that you’re coming back to work here. I could’ve handed you a pretty handsome tip while you were serving the table.”

There’s only so much shit you can take. One more jab, and your patience might just run out. But at that moment, you hear the door to the lounge slide open. Your heart races in panic, fearing it might be one of their parents, but it isn’t.

You’re not sure if the person that just walked it would make this situation better or worse.

“Haera.”

It’s the second time you’ve made eye contact with Na Jaemin tonight. The first two times after ten years and seeing him all grown up is still a huge slap in the face. His hair is bleached, almost white, which is a surprise knowing how uptight his parents are. He called out Haera’s name, but you can tell he’s looking at you. He’s looking at you with the same expression that he wore at the dining room table earlier— shock, surprise— pleasant or otherwise and you can’t really tell, but he quickly brushes it off to the side when Haera lets out a gasp and runs up to him.

“Oppa!” she exclaims. “What are you doing here? Did you come to see me?”

Na Jaemin simply smiles. “Mr and Mrs Heo are about to make their leave. Your parents want you to see them out.”

Seeing the disappointment in her face is almost funny. Haera lets out a groan. “Donghyun, let’s go.” And her brother scuttles along with her too, giving you a single hesitant glance before turning away. This is your cue to leave. You quickly turn again, facing the open mouth of the servant hallway just as you hear Na Jaemin’s voice echo in the room again.

“Sanghyeok, you too. Jiyeon refuses to leave until she gets to see you.”

Huh. You don’t remember seeing Heo Jiyeon at the dinner table. You want to push forward, yet again you feel a familiar stare drilling into the back of your skull, so you take a peek over your shoulder. You see Lee Sanghyeok let out a tired grunt and forces himself off the couch, muttering a thank you to Jaemin before leaving the room as well, but the latter stays.

He’s looking at you again. You can practically see the cloud of words floating above his head as tries to come up with an appropriate thing to say. It’s not like he can ignore you at this point. He’s been looking at you too much for it to slither under your notice.

Then, after much thought, he finally comes up with something to say.

“Do you know the way out?”

You pause. That’s interesting. No re-introductions. No musings of how he didn’t expect to ever see you again. No gripe about how low you’ve plummeted since he last saw you.

“No,” you reply. He makes his first steps towards you— past you, leading you through the intricacies of the servant tunnels, and before you know it, you’re outside just in the time for the sun to set, and Na Jaemin is looking at you again like he has so many things to say, but decides to say just one thing instead.

“I’ll walk you out the subdivision.”

Once more, you pause and think. What does he want? Is he stretching his time with you to get you to say something? To dig into why you left this neighborhood and how you ended up back here ten years later as a different person, just like Kim Haera? You can’t get a read on him. You never could, not ever since you were kids and first introduced to each other. As someone you should get close to. As someone who’d be a good match for you.

He’s still the same as ever. His face is still pretty. And he still stands an arms length away from you— never too close, and never too far.

“Na Jaemin,” you start. “I can still remember the directions and streets and twists and turns of Westwind. You don’t have to. It’s fine.” You finish it off with a smile on your face, albeit somewhat forced.

“It’s getting late,” he responds, practiced and polite, and you almost laugh. “I should at least make sure you make it your ride home.”

“Well. Alright,” you finally say, and like earlier he brushes past you, a little ahead of you, and you start walking in rhythm down the familiar streets of the neighborhood. Much to your surprise, he’s quiet. It’s been a few minutes since the Kim’s house has gone out of sight, but he hasn’t started prying yet. Then again, you don’t remember him being as much of a snob as Haera. In your memories, Na Jaemin has always been quiet and polite— smiling when he needs to, talking when he needs to. He never does anything more than necessary.

At least to you. He’s a little different when he’s around his friends. With the Lees, who live just a block away. He smiles more with them than when he does with you. Then again, you two aren’t exactly friends nor strangers, but it isn’t fair to just call him an acquaintance.

Na Jaemin notices you drilling holes into the side of his face and stops walking. It’s payback from earlier. He’s waiting for you to talk. So you do.

“Aren’t you gonna ask?”

This catches him off guard. Your mouth twitches. It’s barely a smile.

“Like, oh my god, what the hell happened to you, you used to be the most privileged rich kid in the neighborhood— why are you serving tables and letting Kim Haera spit on your face?” you rattle on, taking one step and more and this time it’s you taking the lead ahead. You spin your heels, walking backwards with your hands tucked behind your back. Na Jaemin looks like he’d been exposed. You laugh and turn back to face the right side of the road. “I know you’re curious. You’ve been looking at me like you want to pick apart my brain since I first intruded into your dinner.”

“Would you answer?” he says gruffly, trying to match your pace, but he can’t quite keep up with the bounce in your step as you near the exit of the subdivision.

“If you ask nicely,” you hum. “Considering our history, I think you deserve to know. More than Kim Haera at the very least.”

This prompts a huff from him, close to a laugh. You smile. “I remember the fire that occurred, and you and your family left the neighborhood not long after,” Na Jaemin finally starts. “I thought you’d just left while waiting for your house to get repaired, but a few weeks passed and your home was still in the same state.”

You’ve reached the outside of the neighborhood, past the toll gate, and much to your surprise, Na Jaemin is still walking with you. He’s managed to overtake your lead, headed towards the bus stop.

“When I asked my parents about what happened, the only thing they said is that you had a stroke of bad luck and I shouldn’t concern myself with you again.” Na Jaemin turns around, stopping underneath the waiting shed outside the premises of Westwind. You remember being in this same spot with him a few times before, but the shed is smaller than you remember. Or maybe you two just grew taller.

He’s still bad at asking for what he wants though. He’s looking at you patiently to answer his unasked question. You relent, looking up at the slowly darkening sky.

“A stroke of bad luck seems just about right.”

Your mother comes from old money, and your father not quite. He was upper-middle class at most, and her family didn’t approve of him. They were already pressuring her to break up while they were still dating, and eloping with him didn’t elicit a great reaction. She got cut off. At the very least she kept the house you, your parents, and grandfather had formerly lived in under her name, as well as a trust fund that still ensured her a more than comfortable rest of her life. Your father didn’t slack either. He managed to build himself up with two of his friends by investing and starting a finance firm.

It didn’t take long for your family’s wealth to grow, and by the time you were born, you were already handed a silver spoon.

But things go wrong just as quickly as they go right.

Your grandfather had a gambling addiction. The only reason why you found out about it is the yelling you’d overheard from your dad’s study every week. That enough wouldn’t be enough to squander off all your wealth, but it was the first domino that caused everything to collapse. Not long after, your father got betrayed by his business partners. You didn’t know the details since you were only fourteen when it happened, but you knew well enough to understand that your picture perfect life had started to crumple.

The dinners your family hosts every week suddenly stopped. Your household had to retrench, downsizing the number of workers, maids, gardeners, cooks, drivers and you started catching the bus to and from school.

Perhaps some of the employees that got laid off grew resentful. Their resentment came in the form of being woken up in the middle of the night by your mother. You still vividly remember every beat of the scene— the warm and arid air, the smell of something suffocating, and the unusual bursts of light pouring from the outside. From the garden. And then your mother practically dragged your small frame out of the room, down the stairs, until you finally reached outside where you saw black smoke replacing the clouds in the sky, and the sound of sirens quickly growing louder and louder by the second.

“I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this.” You and Na Jaemin are now sitting on the bench under the shed, waiting for your bus to arrive. “I guess coming back to this neighborhood again reminded me that I’m still bitter.”

You flit your eyes up, trying to gauge Jaemin’s expression, but of course he’s still impossible to read. Is it sympathy? Pity? Derision? You have no idea.

“Haera was dying to find out how my life got royally screwed over,” you let out with a stretch. The aftermath of working for five hours is starting to hit. You’re gonna have a cold shower once you get home. “Feel free to spread the news like wildfire because I’m pretty sure the other kids want to know, too. Might as well make a novel out of it.”

The headlights of a bus come into sight. It stops briefly on the side of the road before you. Then it passes by with the hum of the engine.

“What makes you think I’m the type to gossip?” he asks. You don’t even catch a single ounce of offense from his tone.

“I don’t know,” you reply. “We never really talked much.”

Jaemin releases something short of a laugh. “That’s true.” Then a pause. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Why would you be? It’s not like it’s your or your family’s fault,” you say. “I’m pretty happy with my life right now. Got into uni with a full-ride scholarship and I just made a hundred thousand in one day. I’m pretty sure a nice and warm meal is waiting for me when I get home too.”

He hums. “Where do you study?”

“KSU,” you reply. “You? I remember you’ve been preparing for med school since elementary, so I’m guessing NCIT?”

“You seem to know your universities well,” he quips. “And I’m surprised you even know of that.”

“Of course. You were practically my de facto fiancee from when I was nine to twelve. My parents make it a habit to advertise you over dinner without fail. Everything I know about you is against my will, Jaemin.” You joke, laughing. The corners of Na Jaemin’s mouth twitches upwards too, a little flustered when his head turns down a little, and you can see the length of his eyelashes hovering above his cheeks. “To be honest, I really thought we’d end up getting married with how much our families kept pushing us together. But I guess it’s another funny swing of fate that my circumstances made sure that neither of us would fall into an arranged marriage.”

It’s official. You simply aren’t equipped to understand the makings of Na Jaemin’s head based solely on his expressions. He’s stopped looking down, eyes directed at you with a gravity that nearly overwhelms and you want to ask what? Why are you looking at me like that? What exactly do you want to know and why can’t you just say it?

Still, you keep those questions locked in your throat because another bus approaches, and the sky is now more black than orange. Maybe you shouldn’t let this one pass by.

“Anyway, thanks for walking me out and waiting with me, Jaemin,” you say as you ready to stand up, dusting your trousers and your already stained white shirt. “And thanks for, you know, being a decent fucking person.”

The bus comes closer. You take this as a signal to leave and bid this neighborhood goodbye— maybe for good this time— but right before the bus makes a screeching halt before the waiting shed, your steps stagger from the sound of Na Jaemin’s voice behind you.

“Do you miss it?”

You pause. You look over your shoulder and see Jaemin standing underneath the shade. The streetlight nearby flickers on. It illuminates the right side of his face.

“The life you had before,” he says. “Do you want to get it back?”

Regardless, it’s still impossible to decipher his expression, to figure out what he wants and what he means.

You hear the bus pull over, the sound of the door exhausting open. You give Na Jaemin one last smile before turning around, getting on the vehicle without a reply, and he doesn’t stop you to hear one.

“Shhh! Your footsteps are too loud, you’re gonna wake her up!”

“Isn’t that what we’re here for? To wake her up?”

“Yeah, but that’s no fun. Let’s scare her awake.”

“Uh, no thanks? I don’t want to get punched in the face.”

“Just let her sleep, she must be tired.”

“Booo, you’re two are so lame.”

For a second, you thought your friends had managed to pry themselves into your dreams, disturbing your sleep in the most inelegant way possible. Then you realize that their voices sound a lot more vivid, a lot closer than you thought. Like they’re in the room with you right now. So when you groan and peel your eyes open— indeed, lo and behold, here they are: Jay Park, Jake Shim, and Park Sunghoon in the flesh.

Jake is frozen and hovering above you like he’d just been caught committing theft. Sunghoon is trying to pull him away from your mattress. Jay is by the doorstep, pretending like he has nothing to do with this and immediately spinning his body one-eighty the moment you meet eyes.

You squint at Jake. He flinches back. “O—oh, you’re awake, haha.”

Sunghoon successfully shovels Jake away. “Did we wake you?” he asks, replacing the latter’s spot on the left side of your mattress.

There’s a guilty look on his face. You make it worse when you respond with, “What do you think?” propping yourself up with your elbows because you don’t particularly enjoy being looked down on.

“Hey, your mom gave us permission to drag you out of bed,” interjects Jake. “Get up and get ready. Today’s the opening festival. You promised you’d attend this year!”

“I promised to watch Hee perform,” you correct. “He’s not gonna be on stage until the afternoon. Let me enjoy my morning off, you home invaders.” That was your ending statement before burying yourself into your pillow again, turning your back to the boys and then you hear Jay’s footsteps finally joining in the party.

“It is the afternoon,” he informs.

You jolt. Jay is now squatting at the foot of your mattress. “Shit, really?”

He snorts. “Go check.”

Your hands scramble for your phone that you remember you left charging on the floor nearby somewhere. Sunghoon finds it before you. He pulls it out of the socket and hands it to you, and you confirm that it is in fact the afternoon. One-thirty, to be exact. You mutter a swear. “Fuck.” You nearly trip over your blanket when you stumble out of bed, promptly banishing the three of them to the downstairs diner while you get ready.

“Mom, you should make these idiots pay for their meals.”

That’s the first thing you announce while running down the stairs, knowing full well that those three are already helping themselves to some gukbap and kimchi, and they don’t disappoint. Jake pops his head up from the table, cheeks puffed up and beckoning you over like this isn’t your family’s own restaurant. “Come get yours, dear,” your mother calls out from the kitchen, emerging with your own bowl of rice soup, and you quickly pad over to take it from her.

“Seriously,” you start, moving over to the table, slotting yourself into the empty seat next to Sunghoon and in front of Jay. “We can open up a new branch if you total the amount they’ve been leeching for the past two years.”

You set your meal down with a clatter. Park Sunghoon stops eating at your declaration. His spoon hovers five centimeters away from his open mouth.

“Hoon, I’m joking.” Your hand lands on his wrist. You lead the spoon into his mouth and shut his jaw. “Eat up. You look like you’ve lost weight recently.”

“I only eat well when I’m eating auntie’s food,” he retorts, muffled, and takes another spoonful for himself. Sneaky guy probably noticed that your mom was coming over to earn a few points from her. Which works, because your mom looks extra happy when she presses her hands on the edge of the table, watching the four of you eat with eyes glazed in satisfaction. Your eyes flit down to her hands— rough and calloused with a band aid and a wedding ring wrapped on the fourth finger.

“You know, you kids are welcome here any time, right?”

It’s been three weeks since your last visit to Westwind. At the Kim’s. But Na Jaemin’s parting question seems to find its way into your mind whenever you let your thoughts drift for too long.

Do you miss it?

This bite is suddenly hard to swallow. You set your chopsticks down with a clang.

“Where’s dad?”

Your mom looks over to you, cutting her conversation short with Jay. “Making a delivery,” she replies. A huff escapes your throat.

“Don’t you think it’s about time we hire part-timers?”

Jake sees this as an opportunity. You can literally see his eyes sparkle. “Auntie, hire me!” The table shakes. “Ow!” You snap your head to Sunghoon, who’s feigning innocence with his meal while Jake gives him the what gives? face.

“We can still manage the store by ourselves,” your mother argues. “And Jungwoo and Jeonghan come by sometimes to help when you’re not around.”

“You should call us if you need any extra hand, auntie,” Sunghoon says. “Our schedule is pretty lenient this semester.”

“What do you mean lenient, we have four major—”

Sunghoon also cuts Jay off with an under the table kick and a smile. You mom laughs. “I appreciate the sentiments, but you kids should focus on your studies.”

You open your mouth to retort, but she ultimately shushes you and says she needs to organize some things in the kitchen. “Hey, finish your food,” Jay scolds, pushing your bowl closer to you. You stick your tongue out and pick up your spoon again. “I think we need to head out in fifteen minutes. Jungwon texted that the field is already getting crowded.”

The four of you finish your meals. Gukbap has been your diner’s specialty ever since your mom mastered how to cook it after countless trial and errors. It wasn’t easy adjusting from having ready to eat meals the moment you sit on the dinner table to having to curate your own menu just to make a living. After the losses your family incurred, you had to scrape up whatever you had left and moved to an affordable place in downtown Seoul. Both your parents had to start working, and it was your grandfather that always greeted you the moment you returned home from school.

However, when he passed away, the three of you moved to a new place that’s smaller and bigger at the same time— a two-storey building that you rented out to serve as a diner downstairs and a home at the top. You exit through the fogged doors with the sound of a jingle, stopping to turn around and follow the building’s height. It’s not too tall, wedged between two other rental spaces. A hair salon on the right. A computer shop on the left.

The life you had before.

Once again, Na Jaemin’s voice echoes in your ears.

Do you want to get it back?

You see the blur of Sunghoon’s mouth move, but you don’t hear anything. You blink. A car zooms by. A flock of birds flutter away. You clear your throat, refocusing your gaze on your friend. “Sorry, what was that?”

His eyes are fixed on you, brows slightly knitted. “Nothing.” he mumbles. “You have something on your face.”

You flinch a little when Sunghoon suddenly brings a hand to your cheekbone, eyelids blinking rapidly in surprise as his thumb and index finger brush lightly against your skin, revealing a barely visible eyelash strand when he pulls his hand away. There’s a subtle smile on his face when his gaze lingers on the stray lash before glancing at you.

“Make a wish,” he jokes. You scoff, rolling your eyes with a grin.

“Hey, put the PDA on hold. We have a bus to catch,” Jay interrupts. Sunghoon clicks his tongue in response. He flicks the lash away and stuffs his free hand into a jacket pocket, extending his other arm behind you to hook around your shoulders, and your feet skid against the ground as you bump into him.

It’s nothing that catches you off guard nor surprised. The four of you are walking to the bus stop, yet it isn’t just the four of you occupying the neighborhood. It’s early afternoon. The sidewalks and streets are busy. Park Sunghoon has the habit of pulling you as close to him as physically possible. A middle-aged man in a suit approaches from the opposite direction, you in his line of collision, and Sunghoon quickly steps to the side and pulls you closer to evade the fast approaching businessman, who was way too caught up in his call over the phone to pay you any mind.

The gesture is impossible not to notice— Jake and Jay included, but they never say anything about it. Neither do you. Neither does Sunghoon.

Your bus arrives. All seats are taken. Any space you once had to breathe diminishes to nonexistence as you try and balance yourself amidst the standing crowd. “You okay?” Sunghoon’s voice is a mere whisper reserved for you to hear. You’re standing in front of him, arms glued to your body because you lost the opportunity to grab the handgrip before you got squeezed stuck by the rush of passengers flooding in.

“Never better,” you let out a strained laugh. Sunghoon frowns a little. The bus rattles. He presses a firm hold against your back before you could even stumble. You notice his gaze flicker into a glare, jaw clenched and pointed at the stranger near you who’s unintentionally digging his elbow into your shoulder blade. You clear your throat, catching his and the other two’s attention. “Park Jongseong, what’s the purpose of your car if you don’t even use it? We would’ve been sitting comfortably and moving faster by now. What a waste of an investment.”

That was half a joke, half not really. Your commutes to campus are always a grueling one-hour experience. Jay narrows his eyes at you, unamused. “You guys keep abusing my vehicle rights. Don’t you know how exhausting it is to drive all of you home all the time?”

“With great power comes great responsibility,” Jake jives in. You nod solemnly. Jay’s mouth hangs open. He looks at Sunghoon for backup but the poor guy is simply ignored.

“Imagine all the time and money we’d save if you were more charitable,” you continue. “Hoon, don’t you agree?”

Park Sunghoon doesn’t give you the answer you’re looking for. “Should I get a license?” he instead asks. You blink at him. He blinks back.

“Will you drive me to campus every day?” you hum, smiling in jest.

“I’ll take you anywhere you want,” is his answer. His gaze has softened. You hear Jake cough from next to you. Jay gives up his retaliation. The bus halts. Everyone leans to the back and you’re reminded by Sunghoon’s firm hold. He presses you into him closer if it’s even possible, if there’s even any space left between you to swallow— and if there is, you don’t see nor feel it. The only thing you feel is the heat emanating from his skin that’s seeping into yours.

A few bodies finally get down from the vehicle. You breathe. You take a step away and grab onto the now vacant handgrip closest to you. Sunghoon’s hold loosens, but his fingers still linger on the curve of your spine. It stays there until you arrive at your stop right across the street from the campus gates. From the bus windows alone, you can already see the staggering amount of people flooding inside.

It gets worse the moment you actually step foot on campus. The first person you lock eyes with— Kim Taerae, welcoming committee since last year— hits you in the face with his business-smile, wide and tight and brimming with sweetness. “Hey, traitor. How dare you show your face here?”

The student council also asked you to be part of the committee. Of course you fucking said no. “Aren’t you gonna welcome me in?” you jab. Taerae’s smile twitches, but a group of actual freshmen walk in and he’s forced to start his welcoming protocol.

Even after getting off the bus, Park Sunghoon is no less closer. You say goodbye to Taerae and greet Seok Matthew, who’s wearing the university fox mascot (which arguably looks like a fursuit, but you digress), with a wave and a camera pointed at him, and Sunghoon maintains a steady hold on your arm as you navigate further into campus grounds.

“Later, Matthew!”

“See you around!”

Yet your path towards the field next to the courtyard keeps getting interrupted.

Every now and again, you’re stopped by a familiar face to exchange greetings. This is why you don’t usually attend university events and festivals. On normal days, people usually stick to their class and extracurricular schedules. But on days like these, everyone is out and about. Meaning, your chances of bumping into someone you know is one in twenty. Renjun from the astronomy club passes by with a hello. Chaewon from one of your electives stops you and tells you to visit their department booth later in the evening.

“Let’s catch a meal sometime!”

Honestly, you’re used to it. Ever since you were a kid, you’ve been conditioned to deal with people and manage your web of relationships in order to seamlessly fit into the ‘elite’ social scene. Every party, every dinner, every event, you’re introduced to a new acquaintance, new same-faced adult, new person to the point where you had to dedicate an entire space inside your brain just dedicated to the faces and names you needed to keep track of.

The space was made up of rows and rows of filing cabinets, sorted according to the people most important to you, the people you may or may not meet again in the future, the people you resent. The son of the neighbors across the block. The daughter of the lawyer that you used to sit in silence with. The kid you met over vacation who always seemed to be crying. The countless adults who’d compliment you for being so well-mannered, so pleasant, so sociable even as a child.

But at some point it gets overwhelming. And when your life turned upside down, you stopped seeing a point in maintaining all these relationships. The cabinets were left unopened, catching dust and cobwebs in that one corner in your brain. That was until a senior of yours back in high school gave you some advice. Something you’d held onto until today.

This is why you shouldn't push people away, he had once told you. Don’t you think it'd be better if you let your thoughts out instead of getting drowned by them?

And that was when the filing cabinets started to get filled again. The classmate you surprisingly shared a lot of interests with. The teacher who helped you with your college applications back in high school. The junior from high school who always kept picking fights with everyone. And the four current friends you have from your year and major, who had somehow wiggled themselves into the near barren drawer saved for the people that mean the most to you, in spite of all the space available underneath.

“Hee texted,” you announce, holding up your phone. Sunghoon nudges his face closer over your shoulder to take a peek. “There’s a delay in the program. They won’t be up for another thirty, forty minutes.” The three expectedly groan in annoyance. You are also annoyed. You could’ve slept in a bit more had you known about the delay, but you quickly swallow down any displeasure from your expression because you spot yet another familiar face amidst the crowd. One of your classmates from a general education. It’d be rude not to say hi. “Hyeju!” you call out.

She spins around, annoyed surprise brightening into a more pleasant expression upon recognizing you. “Oh, hey! How was your break?”

“Nonexistent,” is your very eloquent reply, smiling. Hyeju laughs in sympathy. “Did you see who our prof for the semester will be? Jesus, I’m already predicting dread for the next five months of— whoa!” Suddenly, you’re nabbed and spun around and all you can see is a whir. Click, you hear while your vision is still wobbly, and when your gaze refocuses, you recognize the culprit with the camera in hand, and your forehead wrinkles. “Seonbae, what the fuck?”

Kim Mingyu lowers down his camera to reveal a widely grinning face. “Smile. I need a pretty face for the news update.”

Hyeju taps your arm to inform you she’s leaving. You look at Mingyu, arms crossed and unamused. “Where’s my appearance fee?”

“I’ll buy you coffee,” he responds, signaling to your other three friends (that you momentarily forgot about) to join in the picture as well. You relent with a sigh, beckoning them to come over. Jake hops over and asks if he’s getting coffee as well. Jay wordlessly strides over and puts up a peace sign behind your head. Sunghoon wedges himself between you and Jake and throws an arm over your shoulder. These guys are so overbearing. Mingyu counts from three with his fingers. The camera clicks. He shoots you a grin with a thumbs up. “Thanks. Love you!”

That guy is also a handful. Your sigh is heard by the three of them. “Is this why you hate attending festivals?” muses Jay.

“The woes of being a wanted woman,” you lament. Jake snorts at your woes. You elbow him in the rib.

“You’re so full of yourself.” Jay rolls his eyes, and that’s when he sees something from his peripheral. “Looks like you’ve got another friend, Miss Wanted.”

You follow his eyes and your gaze stops at an approaching Park Gunwook. His jog slows to a walk once he’s within your earshot. “Oh my god, just the person I wanted to see,” your junior starts. Well, that’s never a good conversation starter. “Seonbae, are you busy? Do you mind lending us a hand?”

Exactly as you feared. “What for?” you ask with preemptive exhaustion.

“Our booth sign,” he explains. “Kwan-hyung disappeared. He was supposed to be the one to— ack. Nevermind. Can you help? You’ve done calligraphy before, right?”

The time you take to think about Gunwook’s request coincides with the amount of time Gunwook is sweating in nervous, hopeful anticipation. He’s giving you puppy eyes, respectfulll offering up the marker with both palms open like he’s offering it up for the heavens. You sigh again and take the marker from him. “You three go look for a spot. Call me when Hee’s about to perform.”

Jake simply laughs at your misery. Jay is the only decent one enough to give you a response. “Sure, no problem.” The two already start walking, but Sunghoon is lagging behind. You give him a smile and wave off. “Sunghoon, let’s go,” Jay nudges him. He relents with a grunt and tells you not to go off on your own for too long.

Now, with three men gone, you thought you’d finally get some breathing room.

Unfortunately for you, doing a favor for one cute junior also means doing favors for all of your cute juniors. And you’ve collected many cute juniors in the three years you’ve wasted away in this university. You thought Gunwook’s sign was the end of it. “Noona!” you hear from your left, and it’s Jungwon and Sunoo trailing behind him. “Can you write ours too? Sunoo-hyung’s handwriting is so bad.”

“It’s not! What I made wasn’t even half bad!”

Why exactly are you peers making the second years and freshmen take care of the booth shit? These kids are supposed to be the ones enjoying the festival right now, for fuck’s sake. You’re in the middle of angrily scribbling onto a piece of chipboard when a classmate of yours enters your line of sight. These useless seniors. If they don’t want to work, might as well not show up, like what you’ve been doing for the past semesters.

“Noona!”

“Hold on.”

“Seonbae—”

“Your sign is on the chair over there, Gunwook.”

“Thank you, I love you, you’re the best.”

“Noona, ours too!”

“Sure, give me a second—”

“Noona.”

“Yes?” Admittedly, you’re getting quite annoyed, but you don’t want to misdirect your attitude towards these poor kids who just got work tossed to them. “What is it?” you ask without looking up from the current sign post you’re working on— a free hugs sign for the physical education majors— hunched over on a low stool. You assume it’s just another one of the dozens of kids asking you to write a sign, but you’re surprised to feel a tug on your shirt.

You sit straight and turn around. You’re met by a face that you don’t remember seeing before. Sharp features. Dark hair. A little lengthy to the point that the framing strands touch his lashes. A mole under his eye— and the irises seem glassy. Your brows furrow. Who’s this? Is he a freshman? He doesn’t seem familiar at all.

“Noona,” he repeats. But the way he pronounces the honorific is. The soft cadence, the gentle pitch. The way the syllables roll off his tongue triggers a fuzzy sense of familiarity in you. Yet your attempt at reminiscence is ruined when you feel him grab your shoulders and jerk you forward, dropping the sign you’d been working on in the process and nearly stumbling off your seat. But you don’t. Because you’re suddenly caught in a suffocating embrace by someone you can’t quite tell if he’s a stranger or not. Your eyes widen. His frame is swallowing you whole. “It’s really you. I thought I was seeing things. It’s you. I missed you.”

“Excuse me? What are you—”

A familiar scent hits you. The ocean. The sea. A breeze on the shoreline brushing your hair off of your cheeks, and the wind of nostalgia disappears the moment the strange guy’s trembling grip starts to loosen as he pulls away, taking the scent of the sea away with him. His eyes are frantic— almost like he’s looking for something in the confused wrinkle of your expression. “Don’t you remember me?” he says. He looks like he’s about to cry. And that’s when it hits you.

“Oh— oh!”

A distant summer when you were twelve. Before everything in your life got washed up by the waves.

On vacation you found a boy underneath a coconut tree on the far side of the rocky shore— a far too dangerous place for two children, yet you were interrupted from your seashell hunting by the sound of someone crying amidst the crashing waves.

“Ricky! Ricky Shen! Oh my god, is it you?”

He was the boy you found that day, sobbing because he got separated from his parents during a vacation abroad. When he looked up at you with big eyes stained red by countless tears, you immediately took his hand and traversed the rocky path to take him back to your father for some help.

It took you a while to understand his situation. You didn’t speak the same language. However, throughout his stay with you while waiting for his parents to return, you were able to teach him a few words and phrases.

“Noona.” That was one of them— spoken in the same tone he’d always used even when he was a kid. “I thought I’d never see you again.” That phrase wasn’t any of what you taught him. He’s gotten better, but isn’t…this sentiment a bit much? You’re happy to see him well and alive, but if you remember correctly, he only stayed with your family for around a week, and that doesn’t warrant such an intense reunion, so you’re a bit taken aback.

Yet you also consider that he was a kid back then— a kid who got lost in a foreign country who thought he’d never come home again. To you, it was just another week. To him, that another week stuck with him more than you could even begin to understand.

You want to ask him a bit more, like how did he end up here again, why is at your uni, how long until he has to go back—

“Seonbae!”

—but you lose the chance when you’re interrupted by another one of your juniors. Kim Gyuvin runs up to you in a hurry. You duck down and pick up the chip board you dropped earlier. “Here’s your sign, you knucklehead,” you say, handing it over to him. Gyuvin happily takes it from you and stretches out his arms to read it.

“Oh, thank you!” he says. “But, ah, wait. Right. Someone’s looking for you. I told him to wait by our booth over there.”

“My god, who is it this time?” you grunt. No matter how life fucks you over and turns itself upside down, the amount of people that require your attention just can’t seem to decrease. The filing cabinets in your head can only take so many names. You hop off the stool, ready to leave, before remembering. “Ricky, can you wait for me here? I’ll be back in a sec.”

You start moving but your arm lags behind. You turn to see Ricky still holding onto the sleeve of your shirt, and really— he’s never changed. He might’ve gotten taller, might’ve gotten prettier, but he’s still as cute and clingy as you remember. The one week he spent at yours, the kid would tail you around like a lost kitten all the time.

“Let’s talk more later.” Smiling, you place a hand over his knuckles, and let his loose grip fall completely. He looks like he wants to say something, but he resigns by just nodding instead. “Gyub, where did you say they were?”

“At our booth! Come buy something from us while you’re at it.”

This kid thinks he can extort you. You head off to their booth and check your phone along the way, and you find a missed call and a text from Sunghoon asking where you are. HRM majors booth. Is Heeseung about to go up yet? you reply. Pocketing your phone, you hurry to your destination, squeezing through the barrage of bodies because if Hee is indeed about to perform soon, then you better hurry your ass up, else he’d get mad at you for being ‘such an unsupportive friend.’ His words. You’d rather not have anything that could be used against you.

When you reach the booth, you realize that you have no idea who exactly you’re supposed to be looking for and should’ve asked Gyuvin for a name or description or something. You look around, trying to find someone you know, but in the middle of your search, you feel something…soft drop on your head, falling over your eyes and obscuring your vision.

The hell? You whip your head around blindly, annoyed. Then you hear a laugh. And you quickly remove the object obscuring your face to make sure that you’d just heard that correctly.

Your annoyance quickly disappears into pleasant surprise the moment you’re able to see the culprit’s face. He’s smiling pretty generously, you notice— not the held-back half smiles that he’d very also rarely display, but the kind you once called pretty and he told you to shut the fuck up with a prostesting grunt. It’s just one familiar face after another. These reunions never seem to end.

“Taesannie!”

“Seonbae.”

You want to tease him for the rare occasion that he’s in a good mood, that he isn’t all grumpy and moody, but you want to savor this rare sight of him smiling as much as you can. You pull him in for a hug— which causes him to stiffen a little. He’s uncomfortable and you know it, and you laugh. “I haven’t seen you in ages,” you say with a wide grin, pulling back a bit. “How have you been, idiot? Have you been causing trouble again?”

“I messaged you on IG,” he says, wiggling out of your prison just enough for him to be able to hold your arms above your elbows. “Three months ago. When I got accepted to KSU. You never responded.”

Now, it’s your turn to freeze up. “Oops.” Since graduating high school, you realized you’ve never given him your number. “That’s—that’s my bad. But you know I don’t use social media.”

“I know,” Taesan huffs with a smile. He pulls down your left arm, fingers tracing down your skin until they reach your hand— the hand that removed his cap earlier and he snatches it off from you, fixing it on the top of your head again, gentler this time when he tugs down the visor, just enough for you to keep seeing his face. “That’s why I figured to just look for you myself.”

You feel a bump in your throat.

He’s so tenacious. He’s always been.

You simply laugh and shake your head. “Thanks for being so considerate to your unreliable, unthoughtful, and forgetful senior, Dongmin-ah. I’m glad you didn’t report me to Principal Lee for ghosting you.”

“He retired last year.“ Your face stiffens again. He laughs out loud. He’s been enjoying your mistakes a lot. What a handful. “Anyway, I at the very least hope you haven’t forgotten your promise, seonbae.”

“Promise?” you raise a brow. Crap, did you forget something again? Taesan’s smile disappears the moment you express your lack of remembrance. Your brows furrow, trying your best to recall, but you really don’t remember promising him anything because that’s just not something you would do often just to forget.

“I got accepted to your university. I’m gonna start going to school with you again from now on,” he says, as if that’s enough to jog your missing memories. “Two years was a long time to wait, seonbae. I really don’t want to wait any longer.”

Your confused eyes try to trace hints from his expression. He did get accepted to KSU. He is going to uni with you now. The ID and lanyard he’s wearing is a proof of that— but so what?

So what, you try and tell yourself. But you know exactly what he’s talking about.

“Seonbae.”

Taesan looks at you expectantly. It’s difficult to meet his gaze. It’s difficult to get yourself out of this all by yourself. So when you feel the presence of someone approaching you from behind, you take the opportunity to whip your head back and see who it is. Yet rather than finding an opening, what greets you is another closed door. It’s Ricky. “Noona,” he calls out. “You said you won’t take long.”

Somehow, you’ve found yourself caught in a troublesome situation. Your balance stumbles a little. It’s Taesan tugging you back by the shoulder, fixing you closer to the ground right in front of him. “Who the hell are you?” He’s not looking at you— he’s looking right past you, straight at Ricky, who isn’t looking at him at all because the weight of the latter’s stare focused right on you is making you feel like you’re being sunk into the ground.

“Noona,” he repeats, ignoring Taesan altogether. “Let’s go look around the festival together.”

This is...very troublesome indeed. You can feel a throb on the right side of your head. The festival. Right. Has Heeseung’s performance started yet? That’s the only reason why you showed up today, anyway.

Your attempt to pull your phone out of your pocket is blown off by a blunt pressure on your shoulder blade. You look behind to see the hostility in Taesan’s expression scrunching up even further. It’s like you're a mouse caught in between two starving cats. Good god. The only thing you can hope for right now is for someone to swoop in and get you out of here.

And that’s when you hear the sound of your name being called out.

You snap your head to the left to identify your savior. It’s Park Sunghoon with a bitter look on his face. You let out a quiet sigh of relief— but not silent enough to slip past Taesan’s notice.

His gaze flickers down at you. What? What are you going to do? Leave? the glint in his eyes seem to say. He doesn’t look very happy. Neither do the other two men within your premises, and Sunghoon calls out to you again. “Heeseung hyung is about to perform.” A hand around your wrist. Sunghoon pulls you away from Taesan with a firm tug. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, Sunghoon, give me a sec—” You pry yourself out of his hold, patting around your trousers for the marker you used earlier, and calling out Gyuvin from their booth just a few steps away for a piece of scrap paper, on which you scribble down your number. When you look up, it’s fortunate that Ricky and Taesan are still there, albeit not looking too happy. You’re pretty sure the one waiting behind you isn’t amused either with your stalling. “Hey, it was nice seeing you two kids again, but I need to go. Let’s catch up some other time, okay? Here’s my—”

You’re pulled back, the sheet with your number on it slipping past your fingers and brushing through the wind before you could finish your sentence or hand it over to either of them.

Surprised, your head turns to Sunghoon, who’s dragging you off at an impatient pace. “Hoon,” you try calling out. He leads you into a tight crown. Your shoulders and elbows bump into people you don't know. “Hoonie, you’re grabbing me too tight, hey!”

You tear yourself away from him. You’re in the midst of a crowd in the middle of the courtyard— all jamming to the music from the front, stage lights flashing and flickering and flitting around as it starts to get dark. You look at him, brows knitted together, but bite your tongue from saying anything too rough upon seeing the expression he’s wearing.

The only way you can describe it is that he looks like he’s about to die.

“Park Sunghoon,” you start, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer. His eyes leave you when a group of students suddenly come rushing over in the heat of the party, and he closes the space you put in between the both of you by pulling you out of the way of the incoming mob. “Who were they?” he asks. “I know you’re friends with a lot of people, but I’ve never seen those two before. Who were those two?”

Your open palms are pressed against his chest. “One of them, I picked up from the beach when I was a kid.” You use them to push yourself back once the noise from the group has already passed. “The other was a junior in high school. I think they’re both incoming freshmen this year. More importantly, where’s Heeseung? I thought he was about to perform?”

Attempting to look through the large crowd ahead of you, you stretch yourself up with the tips of your toes. “Are you close?” Sunghoon asks again, finding a spot on the small of your back to keep you balanced while you look over his shoulder. “They acted like they were close with you.”

“I don’t know,” is your only reply. “Hey, Jake and Jay are over there! Heeseung, too! Hoon, let’s go!”

Sunghoon does not pry further. He lets himself get tugged along by you as you fight through the crowd, making it just in time to where Jay and Jake are standing before they could call either of you as Heeseung walks up the stage with a huge smile. Right. This is the only reason why you came here today. Everything else is just secondary— stored up in the back of your mind, behind all of your current priorities.

Which is why the moment Heeseung finishes, you immediately excuse yourself from the other three.

“Already?” Jake whines. “C’mon! We were planning on grabbing drinks after this.”

“You still have your shift at the laundromat, right?” Jay asks. “At least say goodbye to Hee first before leaving.”

“Tell him I’ll send him a long sappy message later!” you shout through the noise. “See you guys tomorrow!”

Before you go, you glance at Sunghoon. He wants to say something, you can tell that much. Your lungs grow heavy. All you want to do is just unload washing machines and wipe the floors and windows clean at Suds right now with your music at full volume. Sunghoon finally settles with a simple, “text us when you get to work.” This elicits a look of surprise from Jake.

“Whoa. You aren’t gonna offer to take her there?”

Sunghoon only grunt. You smile and bid them farewell, and for once, you aren’t stopped or interrupted by anyone, and your walk towards the exit gate off the campus runs smoothly along with the setting of the sun. When you take your first step on the pavement right outside university premises, your phone buzzes to a text. [seonbae. it’s taesan]. Followed by another. [what time do your classes end tomorrow? wanna grab dinner together?]

At least you know they got your note. You balance yourself on the bus ride to your part-time job as you think of a response. Tomorrow. What’s on your schedule, again? You have classes from ten to four, and your lunch break is most likely gonna be spent with the four idiots. Tomorrow’s dinner is already booked, too, and your dinner date might get sulky if you cancel on him again this time.

[Will Friday work? Sorry, I’m booked today, Taesan. But we can have a mini-celebration at the end of the week for your KSU acceptance :) what do you say?].

The next morning, when you come down for breakfast, you see your dad wearing a suit.

For a second, you almost completely gloss over it, greeting them a good morning as you walk over the counter for a glass of water. Then you notice he’s not wearing his bike helmet. And when you sniff your nose, you can smell the scent of musky perfume. That’s when you notice.

“Whoa,” you remark, setting your glass down onto the counter. Your mom is helping him fix up his tie. You quickly twirl open your phone to snap this gem of a photo. “What’s the occasion? I don’t recall you having any friends’ whose weddings you can attend.”

You receive a scolding from your mom and a hearty laugh from your dad.

“How do you know I don’t have any friends?” he responds with a smile. “C’mon, kiddo. Let’s grab a taxi, I’ll drop you off at your school.”

Even though that doesn’t answer your questions about his plans for today, you neither pry nor push because you know their standard protocol for these things. If they get a catering offer for a big event, you’re the first one they tell. If the electricity bills go up or if a debtor showed up while you’re outside, you wouldn’t even know unless you dig into it, unless you ask a neighbor or a friend or find some evidence they left behind somewhere in the restaurant.

The entire taxi ride is uncomfortable. Not in any way because of the conversation your father is attempting to strike. But because the car’s air conditioning is making your head spin and nauseous. “Why didn’t your friends come by today, by the way?”

“They were too late in fixing their schedules, so they have a 7 a.m. class today,” you snort, laughing. You sometimes wonder why they even bother coming around so often, considering your place is an hour-long commute to and from campus, and Jay never brings his fucking car around.

Your dad makes a comment about which one of them is more your type. You hack out a cough and cover your ears to block his amused laughter out.

“Hey, I’m just asking! My only dream is to see you happily married before I die, you know.”

“Change your dream. I don’t want to be the reason if you live an unfulfilled life,” you groan, face burning up. “Hold on. I’m getting a text from Jeonghan-seonbae.”

“He’s a pretty good candidate too.”

“Stop it! Oh my god, you’re the worst.”

You quickly unlock your phone to read the message. [hey, busy bee. just texting to make you’re not canceling our plans again later 🥰🥰]. You’re pretty sure that this is a threat. How many coffees, lunches, drinks, and dinners have you ruined with him because you had a sudden deadline that day, a work opportunity that same evening. He’d always been understanding, but you never fail to feel guilty after all he’s helped you, and you can’t even give him a few hours of your time. [I’m not!!! I’ll see you at Eojetbam, promise 😞].

“You’re seeing him later, right?” your dad asks.

“Yup. He’s treating me to dinner at this fancy restaurant downtown.”

Unlike usual, your father doesn’t make a comment at your subtle bragging. There’s a look on his face that you can’t pinpoint. “That’s nice,” is all he says after a momentary pause. “Ask him to drive you home tonight.”

“There’s no way I’m doing that,” you disagree. “I still have a bit of shame left, you know.”

You reach campus, and attempt to pay half of the taxi meter but your father simply shoo’s you away. With heavy steps and defeated shoulders, you make your way inside the gate and are greeted by Yeojin, your classmate for the first class you have on your schedule, who just happens to arrive at the same time as you after grabbing a coffee from Drip across the street.

“First day of the semester and I’m already tired,” she tells you with a dejected sigh. “On more exciting news— we got new eye candy on campus. My friends from the fashion and design department told me that two cute new freshmen caught everyone’s attention during the orientation. Their building is right next to ours. God, I hope we bump into one of them today. Just the energizer I’d need.”

All you do is laugh at her news while entertaining the faintest idea that you might know who one of those two is. Last night, you’d called Taesan upon getting home to compensate for turning him down. You caught up a bit, exchanged schedules and he told you his major— fashion merchandising, which caught you by surprise. Well, considering it still falls under business, you could believe it a little better.

Anyhow, if he finds out that he’s been crowned as his department’s cute new eye candy as a title, you’re sure he’d be pretty fucking annoyed. And you intend to capitalize on that. More teasing fuel for you.

“Good morning, everyone. Let’s not waste time on introductions and head straight to our course outline.”

What a way to start the semester. You hold back a million yawns while taking some notes of Prof Yang’s overview of the syllabus. Yeojin asks if you want to hit the cafeteria for a snack in between classes. You shoot her a thumbs up and the moment Prof Yang dimisses, you’re both out the door and into the hallway.

“Hey, hurry up!” you call out to her when she stumbles over her undone shoelaces. “The guys from the phys ed department usually flood the canteen at this time, you know. They’re gonna sweep up all our portions.”

“Not on my watch, they won’t.”

You laugh as you walk ahead, your line of sight lagging behind your body because you want to watch more of her struggling to re-tie her laces as quickly as you can. This causes you to not look at where you’re going— and where you’re going is straight into the body of another person, bumping your nose in the process. “Ow!” you exclaim. “Sorry about that!”

“Noona.”

Oh. You pause, looking up to take a good look at your victim of negligence, and it is indeed Ricky Shen. “Ricky!” you greet. “Did you get home safe after the festival last night? How did you know I was here?”

He smiles as a response. You hold back the urge to squish his face between your palms, reminding yourself that he’s not a kid anymore. “I asked around. Turns out our buildings are next to each other, noona.”

That urge isn’t easily suppressed. “Wow!” you exclaim. Your hand somehow finds itself reaching for the fluff of his hair, and Ricky tips his head down in response, allowing you to press light pats on the crown of his head. “Good job. Now you won’t have to worry about getting lost anywhere anymore.” It hits you as an afterthought though— he could’ve just texted you to ask. Why bother asking someone when he could’ve asked you directly. Taesan got your number even amidst the rush, after all. Ricky must’ve too.

“Noona,” Ricky’s voice interrupts your thoughts. “My back is starting to ache a bit.”

You flinch and snap out of it. “Oh, sorry.” You retract your hand, pulling it close to your chest. “Force of habit, I guess.” If your recollection serves you right, Ricky was very much shorter than you. He’s two years younger, and in the brief week he’d spent with you in your household, you’d been used to him looking up, trying to communicate with you the best that he can with the help of those big, sparkly eyes of his repeating, ‘Noona. Noona! Can we see the pond again? The koi pond?’

Now, you’re the one looking up at him. And a memory begins to surface.

‘Noona.’ It begins with the usual gentle timbre of his voice. ‘Can’t I just stay here with you forever?”

A laugh from Ricky stirs you back into the present. “I was just joking, I don’t really mind,” he hums, smiling. “You can touch me anywhere you want, noona.”

Whoa, whoa, whoa— hold on. You manage a stiff smile. Whoever was his vocabulary teacher needs to get a demotion. This kid can be a bit much can he? You brush his comment off. Ricky’s gaze is as patient yet expectant as ever. “Anyhow, I’m off to the canteen with a friend of mine. Yeojin.” You point your thumb back at her. Said friend has been trying to sneak in the opportunity to insert herself into the conversation, but never got the opportunity. “Do you want to join us?”

He nods firmly. You laugh. His over the top-ness aside, Ricky can be painstakingly cute, and it’s taking everything in your power to prevent yourself from treating him the same way that you’d done before.

The cafeteria run only lasted briefly, considering you two still have a class to catch in less than fifteen minutes. After getting a vegetable wrap and Yeojin’s rice bowl, you had to bid Ricky farewell and return to your department building. On the way, right at the moment that you’d left Ricky’s earshot, Yeojin starts freaking the fuck out. “Whoa, what the fuck?! Dude, that was fashion department cutie number two! The one I mentioned earlier!” she shrieks into your ear, shaking you by the arm. “I hear he’s the son of SQR Fashion’s Chairwoman. What the hell? Why is a rich heir like him bowing his head down for your headpats and paying for our snacks?”

“Listen, I’m just as taken aback as you are.” You’ve known about Ricky’s background when his parents came back for him after his one-week missing period. “I met him once when I was like, twelve, and only bumped into him again yesterday. I’m surprised he still remembers me. He’s barely even an acquaintance.”

You’re not lying. You’re happy to see him, but it still puzzles you why Ricky is acting like this.

“How in the world would you have gotten acquainted with someone like him?!”

All you could do is smile and thank the heavens for the interruption in the form of your phone buzzing to an incoming text. It’s from your dad, asking if you’ve eaten yet, and reminding you to go home straight after your dinner with Jeonghan. Yet another display of weird behavior from a man in your life. He never usually texts you, not to mention what had happened earlier this morning. You might get some information from your mother later. You should pack some leftovers to bring home.

You receive another text. It’s a photo from Jay of Sunghoon, arms crossed and falling asleep in class. There’s drool on his face. You cackle and press save. Yeojin tugs you into the classroom. “We’re not late aren’t we?”

“No, not yet.

“Oh, hey!”

“Wow, you’re taking this class, too?”

The rest if your classes end in a flash, considering it’s only syllabus week, so you manage to get off earlier than you’d initially planned. Yeojin had already split up with you since she has other friends to meet. The four idiots are stuck here at uni until six in the evening because they screwed up their schedules for the semester, and you took a day off from your shift at 7-Eleven today because of the dinner you have scheduled.

That means, for the first time in a while, you’re all alone right now. All alone with nothing to do.

Should you pick up some hobbies? you think to yourself as you aimlessly walk through the streets of downtown to kill time. You’ve never really pondered on these things— not that you’ve ever had the privilege to. Picking up something like crocheting would only be a waste of money. It’s not like you have the time to get into a sport, either.

Your feet stop moving right in front of a bookstore. Open, the sign says. You look at the books on display through the glass. The owner smiles at you from inside. You turn your head, and your feet start moving again.

These books can be downloaded online. There’s no need to spend money on physical copies.

“Ah, my life is so boring,” you lament, continuing your mindless stroll. There’s a taiyaki cart in the corner. You buy a few pieces before making a turn, and that’s when you notice something that’s been bugging you since earlier.

When you make a turn around the block, you notice the same black car you’d been seeing since earlier make a turn as well. It’s only a hunch, but you proceed to move forward further into the street, before spinning your heels and going back into the same direction you came.

The car stops in its tracks. It attempts to make a u-turn at the intersection.

Your hunch is correct. What the hell. You should have never made that remark about your boring life. Quickly, your eyes scan around for an alley you could disappear into, and there you find a narrow opening wedged in between a study cafe and a pharmacy. You push yourself forward before the car could finish its turn— yet the moment your soles stomp into the concealment of brick walls and dusty pavement, you hear the abrupt ringing of your name being called out.

The sound of the voice stirs a rush of nausea from the pits of your stomach. It’s familiar— yet unlike the fondness of seashores that Ricky brought with his, this voice carries the crowbar hitting the latch of all of your pent up emotions for the past decade.

You’re greeted by the face of the man you’d used to see at every dinner, every gala. Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday emerging from your fathers now burnt down study. Every weekend when you’d come over to visit, asking how was your week with a kind, smiling expression.

“Mr Choi.”

How much more forceful reminiscing do you have to undergo this week? Quite frankly, you’re getting so fucking sick of it.

He repeats your name. The car is left on the road beside the sidewalk. He’d up and left just to talk to you in the middle of this dingy street. “Do you…have a few minutes to spare for a chat?” You bite your tongue. You turn around and ignore him, yet he knows exactly what to do to snag your attention. “I met your father earlier.”

And it clicks. It clicks so well that you can hear the sound echoing in the chambers of your brain. Your dad wore a suit for the first time in forever. His out of character texts to check on you. And here you have the person who ruined his life suddenly showing up for god knows what reason— and you know that if you ask your father, he wouldn’t tell you a single damn thing. You don’t think you can stomach it if your life gets fucked and flipped around again, right under your nose without your knowledge.

“For what?” you ask, voice firm. Mr Choi looks around first, eyes scanning the area before drawling out a hesitant response.

“Let’s…let’s talk in private.”

The next thing you know, you’re sitting in front of this bastard in the private booth of a restaurant your eyes failed to register the name of. There’s a full course meal sitting in front of you— sushi, salad, and a clear broth soup. The ice cubes are melting inside the juice. You feel sick to your stomach and a single bite might cause you to vomit on the spot.

Mr Choi has not touched his meal either. He’s finding his footing to start the conversation. “You should…you should try the soup. I’ve eaten here with my sons before. Do you remember them?” You don’t intend on making it easy for him. He clears his throat when you don’t grace him with a response. “I came looking for you and your father today because I’d like to sincerely apologize for what I’d done to you and your family, sweetheart.”

You hold back a scoff. This is ten years overdue, isn’t it?

“I was—I was blinded by my greed back then. I’m so sorry. Sihyuk had been giving me ideas that your father would eventually buy all of the company’s shares for himself and kick me out of the business, and that we needed to beat him to it before he could.” Mr Choi starts explaining, but to your ears, it’s nothing but listless prattles. “I know your father would never do that, but I was paranoid. And I assumed he’d have the capability to bring himself back on his feet anyway, but I didn’t expect things to turn for the worst when your house employees also turned their backs on you and started a fire on your property.”

“It’s all in the past, sir,” you hum, peeling off a piece of salmon from the platter, lifting it into the air before sending it straight to your tongue. It’s a hard swallow. “Besides, you wouldn’t have been able to treat me with this expensive meal if you didn’t do what you had to, right?”

You stare at him dead in the eye as he shifts uncomfortably. It’s unfortunate that you can’t snap a photo of his discomfort. Mr Choi clears his throat once more, his food still untouched, and tries to grab rein on the conversation yet again.

“I’m—I’m really sorry, sweetheart. I know nothing I could say here right now could grant my forgiveness. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make amends,” he starts. “I talked to your father earlier. I offered him a position at S&B, but he declined. Understandably so after what I’d done to him. Which is why I turned to you, instead. I thought I could maybe right my wrongs in a different way.”

“What? Are you dying soon, or something?” you scoff. “Are you trying to clean your resume for heaven before your time is up?” You catch Mr Choi’s jaw clench at your remark. What can you say? Your father is barely home from making deliveries around the clock at every house. You see your mother’s callouses every single day when she sets down the tray for your breakfast, even though you insist you can just buy something from the cafeteria on campus. And there’s this piece of shit thinking he can fix or undo everything with a sorry, with the throwing of his scraps— for the sake of his own guilty conscience.

It’s revolting. It’s pissing you the fuck off.

And yet here you are, in spite of your disgust and anger, you’re swayed by the temptation of a piece of juicy meat being dangled right in front of you.

“Can you get to the point, Mr Choi?” you say. “Do you want me to convince my father to take the offer?”

He releases a smile and a laugh. “I don’t think even you could get through to him, sweetheart.” As much as you hate to admit it, he’s right. You inherited your stubbornness from somewhere, after all. “But I don’t want to give up yet. I’m truly sorry for the consequences my actions had made. I have been made aware of your current living situation, and how you’ve been juggling multiple jobs just to ease the burden from your parents in paying the bills and your tuition.”

Your bones stiffen. You lock your attention on Mr Choi.

“You were correct when you said I just want to clear my conscience, even just a little,” he continues. “Let me pay for your tuition and offer you a place near your school to stay until you graduate.”

There’s a pulse in the air. You can hear it. You hear it clearly.

Mr Choi pulls something out of the inner pocket of his coat. He slides it down the table for you to see and receive.

“You don’t have to give an answer now.” It’s a business card. His number is on it. “But my line is always open once you’ve made up your mind, sweetheart. Please take the time to consider.”

줄다리기 / JULDARIGI. © hannie-dul-set, 2024.

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starkeynation · 4 months ago

Text

Forever & Always

Chapter 1

Based on this request

Synopsis: Elena Vanderbilt left Outer Banks right after being broken up with Rafe 3 years ago. Now, she returns to her hometown- but she’s not the same girl who left. This time, she’s back with a husband by her side and a daughter in her arms.

Elena

He hungrily kiss the side of my neck, and leave a trail down to my throat. I tossed my head back and whimpers at the feeling of his hot breathing.

“God..Rafe.”

“Elena..”

“Elena”

“Elena, wake up!”

I opened my eyes immediately, my chest heaving, my body drenched in sweat.

"Good morning, baby. We’re here."

Blinking, I turned to my side and realized I was in a car with my husband. First day back in OBX, and I’m already dreaming of my ex… great, I thought.

As soon as I stepped out of the car, the sea breeze hit me. The warm air and the scent of sun-soaked driftwood were nothing compared to the polluted air back in New York. It had been three years, and I missed this place more than i realized.

A small tug on my pants pulled me out of my reverie.

"U-up," Leiah muttered, lifting her tiny arms toward me, asking to be carried.

"Oof, come here, big girl," I grunted as I picked up my daughter.

"You ready?" Daniel asked before unlocking the house’s door with the keys I had given him.

This was Daniel’s first time seeing the house where I grew up—well, sort of. We had only moved into this mansion when I was 13. My family and I were Pogues until one day, my dad got lucky in his job. My parents passed away a year before I left OBX, so no one had been in this house since the day I left.

As I stepped inside, I gently put Leiah down, my eyes scanning the dusty hallway. Honestly, I didn’t know if I was ready to live here again. There was always a part of me that felt like this house was haunted—not in a scary way, but in the way that living here alone after my parents died made me feel trapped with my thoughts. That was another reason why I had to leave.

But luckily, I had a family of my own now.

"Hey, I’m kinda hungry… are you hungry?" my husband asked.

"Yeah, starving," I nodded. "I can grab us some takeout real quick if you want."

"Yes, darling, that’ll be great. I’ll just start cleaning up a little bit," he replied before giving me a peck.

I smiled at his sweet gesture. "Leiah, do you want to come with Mummy to buy food?" I asked, holding out my hand.

She quickly nodded and rushed over to grab it.

I decided to walk to the country club’s restaurant since it was the closest to the house—and they had really good fish and chips.

At the country club, I sat at a table overlooking the golf course while waiting for our food. Leiah had brought a little fairy doll with her and had been wobbling around, playing with it.

Then, out of nowhere, she rushed behind me.

And that’s when I locked eyes with a familiar pair of blue eyes in front of me.

"Rafe."

Rafe

I was heading to my car when, out of nowhere, a tiny doll bumped against my leg. I glanced down, bending to pick it up, and spotted a little girl with pigtails standing a few feet away.

Must be hers, I thought.

"Here you go, little one," I said, offering the doll back with a small smile.

She didn’t say anything, just grabbed it and ran away. Must’ve gotten scared, I thought, entertained by her shyness.

But then I saw her run straight to a woman sitting nearby, clinging to her chair. That’s when I finally looked up—

And everything stopped.

"El."

It was like the world had suddenly gone silent, the air knocked from my lungs. Sitting less than five feet away was the love of my life—the woman I hadn’t seen in almost four years.

Before I could even process it, my legs moved on their own.

"Elena?"

She turned to me, eyes widening slightly. "Rafe, hi." She stood up, and for the second time in minutes, I forgot how to breathe. If only she knew how much I missed hearing her say my name.

"I—wha—how—how are you?" I stammered, still struggling to believe she was real and standing right in front of me. I never thought I’d see her again, not after she vanished from my life that day.

"Yeah, I’m good. What about you?" she replied with a soft smile, one that made my chest tighten.

"Nice… yeah, I’m doing fine too," I nodded, trying to gather my thoughts. I was about to ask how New York had been when a waitress approached our table.

"Here’s your food and your card, Mrs. Tomsky."

I froze.

Mrs. Tomsky?

Then, my eyes flickered to her left hand. A ring.

"You’re married?" The words came out before I could stop them.

She hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yeah… I got married two years ago."

Okay, who pulled the trigger?

Two years ago. That meant she got married barely a year after she left. I swallowed the lump in my throat, but my eyes drifted to the little girl still hiding behind her.

"So, I’m guessing she’s your daughter?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay steady.

Elena glanced down with a soft smile. "Oh yeah, this is Leiah. Leiah, say hi to Rafe."

Leiah. A beautiful name.

I crouched slightly, waving. "Hi, Leiah."

She peeked out at me but quickly hid behind her mother again. Maybe she didn’t like strangers. I chuckled at her shyness.

"She’s really cute," I told Elena, looking back up at her.

"Thank you," she said, grabbing the takeout bags from the table. "I’d love to catch up more, but I need to bring these back home."

"Yeah, of course. I was about to head out too. Let me walk you outside," I offered.

As we stepped outside, I glanced at her. "So, you’re staying at your old house?"

"Yeah… what about you?"

"Still at Tannyhill,” I replied. "But I live alone now. My dad, Rose, and Wheezie decided to settled down in Bahamas."

"Ahh, I see… What about Sarah? How’s she doing?"

"She’s doing fine, I guess. We talk sometimes. She’s still living at John B’s chateau."

"That’s good to hear."

Before I could say anything else, Leiah suddenly took off toward the fountain near the entrance, leaving us alone for a brief moment. I let out a small laugh, watching her run.

"How old is she?” I asked.

"Two, going on three."

I nodded, letting the silence settle between us. Then, I looked at her again, my voice quieter this time.

"I can’t believe you’re married."

“Wha- i mean, it’s been three years. A lot has changed Rafe."

"It’s not that long." My eyebrows furrowed.

"It is."

I shook my head. "Not for me, El. Not for me."

Her jaw tightened. "Don’t ‘El’ me."

I swallowed hard, hesitating before speaking again. "You really got married a year after we broke up?" My voice was louder now, frustration seeping through.

"Yes! And so what, Rafe? Why are you mad?"

"We were together for six years, Elena! Not to mention how I almost got a heart attack after finding out that you left. No explanation, no goodbye—just a text from Sarah saying you were fine in New York? Do you know what that did to me?"

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Nope. Nope, I can’t do this. I’m sorry."

And just like that, she turned away, taking Leiah’s hand and walking off—leaving me standing there, watching the only person I ever loved slip away again.

A/N: @issabellec7 im sorry to keep you waiting pookie🙏🏻 I’ll try to find as much time as possible to write this series since I’m also hooked by it now😋

#rafe cameron #drew starkey #obx #rafe fanfiction #rafe x you #rafe imagine #rafe x reader #rafe smut #rafe angst #rafe fluff #rafe obx

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beeing1alive · 2 months ago

Text

𐙚𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨

f.t.: Jacob Black

summary: your first meeting with him turning into more (headcanons) Pt. 1 to this

warnings: none, fluff, friends to more

- I feel like you guys would meet at one of those family and friends gatherings to watch a football game together and maybe have a garden party at Billy's place

- everyone would come over with their families and bring a homemade dish

- and then of course there's the adult table with all the elders talking and chatting, the group who's actually watching the game (and occasionally glaring at the laughing people because they can't understand what the reporter says) and then there's the kids table

- you both were already teenagers then, but still too young to sit with the adults

- it all started with a "hey, we want to go down to the beach As long as it's not dark out. You wanna join?"

- he had asked you, nodding his head towards the other few waiting guys around your age, and one that looked slightly younger

- there was nothing else exiting to do, so you agreed and joined in

- on the way, you got to know their names, the tall boy that has asked you was Jacob, the one with the slightly wavy hair was Quil, the slightly calmer one was Embry and the younger boy's name was Seth

- they were fun, all of them bantering and laughing together while still leaving your personal space spared- they clearly had no idea about girls, but it seemed clear to all of them that girls don't like to be put in a headlock or something

- you felt them watching, seemed like they had also no idea what to talk about with girls, so silence fell above you all, until you spoke up again

- "you know guys, I think I should come down here to La Push beach more often. It's nice here."

- then the blabbering continued as I'd there's never been silence, they didn't seem to worry much about doing something wrong anymore

- eventually you reached the beach and everyone wanted to do different things

- Embry and Quil seemed to find it funny to start to play wrestle in the sand, with little Seth watching with bright eyes

- you sat down at one of the driftwood trunks at the edge of the beach, and after a while Jacob was joining you

- surprisingly, you fell into natural conversations pretty quickly

- you were talking about all kinds of things, school and how annoying it was, about the rez and even more personal things, until you could already see the stars in the sky

- that night was like someone flipped a switch, it brought everything into movement

- meetings and hanging out got more frequent, until you saw eachother every day

- his friends were teasing him about it constantly, calling you his girlfriend, whistling after you both as you walked towards his car so he could drive you home from school and all that

- it happened gradually

- glances when the other one wasn't looking, his arm around your shoulders while watching a movie on Billy's old TV while sharing a blanket, falling asleep side by side leaning against his bed while sitting on the ground over your maths homework, wearing his clothes cause they were comfy

- everyone saw it but you both

Note: hey pookies, hope you like it and if you do, here's Part 2 ~ love you, lacy

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abigailovesz · 1 month ago

Note

can i request bf! jj and gf pogue! y/n and jj surprising her for her bday?

maybe they’ve been a thing since forever like middle school and he wants to keep the romance alive 😆

aw this was fun to write! thanks for the request anon

jj had never been great at birthdays. dates slipped through his fingers like sand, and planning things - especially damn surprises - wasn’t exactly in his comfort zone. but this year was different. this year, it was your birthday.

and he wasn’t about to let it pass like it was any ordinary day.

It started a month in advance, which for jj, might as well have been a year. he snuck glances at your pinterest boards, listened extra closely when you talked, and kept a little folded piece of paper in his wallet with notes scribbled down - your favorite flowers, your favorite dessert, and the name of the beach you once said you’d love to watch the sunset on.

and you literally had no clue.

the morning of your birthday, you woke up alone. no jj curled into your side like usual, no kisses pressed to your temple, no sleepy mumble of “happy birthday baby.” just silence and a note on the pillow.

“put on somethin' comfy. you’ll need like shoes obviously and a jacket. trust me. –j”

you smiled, already suspicious. you knew jj. knew he’d never disappear unless he was up to something. and he was definitely up to something. an hour later, a knock on the door revealed sarah, holding a blindfold and laughing at the look on your face.

“don’t worry,” sarah said. “you’ll love this.”

the drive was filled with music, and even though you tried to get sarah to spill, the girl wouldn’t budge.

eventually, the car slowed, and ya felt sand under your feet. warm breeze. salt in the air. sarah tugged off the blindfold, and there he was - jj, standing under a driftwood arch wrapped in twinkling lights, wearing a stupid proud smile and holding a bouquet of daisies.

behind him, a low picnic table sat on a blanket, surrounded by pillows. your favorite snacks, a little bought cake with whipped cream and strawberries, and a single, flickering candle.

“happy birthday,” he said, a little sheepish but calm.

“you remembered all of this?”

he stepped closer, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I remembered you. every little thing you ever said. because ya matter to me, sweetheart.”

tears welled up in your eyes - not sad ones. the good kind. the kind that only show up when your heart is way too full. “you idiot,” you whispered, smiling. “you’re gonna make me cry.”

jj laughed, pulling you in, pressing a quick peck to your lips. “good. I want this to be the birthday ya remember.”

later, as the sun slipped into the sea and clouds passes, you and him curled into each other beneath a blanket, your head on his shoulder.

“you really did all this for me?”

“I’d do it a thousand times - it was fun actually, well other than falling off the ladder but thats fine,” he said. “happy birthday, baby.”

"you really fell off a ladder?"

"mmhm, shoulda seen popes face - he thought i died, i think."

104 notes · View notes

jessesluvr · 19 days ago

Note

heyyy! i am the same anon that asked the prompt that became "first, not mine" and yeah i LOVE it and i also am happy that ppl appreciate it too bcs you did great!!!!!!!! sorry for taking long to thank you for writing something amazing, i have been a little busy lol but yeah i came back to bring something new and angsty to the table.. so imagine later on jesse and reader settle and jj turns idk 5 and they decide it't time to try for their on baby. and after trying for like a year plus suffering from an miscarriage she decides to talk to jackson's doctor who says she might be infertile...... how would this go? i am so sorry for that i only have angst ideas and also sorry bcs ik it's hella messy

ashes in bloom | jesse x reader

author's note : hey, so i know i usually like put a funny a/n, but i just couldn't do it with this one, you know? please hug and care for those close to you who have experienced miscarriages a little tighter than usual. ps. stop making me write angst. (m.list to find the other parts)

warnings : miscarriages, infertility. please read at own discretion.

summary : jesse and reader experience the heartbreak of a wanted pregnancy ending in miscarriage, navigating the crushing weight of grief, blame, and silence. through shared pain and quiet love, they slowly begin to heal together, even as the loss lingers in everything they do.

word count : 4k

you don’t cry at the hospital.

not when the doctor clears his throat, not when he lowers his eyes, not when the silence between his words starts to scream. jesse’s hand tightens around yours the way a drowning man clings to driftwood, but even then, you just sit there. still. unmoving. there’s a part of you that thinks if you don’t blink, if you don’t shift or shudder, you might not hear what comes next. that time will keep holding its breath with you.

but it doesn’t.

they tell you it was early. that it’s common. that these things happen and it’s no one’s fault.

jesse whispers something like, “it’s okay,” under his breath, but even he doesn’t sound convinced.

you only start to feel it on the ride back to jackson.

jesse drives the horse slow. neither of you says anything. the road looks the same as it always has, but it feels wrong now—like the world’s been shifted just slightly out of place. the trees lean too far. the birds don’t sing. even the wind that lifts your collar feels colder than it should be.

your hand falls to your stomach once—out of instinct—and you jerk it away like it burns.

the first night home, jesse doesn’t leave your side.

he helps you change out of your boots, kisses your temple so softly it nearly breaks you in two, and whispers, “i’ve got you, okay?” again and again like it’s a prayer. like if he says it enough, it’ll keep the grief at bay.

but it doesn’t.

you lie in bed, curled on your side, and stare at the wall until the sky turns gray. his arms around you feel like they belong to someone else. you feel numb. empty. like your body isn’t your own anymore.

there’s blood in your sheets.

you don’t tell jesse.

three days later, you visit the doctor again.

it’s routine, they say. just to make sure everything passed.

but the questions come too quickly. have you had trouble getting pregnant before? do you remember how long it took the first time? any irregularities? family history? the nurse’s eyes don’t meet yours when she asks them. she’s careful. gentle.

that’s how you know it’s bad.

when they say the word infertility, jesse is the one who flinches.

you feel it. his fingers, tight against your knee, suddenly lose all their strength.

there’s talk of scar tissue. of “low chances.” of “not impossible” but “unlikely.” you hear the words, but you don’t feel them—not yet. they wash over you like water on stone, and all you can think about is the sound of jesse’s breath catching in his throat.

you don’t speak until you’re back home.

and even then, it’s only because you hear him crying.

you’ve never heard jesse cry like this before. not for joel. not even when he thought you’d left him for good. it’s a low, broken sound—choked and quiet, like he’s trying to muffle it in his hands.

you step into the living room.

he’s on the couch, hunched over, shoulders shaking.

“jesse…”

he looks up so fast it knocks the tears right off his cheeks.

“i’m sorry,” he says immediately. “i didn’t want you to see—fuck, i didn’t want you to—”

you cross the room in two steps and fall to your knees in front of him.

his arms come around you instantly, like it’s instinct. he buries his face in your neck and holds you so tight it hurts.

“i wanted this so bad,” he whispers. “i wanted you. i wanted everything.”

you don’t realize you’re crying until your tears are on his skin.

“i did too,” you manage. “i still do.”

time doesn’t heal.

it just dulls the edges enough that you can walk around without bleeding every time you breathe.

people don’t ask questions. they know better. maria drops off stew and doesn’t comment when it goes untouched. ellie brings you a new coat, says she “found it” on patrol, and leaves it folded on your porch. dina hugs you once—tight, trembling—and doesn’t say a word.

but jesse… jesse stays.

every night. every morning. every hour in between.

he never pushes, never demands, never expects you to be okay.

he just loves you.

and somehow, that hurts the most.

because he never once blames you.

and you blame yourself every single day.

you snap the morning you see another woman in town pregnant.

she’s glowing—beaming like the world hasn’t ended. her hand rests on her bump like it’s the sun, and you feel like you’re made of shadows.

jesse catches the way your eyes drop. he touches your shoulder.

“let’s go,” he murmurs, and you let him lead you away like a child.

you don’t cry until you’re inside your room with the door closed.

“i should’ve stayed away from you,” you whisper through clenched teeth. “you could’ve had this. you could’ve had a family, jesse.”

his eyes blaze.

“don’t,” he breathes, stepping toward you. “don’t you fucking do that.”

“you deserve better—”

“no,” he cuts in. “i deserve you. i love you. you think i care about anything else?”

your chest trembles. “you have jj, and i can’t give you anymore..”

“i wanted us to be parents. together.”

you don’t kiss him—you crash into him.

all the grief, all the guilt, all the love still alive under the ashes—it burns through you. you grab his face, kiss him like you’re drowning, like he’s the only thing that’s real. he holds you against him and whispers, “i’m not going anywhere. no matter what.”

you believe him.

that’s what makes it hurt worse.

you stop trying.

not for lack of love.

but because you can’t survive another loss.

and jesse knows.

he never says it out loud, but you see it in the way he looks at you—every time your hand drifts to your stomach, every time you flinch at the sight of baby clothes or look away from a mother walking by.

he never pushes you.

you think maybe he’s protecting himself too.

and then… it happens.

three months after you stopped thinking about it.

a missed period. then another.

you don’t say anything. not at first.

you think your body’s just broken. still reeling. still trying to heal.

but the symptoms come anyway.

nausea. dizziness. sore breasts.

and then—against all odds—you feel it.

life.

tiny, fragile, flickering like a candle in a storm.

you wait a week before telling jesse.

you expect panic. or disbelief. or guarded hope.

but he smiles.

wide and boyish and bright through the fear.

“you’re serious?” he asks, voice cracking.

you nod.

and jesse—your jesse—drops to his knees, buries his face against your stomach, and cries.

you don’t get excited this time.

you’re careful. you’re cautious.

you don’t count days. you don’t make plans. you don’t let your mind wander to baby names or nursery colors. you don’t let jesse talk about cribs or lullabies or what they’ll look like.

you’re terrified.

but he believes.

and for a while, that’s enough.

you let his hope carry you when you can’t hold it yourself.

you’re nine weeks when it happens again.

it’s the same night jesse strings up fairy lights across the bedroom because he says, “you deserve to feel like there’s still magic in this world.”

you wake to a sharp pain and a warm wetness between your legs.

you’re shaking—your thighs slick and warm, and when you lift the blanket, it’s everywhere. blood. thick. dark. pouring down your legs like your body is trying to expel every last hope you clung to.

you scream.

jesse is already by your side before the second one escapes. you don’t know how he moved so fast, how he’s holding you now, wrapping a blanket around you even as his voice breaks with panic.

“shh, baby, i got you. i got you—i’m right here—i’m taking you to the infirmary—don’t close your eyes—look at me—”

you don’t.

you stare at the blood. the warmth that should’ve meant life.

but this—this is death.

you know it in your bones.

you know it in the way something inside you suddenly feels gone.

he carries you through jackson in the dead of night.

you’re barely conscious, and still, people come to their windows. lanterns flicker on. maria steps out onto the porch in her robe. you see her face drop.

she doesn’t even ask.

she just opens the gate.

at the infirmary, they speak in hushed voices.

too hushed.

they whisper behind curtains.

you already know.

but jesse’s holding your hand like he still thinks there’s something to save. his other hand clenches in his lap until you notice the blood on his knuckles, like maybe he punched a wall. or the ground. or just couldn’t bear to let the grief stay inside his body.

you whisper, “it’s over, isn’t it?”

he doesn’t answer.

just looks at you with tears in his eyes and shakes his head, like denying it could change anything.

a nurse confirms it fifteen minutes later.

there’s no heartbeat.

you hear your own scream echo down the hallway.

they try to sedate you.

you rip the needle out of your arm.

you throw a tray against the wall. collapse onto the floor, fists pounding into it, nails clawing at tile like maybe if you dig deep enough, you can crawl into a hole where none of this is real.

they have to restrain you.

it takes jesse and two others to hold you down.

even then, your voice is hoarse and breaking when you shout, “get off me! don’t touch me!” and when jesse finally lets go, you shove him with every ounce of strength left in your ruined body.

he doesn’t fight it.

he just backs away, arms at his sides, jaw trembling like it’s taking everything in him not to fall apart too.

you don’t speak for two days.

you turn your face toward the wall, flinch at every creak of the door.

jesse visits every hour, on the hour.

he brings your favorite tea. you don’t touch it.

he brings you socks. your feet stay bare.

he brings a book. you throw it across the room.

but he still shows up.

over and over.

until the third night, when you finally say, “why are you still here?”

he stands in the doorway, silent for a long time.

then, softly, “because you’re still here.”

you go home.

but it’s not home anymore.

you sleep in your clothes. you flinch when jesse walks past. you don’t want to look at the kitchen table, where you used to lay out names for your baby. you don’t want to look at the baby blanket tucked behind the couch. you don’t want to look at him.

because jesse is still looking at you like you’re whole.

and you’re not.

you’re not.

he gives you space.

sleeps on the couch.

you don’t ask him to.

but he knows.

you stay in bed for days.

then you sit outside for hours, watching a garden that’s gone to rot.

you pluck dead petals off sunflowers that never got the chance to bloom.

you don’t cry.

you just exist in this slow, hollow ache.

like you buried your soul along with your child.

one morning, jesse finds you in the kitchen.

you’re scrubbing the floor.

not just cleaning—scrubbing.

knuckles raw. tears in your eyes. blood has long since been wiped away, but you keep going, muttering, “i can’t get it out. i can’t—”

he grabs your wrists gently.

you jerk away.

“don’t touch me,” you whisper.

jesse flinches like you hit him. “please, don’t shut me out. i’m hurting too.”

“you didn’t lose everything.”

he stares at you like you’ve shattered him.

and maybe you have.

he says nothing.

just walks out the front door and doesn’t come back until after dark.

that night, you break.

fall to your knees in the bedroom and sob into the floor.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper into the dark. “i’m sorry i failed you. i’m sorry i couldn’t protect you.”

you don’t know if you’re talking to the baby.

or to jesse.

or to the version of yourself you’ll never get back.

jesse sits by your side in the morning, silent.

you don’t speak either.

but he reaches out. brushes your hand. doesn’t press when you don’t take it.

instead, he says, “i picked up patrol again.”

your stomach twists.

he hasn’t gone out since you got pregnant.

“okay,” you whisper.

“i needed to do something that hurts.”

you close your eyes.

because that’s the only thing that still makes sense.

ellie visits one afternoon.

you don’t open the door, but she talks to you through it.

“i’ve never been through what you’re going through,” she says. “but i’ve lost people too. and i know how easy it is to want to shut everyone out.” you press your forehead to the wood.

“i didn’t just lose them,” you whisper. “i lost me.”

she goes quiet for a long time.

then, “if anyone can survive that kind of loss, it’s you. but not alone. don’t make jesse pay for something neither of you could stop.”

you cry again that night.

and this time, you crawl into jesse’s arms while he sleeps on the couch.

he wakes with a sharp breath—and when he realizes it’s you, he wraps you up so tightly you almost can’t breathe.

but you don’t mind.

you don’t mind at all.

you stop bleeding after another week.

but the damage doesn’t feel over.

every mirror is a battlefield.

every moment of silence is loud with what-if.

jesse starts brushing your hair again.

it’s the only thing that calms you.

you sit between his knees on the porch while he untangles the knots, and when he presses a soft kiss to the crown of your head, you almost shatter all over again.

but this time, it’s from love.

you find the onesie you’d hidden in the drawer.

hold it for hours.

then bury it under the tree in the backyard.

you plant flowers over it.

you don’t tell jesse.

but later that night, he places a single wild daisy on the mound.

and you realize he knew.

you wake to a dream one night.

your child in a field.

sunlight. laughter.

their tiny fingers reaching for you.

you reach back.

but just before you touch, they vanish.

you scream yourself awake.

jesse is there before you can fall apart.

he doesn’t ask what you saw.

he just pulls you into his chest, rocks you gently.

and whispers, “i’ll carry the weight with you. as long as it takes.”

it’s been three months.

the first thing you notice is how quiet the house has become. not peaceful. quiet. in that heavy, suffocating way — like sound itself is mourning. like the walls know what happened here.

jesse still walks lightly. still closes doors without sound. still gives you space.

you wish he wouldn’t.

you wish he’d scream.

some days you pretend you're okay.

you go to the market. you help maria catalog weapons. you even laugh once — a sound that feels foreign, too loud in your throat, like it doesn't belong to you anymore.

but then you see a child in the street — maybe two, three years old — tugging their mother’s hand with a gap-toothed smile.

you freeze.

you forget how to breathe.

you feel the blood again.

you see it on your thighs, in your bed, on your hands.

you hear your baby’s heartbeat fade into nothing, the memory of it flatlining in the back of your skull.

and suddenly, you're not in the street anymore.

you're crumpled on the ground, gasping, nails biting into dirt.

jesse finds you minutes later.

he doesn’t ask what happened.

he just lifts you into his arms and carries you home like something precious — even though you’ve never felt more broken.

one night, you find him crying.

he doesn’t know you’re awake.

he’s sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, hands over his face.

he’s whispering something.

you listen from the stairs.

“i should’ve protected you better,” he says. “i should’ve done something.”

your chest caves in.

you never realized he was blaming himself, too.

you step down slowly, quietly, until you’re in front of him.

he startles when he sees you, tries to wipe his eyes, tries to smile like he isn’t falling apart.

you don’t let him pretend.

you kneel between his knees, take his hands away from his face, and rest your forehead against his.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

he closes his eyes.

“i didn’t mean what i said. you didn’t fail me. you didn’t fail them.”

his breath shudders out of him like it’s been trapped in his chest for weeks.

he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his lap, like holding you might save him from drowning.

you both cry.

you cry until the salt of your grief is soaked into his shirt and your throat is raw and your hands shake with the weight of everything you’ve lost.

a week later, you go to the tree.

the one you planted the flower over.

jesse follows, silent.

you kneel by the dirt, fingers brushing petals now bloomed with life.

it’s the first time you’ve spoken about it out loud.

“i thought i felt them kick once.”

you swallow, throat tight.

“i remember that moment more than any other. just... that flutter. like something was alive inside me. like hope had a heartbeat.”

jesse kneels beside you. takes your hand.

“me too,” he says softly. “i used to watch you sleep and talk to them. stupid things. like which cereal is better or what name sounded good.”

you smile through tears.

“did you ever settle on one?”

he laughs quietly. “nah. every time i thought i picked, i’d imagine you making fun of it.”

you lean your head on his shoulder.

“they would’ve had your smile.”

he nods. “and your fire.”

you close your eyes.

it hurts. god, it still hurts.

but somehow, it helps to speak them into the world — to make them real, even if the world never got to meet them.

spring comes late to jackson.

but when it does, the town erupts in green.

the flowers bloom.

the air softens.

and you feel something shift — not a healing. not yet.

but the possibility of healing.

you start going on walks again.

you let jesse hold your hand.

one night, you sit on the porch, watching the stars, and say quietly,

“i miss who we were before this.”

he doesn’t answer at first.

then, “me too.”

you let the silence stretch between you, thick and heavy.

“but i think i love you even more now,” he says.

your eyes sting.

he turns toward you, voice raw. “i’ve seen you shattered. i’ve seen you disappear. but i’ve also seen you crawl your way back to the light. even when you didn’t want to. even when it hurt. i’ve never been more in awe of you.”

you break.

you hide your face in his neck and sob into the safety of him.

because you’ve felt like a ghost for so long. like your soul stayed buried in that hospital.

and yet, here he is.

still loving you through the ashes.

you go back to the infirmary once.

just once.

you ask to see the records.

the nurse is gentle. hands you the file with a quiet nod.

you sit in the corner of the room and read the words like they belong to someone else.

fetal demise.

no heartbeat detected.

maternal distress.

you close the folder.

you don’t cry.

you just sit there with the weight of it pressing into your ribs like a brick.

when you get home, jesse doesn’t ask how it went.

he just opens his arms.

and you fall into them.

there are still bad days.

days where you snap at him for leaving the dishes out.

days where you see a mother rocking her baby on a porch and have to run back inside.

days where your hands wander to your lower stomach, pressing against the flatness that remains like maybe, just maybe, you’ll feel that flutter again.

but there are good days too.

like the time jesse builds you a swing behind the house.

or when he catches you staring at the stars and says, “if they’re watching from up there... they know they are loved.”

or the first time you smile without guilt.

he sees it.

doesn’t say anything.

just grins, leans in, and kisses the corner of your mouth like it’s something sacred.

tommy stops by one afternoon.

he doesn’t ask questions.

just places a small box in your hands.

inside is a wooden carving.

a tiny fox.

the one you and jesse joked about naming the baby after.

you run your fingers over the smooth edges and feel your throat catch.

“figured it was time to bring them home,” tommy says quietly.

you cry.

not a sob.

not a scream.

just tears — quiet and grateful and aching.

jesse wraps his arm around you.

you press your face into his shoulder and hold the fox between you like it’s a heartbeat.

months pass.

grief changes shape.

it doesn’t disappear.

it just... softens.

becomes a shadow you live beside.

some mornings you wake with a weight in your chest and don’t know why.

some nights jesse wakes from a dream and pulls you closer, like the absence still lingers too close to the surface.

but you begin again.

together.

one morning, you find jesse in the nursery.

you haven’t stepped foot in it since the night you bled.

the mobile you made still hangs above the crib.

dust has settled over everything like a shroud.

jesse’s sitting in the rocking chair, the tiny fox carving in his hand.

he doesn’t look up when you enter.

just rocks.

you walk in slowly. kneel beside him.

“i think it’s time,” you whisper.

he nods, eyes glassy.

together, you pack the nursery.

fold the blankets. tuck away the clothes.

place the mobile gently in a box, along with the books, the booties, the ultrasound.

at the bottom, you add a note.

you don’t read it to each other.

but you both write something.

then you seal the box and bury it under the tree.

that night, jesse holds you closer than he has in weeks.

you lie there in the dark, heart aching, body curled into his.

and for the first time, you whisper,

“do you think we’ll ever try again?”

he’s quiet for a long time.

then his voice breaks,

“when you're ready.”

tears sting your eyes.

“what if it happens again?”

he pulls you closer.

“then we’ll break. and we’ll bleed. and we’ll mourn. but i’ll still love you. and we’ll survive it. together.”

you bury your face in his chest.

“i’m scared.”

“so am i.”

he presses a kiss to your hair.

“but i’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”

the next morning, the sun rises through the windows.

it’s the same as always.

but it feels different.

softer.

you sit on the porch with jesse, your hand in his, watching the light break over jackson.

the pain is still there.

but so is the love.

and maybe — maybe that’s what survival really looks like.

not the absence of grief.

but loving fiercely in its presence.

#jesse x reader #tlou jesse x reader #tlou jesse #jesse tlou #jesse oneshot #jesse tlou x reader #jesse tlou imagines #tlou jesse oneshot #tlou fanfics

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shesjustanothergeek · 5 months ago

Text

The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Ten: The Weight of the Crown

|Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader|

Masterlist of Series

Author's Note: Hello everyone! It's been a while, but I'm glad to be back. It's been about 3 months since I last updated (for those reading along with the uploads), so I recommend reading the last chapter as a quick refresh. Thank you for reading and your continuous support. Be sure to comment on how you're feeling after the end of this chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts. You'll understand why soon enough. Happy reading!

Chapter Warnings: Graphic depictions of miscarriage, sexism, angst, we're mentally ill folks.

The sea air clung to the rocks of Dragonstone as Gaelithox, carrying you from King’s Landing, flew into the sulfuric caverns of the Dragonmont, emerald wings beating. It was a bitter homecoming but a welcome one nonetheless. The constant rush of the clouds, the cold winter sky above, and the dark stone of the castle all felt familiar. Despite everything that had happened, Dragonstone was where you felt safest. The echoes of the storm that had just passed felt distant as you made your way toward the castle’s entrance, the weight of the journey lifting with every step.

It had been a turbulent time at the Red Keep. The petition against Luke’s claim to the Driftwood throne, the death of Vaemond Velaryon at Daemon’s hands, and the lingering tension still hung between your two families. The most unexpected event was the moment with Aemond within the darkness of your childhood chambers, feeling his touch, unsteady and desperate yet confident of its path. Despite all the turmoil in his arms, you felt a sense of peace that had long eluded you. The vulnerability in his gaze, the careful way he held you, and those memories clung to you; though you had not spoken of it, a quiet joy bloomed inside you.

Your family was only away for a day, but it felt like a moon. Dragonstone was your sanctuary, its halls frigid but comforting, its chambers filled with memories of the past. Yet, somehow, they felt different now. For better or worse, something had shifted.

As you entered the Hall of the Painted Table, you saw your family settling in after their return, and you were the last to take leave from King’s Landing. Your mother, the ever-gracious heir to the Iron Throne, spoke softly with Daemon, their conversation punctuated by brief smiles as she stroked her swelling stomach. Luke and Jace laughed in the corner, clearly relieved to be away from the tense atmosphere of the Red Keep as Baela and Rhaena stayed at their betrothed sides.

You offered Jace a forced smile, unable to hide how your heart stopped at seeing him next to your cousin. Perhaps Dragonstone was no longer a place of consistency that you remembered. That needn’t matter now; all that did was your future, which was no longer tied to Jace.

You couldn’t help but feel a sense of anticipation building inside you as your mind wandered. If your mother agreed, you would soon wed to Aemond. The thought of it sent a surge of hope through you, but the joy was not one you could share openly.

As you moved to join your family, Jace’s eyes found you immediately. His sharp gaze lingered on you with a curious intensity. His brow furrowed as he stepped toward you, and a glimmer of concern flickered across his face.

“You seem different,” Jace remarked, his voice low enough to keep the conversation private. “You were distraught last night, and now you’re practically floating. What happened?”

Your heart skipped a beat. Jace had always been perceptive; he was your twin and a part of your mind and soul. The last thing you wanted was to have him probing into your emotions. Still, you couldn’t lie outright.

“I am just glad to be home. It has been a long two days,” you sighed, offering Jace a smile that did not quite meet your eyes. “We all have our burdens, brother. Mine are not so heavy now.”

Jace’s gaze softened, but his eyes remained wary. “Is that all? You were…” He hesitated, struggling to find the words as your despair from last night echoed in his mind. “You seemed so unsettled.”

You bit your lip, unsure how to explain without revealing your secret. It was unlike you to withhold something significant from your twin, but you were uncertain if you wanted to tell him, knowing how Jace felt about Aemond. The truth was, you had not expected to feel this way after everything that happened. The hope you had harbored for so long that one day you could mend the broken promises had somehow become a noiseless reality. The thought of a life with Aemond, beyond the shadows of the courtly politics and grudges, filled you with joy, but it wasn’t something you could tell Jace.

“I am simply… finding peace with our mother’s decision,” you said, your voice vague but resolute, smoothing your wrinkled riding skirt. “Tis nothing to concern yourself with.”

Jace’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, clearly unconvinced, but he did not press further as Baela grabbed his attention. He gave a short nod and clapped a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Well, I am glad you have found some comfort. I love you, sister, and if you need anything-”

“I am fine,” you interrupted sternly, giving him a tight, reassuring smile that stretched your wind burnt cheeks.

As Jace walked away, still looking back over his shoulder with a knowing frown, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. You hated lying to him, especially when you could see the concern written across his face, but something inside told you this happiness was yours to keep for now, at least until the time was right.

You looked across the mixed waters of Blackwater Bay and the Narrow Sea through the high, arching windows, savoring the silent joy you felt. You knew that whatever came next, whatever trivial battles you would have to face with this decision, whatever challenges would arise, this moment was yours alone. For the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to believe that, perhaps, this was the beginning of something pure.

The sun shone in a wash of molten gold as your mother leaned back in her study chair, the weight of her unseen crown seemingly heavier than usual after all that unfolded in King’s Landing. Her blonde hair gleamed in the warm light, strands catching like spun silver webs against the intricate embroidery of her black and red gown. You tentatively approached your mother as she poured over her writing desk, deep in thought, and stood before her, heart hammering in your chest, struggling to form words.

“Mother,” you began hesitantly, your voice wavering.

Your mother looked up from the pieces of parchment strewn about the oak top, her gaze light as she noticed your fidgeting fingers.

“I must tell you something before you return to King’s Landing.” You had battled with telling her of the proposal since Queen Alicent discussed it, scratching your scalp until it was tender and raw.

Like yours, yet so different, your mother’s sharp eyes squinted, filled with curiosity and faint weariness as she raised a light-colored brow. You could sense her anxiety slowly pique at your statement, but she hid it well, allowing you to continue.

“Go on,” she prompted, her tone gentle but carrying an unmistakable authority. You understood yesterday had taken as much of a toll on you as her with the light indigo crescents underneath her eyes.

Swallowing hard and clutching your hands to stop them from trembling, you inhaled deeply. It was best to finish it now, like ripping off a freshly healed scab. “Queen Alicent has requested that I accompany you to King’s Landing.”

Rhaenyra’s forehead wrinkled slightly, a flicker of suspicion darting across her face. “Oh?” She straightened in her chair. “And what reason might that be?”

“The Queen,” you said, your voice faltering as you twisted three fingers in your fist, attempting to channel your anxiety, “has proposed a betrothal between me and Prince Aemond.”

The silence followed was as heavy as the stones forming the Dragonmont itself. Your mother’s eyes widened, her lips parting in shock. For a moment, you feared she might refuse outright, her pride and long-standing animosity with Alicent taking precedence.

“She thought this would help heal the divisions,” you hurriedly continued as if to justify the decision, taking a few hurried paces towards her. You felt like a child begging your parents to allow you to stay up past bedtime. “I agreed, and so did Prince Aemond.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softened, though a shadow of unease remained. She rose from her seat, ambling toward you, her hands clasped tightly. “You spoke with him, and he agreed?” she asked quietly. “Truly?”

You nodded, feeling the heat of embarrassment creep up your neck. “Queen Alicent came to me while packing my belongings and proposed the courtship. I was hesitant at first, knowing our history, but,” you paused, swallowing the abrupt lump in your throat, “I believe this to be the best course of action for our House.”

A faint sigh escaped her lips as she placed a hand on your shoulder. Rhaenyra remembered when she was in a similar position, her father having arranged an engagement tour that ended with the threat of disinheritance and a loveless marriage. It would be better for you to choose your suitor, she decided. She did not want you to suffer the same fate.

“While I am not pleased that Alicent didn’t bring the matter to me first,” she began, voice terse and arms crossed as she sighed softly. “If this is what you desire, and if it will bring peace to our families, then so be it, but understand this partly stems from my fear of how Alicent might react if I refuse. The path of political marriages and alliances is best traveled with our minds and not our hearts.” Your mother’s angular face displayed a profound sense of intensity, one you had never seen before, as her lithe fingers tenderly stroked the crown of your loose hair.

“We must tread carefully, my brave girl.” Her words carried devotion and caution, and while her agreement brought relief, the tension in your chest refused to dissipate entirely.

“Rest now. We shall return to the Keep with the good news on the morrow,” your mother ordered, her voice softening as she cupped your face briefly. “We have a long journey ahead of us, and you’ll need your strength.”

You nodded obediently and left her chamber with a flutter in your ribs, unable to hide your smile. Sleep eluded you as you tucked yourself under the soft covers of your bed. Your mind raced with thoughts of Aemond—of his piercing violet eye, the quiet intensity of his presence as you felt the textured warmth of the scar on his cheek. The idea of him lying in these elegant blue sheets with you stirred something thrilling yet terrifying within you.

Finally, unable to bear the restless energy that gnawed at you, you rose with a swift flick of your covers and slipped out into Aegon’s Garden.

The sun hung halfway on the horizon, casting a warm amber glow over the sprawling palace gardens. The gentle, melodic symphony of the ocean’s crashing waves flitted through the air as you knelt amidst rows of once-lush vegetables, fruits, and flora. This patch of dirt was your sanctuary, a plot you tended not for the court’s tables but for the smallfolk who occasionally relied on its yield.

Sod clung to your fingers as you dug into the soil, feeling its cold, gritty texture. A faint smile graced your lips as you recalled the baker’s son’s joy when you handed him a basket of potatoes from the prior harvest. However, your family did not share the same sentiment, scolding you for being unguarded with the smallfolk.

The garden around you continued to buzz with the beginnings of life as you fell into a calm rhythm. A gentle breeze carried the sweet aroma of the crocus blossoms. Winter was almost ending, and you needed to ensure the ground was ready for spring. Still, you could only focus on the excited feeling in your gut.

In an instant, your serenity was torn apart by the swift swish of skirts and the panicked voice of your handmaiden, Edwina. Her breathless urgency sliced through the calm, each word tumbling out in a rush as if the very air around her crackled with unease.

“My Lady Velaryon!” Edwina’s voice quivered a fragile sound that echoed in your chest.

As you looked up, your heart plummeted at the focused image of your maid standing before you. Her eyes, usually bright and full of warmth, were now wide with distress and glistening with unshed tears.

“What is it, Edwina?” you inquired, brows furrowed, and your voice tinged with concern. Hurriedly rising to your feet, the soft, loamy scent of freshly turned dirt from the garden still clung to your clothes and mingled with your faint citrus perfume.

“Your mother,” Edwina stammered, clutching her skirt as though trying to steady herself. “She… she’s in labor.”

You felt the world tilt, a disconcerting sway that threatened to pull you off balance. It was far too early for the babe, mere months into its fragile journey. Fear knotted in your stomach as you took in the reality of the situation. With each heavy breath, your fist gripped the wooden handle of your trowel, feeling the rough grain beneath your fingertips. You held it tightly as though it was the only solid thing in the chaotic swirl of your thoughts.

“Where is she? I must-” you began, a frantic pounding in your chest, but Edwina’s trembling voice cut through.

“There’s more,” she whispered, as though speaking it aloud would make it more true. “The king, your grandfather…” she couldn’t get the words out, breathes coming in pants. “King Viserys is dead, and they’ve crowned Aegon in your mother’s stead.”

Time seemed to slow as the words echoed in your mind, clashing and overlapping like waves against jagged rocks.

Dead.

Grandfather, the man who barely held the family together, a monarch who, despite his flaws, had been a steady presence in your life, was gone. You knew it was inevitable with the state he was in, but so soon after you left King’s Landing? It made your heart sink into the cold dirt below. And your mother… your mother was losing the child who might have softened the blow of this loss.

Your mind raced with thousands of thoughts as the future was overturned. You should have known this happiness was just another farce, that your existence was meant to be one of turmoil and suffering. Perhaps you were not destined or deserving to experience a fraction of the happiness others around you possessed because of your inherently sinful nature, what happened with Aegon, and what you did with Jace.

Breath hastening, you quickly withheld the tears you desperately wanted to shed. “How?” you managed to choke out, voice hoarse. “How did he die?”

It did not matter how your grandfather died. The answer wouldn’t change the outcome. Still, you wanted to know, to have the weight lifted off your conscience for not being there in his final moments.

Edwina hesitated, her eyes darting to the ground as though searching for the courage to speak. “They say… they say it was in his sleep, but there are whispers, your highness. Whispers of treachery. The Queen was the last to see him in his chambers and said he wished for Aegon to be king.”

The confession struck you like a blade. Treachery and lies, the court was rife with ambition and deceit. You had grown up amidst its murky depths, but to imagine someone close, your kin, being a victim was unbearable. Your fingers curled into fists, the dirt beneath your nails now a stark reminder of the life you had just been cultivating. Life and death intertwined in cruel, unrelenting cycles.

“I have to go,” you blurted, your tone turning to steel despite the tempest of emotions roiling within you. Brushing past Edwina, your mind raced with grief, fear, and fury, but as you stepped onto the stone path leading to the castle, you paused, returning your gaze to the garden.

The rows of upturned dirt seemed almost mocking in their stillness, a sharp contrast to the chaos consuming your world. A thought flickered through your mind. What would become of the realm? Innocents would perish because Alicent, Otto Hightower, and whatever gluttonous lords decided to place their kin on the throne.

With your grandfather gone and your mother’s precarious position as the true ruler falling into position, it was your duty to step into your rightful place in the line of succession as her heir. You would display the fruits of your studies and handle this uncertain path with an intelligence and dignity worthy of being the rightful queen’s heir. To the whole realm, you would prove to the Great Houses that your blood House Targaryen, ruled by women, was one of unimpeachable strength and wisdom.

You swallowed hard, setting your jaw as your mind calmed. This was not the time for rash decisions filled with emotions. People like you could not afford such luxuries when others’ lives were at stake. There would be a time to grieve, but not now and not in front of others.

“Tell the groundskeepers to send someone to tend to the garden. I fear I won’t be able to for some time,” you instructed Edwina with a stern nod. “The smallfolk must not suffer because of the Hightowers’ greed.”

And with that, you strode toward the castle, heart-shattering with every step. Yet amidst the grief and uncertainty, a seed of resolve took root. If your mother was still breathing and at least some of the Great Houses remembered their oaths, you would ensure the world did not crumble beneath your kin’s feet.

While war was imminent, you could still attempt to salvage alliances and oaths before bloodshed. Part of you hoped that, somehow, the brief future that you envisioned with Aemond was not a fantasy but an end to a long and bloody path ahead.

Screams were heard throughout the halls, servants and maids averting their gaze from you as if they were looking upon the Stranger as they instinctively bowed in their red garbs. The tension in the air was palpable as you hurried to your mother’s chamber, thick skirts in your fists. You could hear her ladies before you entered, voices taught with terror and encouragement as they begged your mother to allow them to help her.

Entering without proper announcement, you swiftly approached your mother, crouched beside her bed, face buried between her legs. Blood stained her once pristine smock in an ombre of crimson and pink, tears of empathy welling in your eyes as you kneeled beside her.

“I’m here, Mother,” you announced, trying to comfort her and not invade her space. She lifted her head from where it was focused on the bloodiest part of her dress, covering what you knew hid beneath it.

She seemed at war with wanting to push you away while also craving the comfort her eldest daughter brought. Rhaenyra knew there was something different about this birth, more than the apparent premature arrival. It hurt differently than her previous ones, a pain so unusual to her body that it felt as if she was passing a beast instead of a child as another contraction seized her muscles. Her father and her throne were stolen from her within seconds, and now her child. Rhaenyra could never imagine such a fate.

“Your grandsire is dead,” your mother declared through gritted teeth, nails digging into her thigh to distract from the pain as she stared at the ceiling. “And Aegon sits on the throne.”

“I know, Mama, I know. I’m here for you, not to scheme. To do my duty as your daughter and help you through this,” you confessed with a sob, tears finally falling free and blinding your vision as you wiped at the sweat glistening on her brow. “You are strong. Stronger than you give yourself credit for, mother. I’ve watched you politic and navigate the courts and come standing with your pride. You have just come from securing Luke’s inheritance. Your father, who had not been seen sitting on the Iron Throne for years, did so for you.”

It hurt to see her in such a state that you could not help but let your heart speak. Your proud, fierce mother, who dealt with slimy lords and deceitful ladies with unwavering grace, was now forced to fight another battle, one against her own body, where words could not protect her.

Love shone through the discomfort in her amethyst eyes as your encouraging words momentarily distracted her. “Where is Daemon?” She asked her lady-in-waiting, Elinda, who shared the same puffy, distraught visage you did.

You took this opportunity to take the clean linens from one of the helpless maids and a basin of fresh water, returning to your mother’s side.

“He’s gathered the council members, your highness,” she answered, an anxious wrinkle on her forehead.

Another wave of pain passed through Rhaenyra at the thought of her husband plotting his war in his grief, abandoning his wife in her desperate time of need. There was no telling what Daemon would do in his madness.

Anger erupted in your veins as you soaked a rag in the cool water and placed it on the back of your mother’s neck. You should not have felt pleased for her to see the man Daemon was in this way, but you knew he would do this. It was in his character, though you wished he would have revealed himself more opportunistically.

“I will fetch him for you, Mother,” you offered sternly, but she waved away the idea.

Your mother grunted with exertion as she pushed herself up, using your arm for support as she paced to one of the stone pillars streaming the yellow daylight into the room.

“No,” she replied with a raspy tone, leaning against the structure with a groan. “I need you now, here with me.” The loss of her father was fresh, a slice to her bleeding heart.

When agony did not blind her, Rhaenyra’s mind wandered in her grief, thinking of what would happen in the following moments, days, and years. The realm was teetering on the brink of civil war, and it was only a matter of time before the scales tipped and the dragons danced.

She looked to you, her daughter, her only daughter, a girl still so young and kind despite experiencing the horrors of life that threatened to pull you into despair.

Rhaenyra knew in her soul that this child would not survive; it was only a matter of expelling it before it ended her, but you… you were alive. For how long, she wasn’t sure. The thought crept into her mind like the shiver of death’s hand, but right now, you were here with her, devoted and by her side, no matter how pained you to see your mother this way.

You didn’t leave your mother’s side, not even as she limped from one place to another, using you as your late grandsire did to his cane, wiping the sweat, blood, and birthing fluids that stained her porcelain skin. It felt as if your mother was in this gruesome cycle of sitting, standing, pacing, and squatting as she screamed for the child to leave her womb.

Rhaenyra thought of her mother as she so often did when it came to birth. She wondered if this was the terror Queen Aemma felt when she realized the babe would not go and that she was doomed. Rhaenyra didn’t want to die, even if it seemed like the world wanted her to. She would not allow this child to be the last of her if not for her living, breathing children who stared at her with concern as they entered her room to spite the traitors who were stealing her birthright.

Jace and Luke gazed at you and your mother as she doubled over with a bout of pain, quickly squatting as you wiped away a stream of viscous blood that ran down her leg.

“Mother!” Jace shouted in concern as they stopped at a distance, afraid and uncertain of his mother’s agony.

Your mother heavily panted as she tried to gain the energy to speak. “Your grandfather, King Viserys, is dead,” she exhaled through her teeth. “The Greens have repudiated the succession and claimed the Iron Throne. Aegon has been crowned king.”

Jace looked at you with wide eyes, understanding what this meant for you, him, and the realm. You gazed back with certainty, speaking without words. “What is to be done about it?” he questioned, ever the eager and dutiful son ready to protect his family.

“Nothing yet,” your mother declared as she gained the energy to continue her pacing cycle.

“And where is Daemon?” Jace interrogated again, anxious gaze flicking between you and your mother.

You led your mother to rest against your shoulder to distract and take some of the pressure off her contracting limbs as she inhaled a jagged breath. “Gone to madness,” she sniffled, nose buried into the crook of your neck, stroking her stomach. “Gone to plot his war.”

Your heart broke for her in every possible way, fracturing into tiny little pieces like a shattered mirror of loss, betrayal, and sadness across your slippered feet. Your mother did not deserve this. No one deserved the loss of a child—to have one thing after another stolen in such rapid succession with no one to support her. But you would. You would stay by your mother’s side as her heir and support her claim more steadfastly than any other because that was the right thing to do.

There was an unspoken understanding between you, not just as mother and daughter, but as a woman and girl. A bond that was unbreakable no matter how much it was twisted, bent, and weathered. She loved you. She made you into the woman you are today, one that would create a new order together.

Turning your tear-streaked face to your brother, you spoke without words, commanding him to deal with what you and your mother could not. He curtly nodded as Luke continued to stare with his wide brown eyes.

“Leave Daemon to me,” Jace declared and swiftly made his way to the exit, but your mother called out to him, lifting her head as she repeated.

“Jacaerys!”

She could not lose you. Not now, not in several moons’ time when war fully unleashes, and you ride into battle on dragonback. Rhaenyra understood she couldn’t stop her sons from riding as it was their duty as princes and men, but you were her daughter, and daughters did not go to war. At that moment, she decided she would never let you. Despite the hypocrisy that struck Princess Rhaenyra’s conscience, she could not allow you to be in a position that brought you so close to death.

With what little strength she had reserved, your mother separated herself from you as you attempted to reach out in concern. She need not burden herself more, at least not alone and with someone who truly loved her. Another wave of agony washed through your Queen Mother as you watched how her knees buckled, gritting her teeth through the pain as you hooked your arm under hers.

Her bleary violet eyes met yours, deep and holding thoughts inside them that you could not decipher as she tightened her mouth in pain, gaze now fixed on Jace.

“Whatever claim remains to me, you are now its heir. Naught is to be done by my command,” your mother declared, her voice unwavering.

Time seemed to stand, and Jace and Luke halted their movements abruptly as they stared at the two closest women in their lives with terrified confusion. You felt the life drain from your face, a bleeding heart leaping out of your chest and falling to the stone below.

She couldn’t mean that. She couldn’t. You were her heir. You were the firstborn, destined to rule the Seven Kingdoms just like her, no matter what others thought. You were to create a new order, a better and just kingdom that reigned in prosperity. This was what you spent your life preparing yourself for. Countless hours of studying history, politics, philosophy, and arithmetic were all meant to prepare you for the best monarch you could be. It was to prove to the Lords of the realm that women were too inferior, that they were too gentle of the heart to rule like a man were wrong.

And now, as you felt tears not of empathy rise, Rhaenyra Targaryen would prove all of them right.

“Mother, you can not mean that. I am your heir. The line of succession deems it so,” you stated indignantly, feeling your muscles weaken.

“I know, my sweet girl, but this is what needs to be done,” she explained, brows furrowing with another contraction as she gathered her words. “You are my daughter… my only daughter, and I cannot lose you to another man’s senseless actions. I know you and what you’ll do. You are not one to stand idly at the hands of injustice, and it shall get you killed.”

Your world was burning, and the dragons had yet to take the skies.

“I need your mind with me, by my side as my-” she beseeched, another contraction cutting her words short, “as my council.”

Your breath was stolen as she spoke, and you felt yourself deflate, your face falling and shoulders hunching. You dropped your arms and stepped away from your mother.

“You can not mean that, mother. You’re-you’re unwell. The stress of everything has consumed your mind. Do not make any decisions yet. Now is not a time of action. Wait until your body is in good health, and we can reconvene with your council,” you desperately ranted, emotions slowing welling inside of you as you felt yourself clawing your skin.

Your mother shook her head, wiping her sweat-dampened lips as she braced herself against the carved wooden footboard of her bed. “No. My decision is of sound mind and final. You will understand in time that this is what is best for you—for our House.”

You refused to accept that your mother would reduce you to nothing but another passed daughter, though you were more prepared and deserving than your younger brother, yet lacking only one unobtainable thing. Anger began to replace your defeat, boiling into a rage that spilled over into the venom of your words.

“You claim to be the rightful heir of the Seven Kingdoms, yet you choose a younger son over the eldest daughter for your legacy. Do you not see your hypocrisy?” you exclaimed, hands waving with every sentence as Jace stood in the doorway, shoulders hunched. Sinkingly, you realized he would not refuse your mother’s decision. “You prove by your actions that the Greens are correct in naming Aegon as king. You claim to be the new rule but desire to be the exception.”

“My girl,” your mother began grunting as she reached for your embrace. Stepping away from her, you crossed your arms, refusing to offer her the comfort she needed when she disregarded yours. “My strong, brave girl, please do not hate me for this. I cannot handle your anger in my time of anguish.”

Fury crackled with a sinister fire in the hollow cavity of your chest, flames of vengeance licking at the edges of your soul. Hot tears streamed down your cheeks, and you hurriedly brushed them away, desperate to regain some semblance of composure. Your mind was shrouded in a thick fog of rage, and the most treacherous thoughts, words you would never dare to entertain even in your bleakest moments, surged forth, threatening to consume you entirely.

“If you do not want me, perhaps I should return to King’s Landing and bend the knee to my Uncle? I know Alicent would appreciate my value more than my flesh and blood,” you spat, nails digging crescents into your palms.

Your pain made you blind to all rational thoughts. The mere idea of bending the knee to Aegon was repulsive. No matter how distressed you felt, it was an image you couldn’t comprehend. You would instead take your own life than pledge allegiance to your rapist, but that wasn’t the main point. You wanted to hurt your mother in the same way she had hurt you.

“You would never,” she panted, clutching at her bloodied skirt. Your mother’s footing slipped as she fell against the stone floor, crying out in agony and gripping the footboard to channel her pain.

“No!” you cut her off, shaking your head. “You swore I would be your heir, yet you chose him!”

Jace looked at you in alarm, his face twisted with guilt. “Sister, this isn’t the time-”

“It is exactly the time!” you snapped, stepping back. Jace was just as much to blame, with no refusals for his new title. “I will not stay here and listen to these fallacies.”

Your heart hardened to a chilling frost at her rejection as you disregarded her pain. Though her labor would soon reach its climax, lasting only a few more agonizing hours, the humiliation of being eclipsed by your younger brother would trail you like a dark shadow for the rest of your days. She made you a victim, much like the plight she faced, yet unlike her, there would be no rallying cries or banners raised in your honor.

With a delicate sniffle and a sharp inhalation, you steadied your ragged breath, transforming into the dignified princess the realm demanded you be—the poised princess who sat silently behind the imposing castle walls, gazing wistfully out the grand window of your gilded prison.

Curtsying, you forced your lips to stretch into a thin smile, willing the hurt to disappear. “I pray your labors are swift and painless. I shall join the rest of the council members and sit and twiddle my thumbs as is your will, my Queen.”

With no more kindness left, you lifted your skirts, wiping the sweat and blood from your hands as you exited your mother’s bed chambers without a passing glance as she shouted your name. Jace stood there motionless, too stunned to speak, let alone force you to return to her as you strode by. You were still his eldest sibling and held that seniority despite the sudden thrust of a new title. He was not accustomed to giving orders, let alone to his older sister, who was the one who mothered him.

Throwing your brother a look over your shoulder that ordered him to follow you, you trekked down the torch-lit halls to the Council Chambers, where Daemon no doubt was, as your mother’s cries became nothing but muffled noise. Your anger had created a wall around your heart, shielding you from any sympathy for her pain. She certainly had no regard for yours.

“You need to stay with her,” Jace finally said, mouth syncing with his mind as he slightly jogged to catch up with your swift gait.

You flashed your twin a sneer in response and flicked your hand in dismissal, continuing your path to Daemon as the sound of male voices grew louder. “I am not the heir. ’Tis not my duty to ensure the survival of the head of our House. I’m but a mere daughter.”

“Do not lose your heart simply because of your anger. It only proves why Mother chose me,” he antagonized, his frustration and pride getting the best of him.

Without thinking, you spun on him, pushing Jace against the jagged stone as you smacked him across his sharp cheek. “Don’t ever say that again! You will never be as good as me, Jacaerys!” you shouted, finally releasing the fury you held back. “She only chose you because I don’t possess a cock, not because you are a better fit. Don’t ever forget that.”

You were one soul, one mind, yet different bodies, and no one knew how to hurt someone better than their sibling. Jace had always felt inferior to you for as long as you could remember, no matter how you tried to help him. He never dedicated himself to his studies as much as you did, preferring more to play a pretend knight with Luke. It wasn’t his fault for the skewed priorities; he, too, was under the assumption that you were going to be queen. There was no pertinent reason to impress his studies at the time before yours.

Turning away from Jace, you continued on your path, your conscious an unfeeling stone as you scratched at the hair uncomfortably lying on your scalp. You wanted to claw yourself out of your skin—rip the flesh right off your limbs until there was nothing left but bones. All you wanted was to feel the pain sear your nerves like the hurt you felt on the inside.

“I’ll fly to the Riverlands myself and affirm Lord Tully’s support,” Daemon’s voice echoed through the halls as you and your twin entered the chamber unannounced.

The Rogue Prince stood imposingly; your mother’s most trusted advisors circled a table map with tense expressions.

“You will do no such thing,” Jace interjected, shoulders squared as he feigned confidence. “My mother has decreed no action be taken while she’s abed.”

Your stepfather gazed at you under his light brows, purple orbs shifting to Jace and back to you. He seemingly questioned without words as to why your twin was speaking instead of you. His time-worn visage wrinkled in defiance as silence stretched longer than necessary, ignoring Jace. “It’s good you’re here, my young prince. You’re needed to patrol the skies on your dragon.”

“Did you not hear what I said?” Jace questioned as he stepped forth. Each Lord standing around the dimly lit Chamber of the Painted Table stared noiselessly, tense eyes sharing worried glances.

“Patrol the skies, my prince. The heir and I must discuss matters of the realm,” Daemon responded. You did not meet his stare as another fresh wave of tears burned your nose and twitched your lips.

It seemed as if time stood still as your shame was laid bare before the ruling Lords, chin trembling with hurt and embarrassment. The quiet pierced through your gut like a blade, twisting it inside your organs as the men continued their noiseless stares. You felt their confusion soon morphed into pity as Jace stood with his back ramrod straight, only confirming their conclusions when you refused to speak.

“The ravens, Lord Bartimos,” Daemon reminded as your twin wordlessly asked you for assistance. Your mother made her choice, and it was Jace’s responsibility to bear it as you would have.

Suddenly, your mother’s scream cut through the Lord’s hesitance as his weathered gaze flicked from Jace, you, and Daemon. “I shall see it done,” he nodded, leaving. It was fruitless to argue with the Rogue Prince.

“Summon Ser Steffon. Our kingsguard are needed on the Dragonmont,” your stepfather commanded next as you observed him effortlessly ignore your brother and, by extension, your mother. It took everything within you not to smirk as Jace pleaded for you to back his standing. “Come with me, and I’ll show you the true meaning of loyalty,” Daemon ordered without a glance at you or Jace, walking briskly between the two of you with his palm on the hilt of Dark Sister.

He left no room for discussion, his imposing aura exuding an air of confidence that only a man like him could have. Your interest in what Daemon could be conjuring up inside his mind as a display of “true loyalty” guided your movements as you followed him, not bothering to see if Jace was too.

Your stepfather guided you through the dim halls of your home and onto the rocky cliffs of Dragonstone, the wind whipping your hair as you stood beside him. Jace was close behind, standing tensely at a distance as his face betrayed a perplexed annoyance before the two Kingsguards.

The air was cold, causing gooseflesh to rise on your arms as Daemon began to speak. “You swore an oath as knights of the Kingsguard,” he stated, one hand behind his back and the other on his sword.

“As do all who wear the white cloak, my prince,” Ser Steffon Darklyn replied, his silver helmet tucked underneath his arm as he squinted in the gray afternoon sunlight.

“To whom?”

You cast a sidelong glance to Daemon, curious about where this was going. Ser Steffon and Lorent Marband were loyal men, Ser Darklyn primarily as he and his ancestors served your House steadfastly. You supposed it wasn’t unwise of Daemon to ensure that the very men who protected you did not turn cloaks, but it did feel a little excessive to make a grand display for you and Jace.

“I swore first to King Jahaerys, my prince, and then to His Grace, King Viserys, when he succeeded him,” Ser Steffon answered confidently, showing no effect on Daemon’s intimidation.

“Do you acknowledge the true line of succession?” the Rogue Prince interrogated. Both the knights agreed in unison as Daemon made eye contact with you and then Jace, showing pride that only he could possess as your brother glared at him.

You felt a sympathetic understanding radiating from your stepfather that you had never seen displayed before. His violet eyes flicked back to you, strands of hair coming loose from your updo as he placed a wordless hand on your shoulder. It took everything within you not to smack his hand away, understanding the importance of showing a powerful united front. Just because you shared the same fate, another disregarded victim in the line of succession, did not mean your hatred of him lessened.

He breathed in through his nose, attention back to the pair of Kingsguard. “Do you recall whom King Viserys named heir before his death?”

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Ser Steffon answered as Daemon replied with a low sound.

“I’m grateful for your lifelong service to the crown. I’m presenting you with a choice,” Daemon confessed, voicing a soft timbre that made your hair stand on end.

The ground beneath you began to shake, pebbles rolling over the top of your head as the screech of a dragon roared above you. The lithe form of the Blood Wyrm came forth as he snarled and bared his arm-length fangs. Ser Steffon and Ser Lorent Marbrand flinched in fear as Caraxes low rumble vibrated your chest, enormous head coming so close you could smell the dragon and heat radiating from his scales.

“Swear your oath to Rhaenyra as your queen,” Daemon began, briefly looking at you as he sighed deeply. It seemed his following words pained him to say aloud. “To Prince Jacaerys as heir to the Iron Throne. Or if you support the usurper, speak it now, and you will have a clean and honorable death. But if you choose treachery, if you swear fealty now only to turn your cloaks later… know that you will die screaming.”

This was power… this was what your mother barred you from, and you would never forgive her for it.

Smoke swirled through the air, thick and suffocating, wrapping around you like a shroud and making each breath a struggle. You stood frozen, watching the flames hungrily devour a small fabric bundle no more significant than your forearm, its colors muted and shadows flickering in the firelight. Your family stood by in solemn silence, each person lost in their thoughts, the weight of their grief palpable in the heavy, overcast atmosphere.

The tiny form of your baby sister lay on the makeshift funeral pyre, occupying barely a quarter of the space on the slab. She was so small, so delicate, that it felt wrong, almost surreal, to see her there amidst the crackling flames as the waves of Dragonstone crashed against the rocks.

The maids remarked that Visenya was more monster than human as they exchanged disappointed glances in your direction. Scales lined her back, resembling those of a dragon. This sight reminded you of the ancient texts you had studied about your ancestors, which spoke of stillbirths, not of human origins, every few generations.

Occasionally, these texts mentioned unusual traits, such as over-calloused skin on certain parts of the infant’s body or the unexpected discovery of a tail akin to that of a snake. However, they often dismissed these occurrences as mere medical anomalies. You had not heard of such conditions affecting other women; they seemed exclusive to those of full-blooded Targaryen descent.

Your family prided themselves on their dragon blood, and perhaps, you thought, it wasn’t such an expression but a piece of their essence woven into your heritage millennia ago. Dragons were too powerful for even that of Targaryens.

This day would forever be etched in the annals of your family’s history, a day marked by sorrow and despair that would cast a long shadow over the years. The echoes of grief would resonate throughout the realm as the weight of this tragedy burdened not only your loved ones but the people you resided with.

Jace instinctively leaned on you for reassurance when feeling the same sadness and dread as the rest of you. It was part of your shared nature to seek solace in one another, but something inside you had broken. Your deep-seated love for your twin had fractured under the weight of greed, death, and duty, leaving you despondent to his affections.

Gently moving Jace away from your body, you slinked to the other side of your family where Rhaenys stood. A woman who held such distaste for you was more comforting than the brother you shared the womb with. He had Baela now to hear his worries and dry his tears, and you… had no one. No longer your twin and no longer Aemond. It was your destiny to be aggrieved.

You suppose you were the only one the Seven saw fit to handle such agony repeatedly, meant to bend and stretch but never break, though you felt moments away from it.

One by one, heads turned to something you could not see behind you, but you didn’t care, stares trained forward to where your little sister’s body smoldered. Suddenly, a Kingsguard you didn’t recognize came into view. A brown satchel slung over his shoulder, and he continued to walk atop the grassy hill to where your mother and Daemon were. Your mother’s guards quickly readied their swords, blocking the knight from getting closer.

“I mean you no harm, brothers,” the man said, removing his helmet as the men hesitantly lowered their blades.

They allowed him to continue, taking the bag from his shoulder. He kneeled before your mother and revealed the item he carried—the golden crown of her father and the Old King Jaehaerys. The metal glimmered with a history of power and legacy, and the knight swore an oath before your mother, who gazed at the unexpected gift with wide, astonished eyes.

“I swear to ward the queen with all my strength, to give my life for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.”

His sincere vows resonated within you, expressing a devotion you could only dream of. This man risked his life and traveled across the water to ensure that your mother received the crown that belonged to her father and grandfather. With unwavering resolve, he pledged his life to her service, his words a promise steeped in loyalty and love.

If he made it, could Aemond?

Reality shattered your fleeting hope, scattering it like feathers. Even if he had been allowed to escape and pursue the proposal, deep down, you understood that his loyalty, much like your own, would remain immutable, unmoved by the wistful echoes of childhood dreams of love.

Daemon took the crown from the knight, gazing at it and contemplating its significance and the power it would bring. He turned to your mother, and they shared a moment you couldn’t perceive from your distance. He placed the crown atop her silver hair while the wind gently caressed her loose strands as Daemon knelt before her. The crowd followed suit, with every court member, guard, brother, and cousin bowing before their Queen. The scene before you showcased the power your mother would now wield, which she rightfully deserved over the entire realm if not for the Greens, her piercing amethyst eyes locking onto yours.

You wished to show her your wrath, refusing to bow despite the sternness in her face. The crown emboldened her as she refused to move her gaze away from yours. As you stared longer, vision traveling to that of your stepfather, you realized that no matter what outrage you held, no matter how unfair and hypocritical she was, she was still your mother.

And you still loved her.

The ground was cold and damp beneath your navy dress, so swarthy it seemed black as you knelt, your funeral veil covering your cold cheeks. With your mother at the helm, there was still hope for a future with little bloodshed. Your love was strong; despite everything, you would give your life for hers if the situation arose. Yet still, you would never forget her decision or forgive her as the sun set over the sea.

Masterlist of Series

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Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp , @britt-mf, @marvelescvpe, @haikyuusboringassmanager, @discofairysworld, @lottiemsgf, @nessjo, @fiction-fanfic-reader, @qvnthesia, @hotvillianapologist, @p45510n4f4shi0n, @theendlessvoidofdarkest, @readerselegance, @gothamgurl2024, @aleemendoza2425-blog, @vaylint, @ln8118, @prettyduckling22, @primroseluna, @baybaybear1

Sooooo... how are we feeling after this? Did you see that plot twist, or were you surprised by Rhaenyra's actions? I grappled with whether this would be out of Rhaenyra's character. Still, in my head, based on how she treated Rhaena and Jace in season 2, I believe Rhaenyra would pass over her daughter, especially after losing her only girl.

I understand the reasoning behind thinking she wouldn't choose a son over a daughter, but if you look back on season 1 and how she treated Alicent when she was married to Viserys (stuck inside a castle and forced to squeeze out heirs scene), you'll see how she doesn't realize the insensitivity of her words to Alicent. In my head, too, I believe Rhaenyra has "only child syndrome" with desiring to be the only "special one," even if it's subconscious. That's just my head cannon.

Thank you for reading!

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kaisfruit · 1 year ago

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Do you hate me? | Sam SDV x farmer!reader

A/N: haiii im back ^-^ i literally hate this, but im posting it anyways <3 warnings: possibly ooc Sam, smut, cunnilingus, unprotected p in v, creampie, doggy style, no gendered terms used, AFAB genitalia, Y/N used, maybe more but i cant think of them words: 2k

Life on the farm was tough. Everyday it seemed as if you were working yourself down to the bone in order to just get the bare necessities. Sometimes, it was enough for you to wonder if it was even worth moving out here and taking up work on your grandpa’s farm.

But other times, you were reminded of why it was worth it. A good pay after a day’s worth of busting your ass fishing, a nice yield of crops, and most of all, helping the townspeople and getting to know them. That last one had to be the ultimate highlight. The smile on Maru’s face when you found the right ore for her latest invention, or the genuine side of Haley you got to see when presenting her with a blackberry to take her next picture to the next level. It was things like that that kept you working hard and making the most of your days.

Though, there was one villager that you always seemed to avoid: Sam. Sure, if he had a request on the bulletin board then you’d fulfill it, obviously, but your conversations were kept brief and you knew he was starting to notice. “Avoid” may be a strong word, but that’s how he was bound to see it. You’d hand him a pizza without looking him in the eye and when he showed his gratitude your face would flush and you’d quickly scamper off. And it’s not like you went out of your way to give anyone else special gifts. Sure, if you came across a piece of driftwood you’d offer it to Leah or if you happened to find some amethyst in the mine you’d give it to Abigail, but otherwise you would just chat to the other villagers and show your kindness through other means.

“Hey, Y/N, got a minute?” A voice rang through your ears and you jumped a bit from where you were watering your pumpkins. Without turning around, you replied. “Yeah sure what’s up-” You replied casually until you realized who it was that came to speak with you. Instantly, you felt your palms become sweaty and your heart began racing in your chest. Your watering can fell to the ground and instantly began drowning your crops. “Shit,” you murmured, quickly dropping down to pick it up.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you!” Sam spoke as he also dropped down to try and grab your watering can. You had already grabbed it and stood up, so he had nothing else to do but stand up as well albeit a bit embarrassed. “I’m sorry, again.”

“It’s-it’s all good.” You silently cursed yourself as you stumbled over your words. “Umm…what did you want to talk about?” You asked, wanting to get the conversation over with.

“Oh! Yeah, um, this might sound a little silly, so I really don’t know how to ask it.” He started, staring down at his feet. “Do you, y’know, hate me?”

That’s NOT what you were expecting. “What.” You replied, shock evident on your face.

“It’s okay if you do! Well, I mean, I’ll be upset of course, but I just wanted to know if I upset you in any way or-or if there’s something I can do to make it better-”

“Sam, I don’t hate you.” You said plainly, probably the first coherent sentence you’ve ever said to him within your entire time of living in the valley.

“What?” It was his turn to exercise confusion. “But…but then why do you always run away when I try to talk to you? Or why do you keep our conversations so short? Sebastian and Abigail talk about you and what you say to them all the time, so i just assumed…” He trailed off, a frown forming on his face.

You let out a sigh and sat your watering can down beside you. Resting your hands on your hips, you looked up at him. “Wanna talk inside?” Your head motioned to your house, “I’ll explain there.”

He followed you into the house and quickly found a seat at the lone chair next to the table. You took a seat on your bed and sighed once more. He just seemed overwhelmingly confused.

“Sam….” You began, trying to muster up the courage to say what you needed to say. It made you feel just terrible that your actions have led up to him thinking this. The silence began to draw on and on for what seemed like forever to Sam. To you, it felt like seconds as you licked your lips out of nervousness. “I like you…like, really like you.”

Sam was taken aback, shock apparent on his face. “So, you don’t hate me? We’re friends?” He smiled, relief seeming to wash over him. To that you shook your head which confused him once again. Why were you doing this to him?

“No, I, uh, think I’m in love with you, Sam.” You murmured, but he heard it and his face lit up with a blush. “So, yeah, I don’t hate you. Quite the opposite.” You tried to joke, trying to make the sting of his upcoming rejection hurt less.

“Y/N…Yoba, what a relief. I’m so glad you feel the same way.” It was your turn to be shocked. With your silence ringing out, he continued. “Your gifts are just so thoughtful and when we do talk, you’re just so cute and I can’t help but admire how hardworking you are. You’re the driving force behind all my music at this point, y’know.” He admitted with a big grin on his face.

You sat there, stunned, as this revelation dawned on you. He liked you back?! Even if you have treated him so much differently than the other villagers. Your gaze on him softened. He was too sweet.

“You know, Sam, you’re the only person I buy and make gifts for…” You shared an admission in return for his.

“Really?!” His grin not wavering, his eyes lit up completely. If he had a tail, you’re sure it would have been wagging like crazy. “Awww Y/N, you like-like me.”

“I literally just said that.” He laughed at your response. Sam seemed to be vibrating with joy at this new information, but then his neverending energy seemed to pause as he stared intently at you. He looked like he wanted to ask something and you tilted your head, a silent conversation happening between you two.

“Hey, Y/N, can I, like, kiss you?” He asked, looking away for a moment out of nervousness. Your face deepened in hue, but slowly you nodded. He saw this out of the corner of his eye and instantly the happiness shakes seemed to return. Sam doesn’t think he’s ever stood up quicker and he covered the distance between the two of you in a few large strides. You stood up from where you sat on the bed. The two of your shared a glance before Sam finally leaned down and your lips locked. Your eyes slowly closed as you enjoyed yourself and felt sparks fly around you.

Sam is the one who pulled back, his gaze half-lidded as he looked you in the eyes. Then, his hands cupped the back of your head and pulled you forward into a deeper kiss. This one more intimate than the first. Sam was clearly eager as his tongue licked at your lips, seemingly begging for entrance, and you returned his eagerness tenfold as your mouth opened to allow your guys’ tongues to collide.

You leaned back out of the kiss, breathless, as you quickly started pulling your overalls off. Sam looked stunned at your actions and you looked at him bashfully. “Did I read the room wrong?”

“Not at all.” Is all he said before he began mimicking your actions and stripped himself of his clothes. You two didn’t speak until you were both down to your underwear. Sam was clearly hard in his boxers and you couldn’t help but stare. Him, on the other hand, was trying his best to be respectful. His eyes were tempted to stare, but he was forcing himself to look you in the eyes despite the situation you two were in.

Slowly, your hands went up to unclasp your bra and you let your breasts fall free from their confines. Then he couldn’t help but stare. Taking the initiative, Sam walked on forward, closing the distance between you two, as he rested his hands on your chest. He leaned in for another kiss as he began tweaking your nipples. His hands were unpracticed, but Yoba did it feel good. It’s not like you had much practice yourself with most of your time being spent farming and fishing. It felt better than your own hands and that was a plus in your book.

“S-Sam,” you breathed against his lips, getting his attention. “Can…can you eat me out?” You asked tentatively. Like earlier you were expecting rejection, but one look at his face was enough to cast away any doubt. He looked over the moon at the mere prospect, as if he was waiting his whole life just to serve you.

“There’s nothing I want to do more.” He admitted as he watched you lay down on the bed. You looked divine. He never thought that he would ever get this chance with you and here you were, splayed out asking for him to devour you. Sam could feel his cock strain in his boxers at the thought.

He crawled on top of you and was quick to remove your panties and throw them somewhere in the room. If any word were to describe Sam in this moment it would be overzealous. He wanted to take his time with you and unpack you fully, but Yoba were you just too perfect. You were too much for his senses. You drove him crazy.

Sam sat there for a while just admiring your pussy until he remembered you were waiting for him to make a move. Slowly, he licked up your slit and both of you let out a moan. It took him a moment to get into it, but once he did, Sam was sloppily licking up your juices and making just the most obscene sounds as he made out with your pussy.

Your hand latched into his hair and pulled, which caused a groan to escape him, and you were a complete mess above him. Yet, your noises ticked up a notch when his tongue circled around your clit and began stimulating you there. He took note and began focusing there. Your moans may have been the sweetest song he has ever heard. Sam worked hard at your folds as his tongue continued to pleasure you.

To your surprise, you felt two fingers plunge into you which caused a yelp to leave your mouth. Not only was his tongue attacking your clit, but two fingers were, somehow, expertly working in and out of you in order to bring you pleasure. Unbeknownst to you, Sam found himself rutting against the bed as your sounds and your taste were turning him on beyond belief.

“Sam…S-Sam,” you moaned out the only warning you gave before you came all over his face. He greedily licked up all your juices and continued licking until you pushed his head away due to overstimulation.

You were both out of breath and took a moment to get air back into your lungs.

“Hey, Y/N, can you flip over for me?” He asked so gently, no sign of demand in his voice, and your heart couldn’t help but flutter. You followed his request and even stuck your ass up in the air and rested your head on your arms to create the most comfortable position you could.

All you could feel was movement behind you, surely Sam taking off his boxers and lining himself up behind you, but he sure was taking his time. That was your final thought before he pushed himself inside you. An elongated moan escaped your throat that harmonized with the groan he let out. He seemed to fill you up completely. Whether or not that was true was irrelevant, all you knew was this was way better than what you could do with your hands. It took a moment for you to feel adjusted, but when you did you let out a soft “m-move” and Sam began pounding into you.

Your small little farmhouse had soft moans and the sound of skin slapping against skin echo around the space as Sam fucked into you.

“F-fuck Y/N…” He whimpered from behind you, “you’re perfect, so perfect, fuck…” Sam’s tone was breathy and whiny as he babbled on and on. He did nothing but praise you and say how good your cunt felt as his cock bullied your insides. He could feel your walls tighten around him, signifying how close you were to climax, and he couldn’t help but be close himself. His grunts and whimpers got more frequent. Finally, your pussy clenched around him and formed a vice grip causing him to pause in his thrusts and he moaned at the tightness. Once again, you released around him and a high pitched keen escaped your throat. Sam kept fucking you through your orgasm into overstimulation, but he just kept going as he chased his own release.

“Y/N, I’m close…” He groaned, his hips beginning to stutter. Sam leaned down and began to lick and suck at the back of your neck as he thrusted. Your moans were softer now as you tried to regain energy, yet he was still making you feel good. He straight up whined as he released into your pussy, his thick cum painting your walls. Sam humped against your cunt letting out whines as he did so as he let his release spill into you. He stayed situated there for a bit, letting himself truly enjoy your warmth against his softening cock.

Slowly, he pulled out and was transfixed by the combination of his cum and your slick that leaked out of your pussy. The sight was enough to get his dick kicking back to life and he bit his lip. You flipped yourself over onto your back to look up at him only to see his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered up to yours.

“Wanna go for another round?”

#sam stardew valley #sam sdv #stardew valley #stardew valley x reader #sam stardew valley x reader #sam sdv x reader #sdv sam #stardew valley sam #stardew valley sam x reader #sdv sam x reader

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ghoastixx · 2 years ago

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Bringing your slashers/horror characters to Thanksgiving

Includes: Michael Myers (OG), Beetlejuice, Billy Loomis & Stu Macher, J.D., Otis Driftwood, Baby Firefly, Poly Lost Boys, Carrie White

Includes: gn reader, swearing, pet names,

———————————————————————————-

Michael Myers

In reality, this man is not going to your family’s Thanksgiving. He’s not even taking his mask off.

But let’s pretend!!

Let’s say you DID get Michael to take off his mask and venture out of your home for Thanksgiving.

You told your family that he was mute, some understood that better than others.

Grandma? Loves him for some reason.

“Hi baby, is this Michael? Oh hi sweetheart, how are you doing, come let’s get you guys seated.”

She’s so sweet he’s so unused to it other than from you.

He would freak out a lot of people by sitting there and just staring at everyone.

He’s so big and tall compared to everyone, grandpa would ask if he could help him move a dresser or some shit.

“Come on Michael, we’re gonna be late!” You called, waiting patiently by the door.

When you both arrived at your family’s home where Thanksgiving would be hosted this year, Michael was very tense. Very rarely did he ever take his mask off and he hadn’t had a thanksgiving in years. You took his hand and brushed your thumb over your knuckles as you walked inside, taking your shoes off. Your grandma greeted you with a hug and a comfortingly sweet voice.

“Sweetheart! So glad you could make it! Is this Michael? It’s a pleasure to meet you young man,” your grandma said with a smile, touching his hand which made him tense. “Come now, let’s get you guys seated before the food gets cold.”

Mikey was nervous walking through the house, seeing pictures of grandkids and uncles and cousins, seeing everyone seated.

Your grandpa took liking to his muscles,

“Yeah! Looks like you could get the job done, you mind helping me move some boxes in the garage? My back isn’t as nice as it used to be and my kids are pieces of shit.”

“Dad😡”

———————————————————————————

Beetlejuice

Yeah he can pretend to be problematic for thanksgiving.

Would purposely scare the shit out of your cousins.

Your family calls him musty..

Your emo cousin likes him though!!

“Y/N…get him out of here he stinks!” Meanwhile your dead boyfriend is sitting across from your emo cousin who’s lowkey studying him over. He’s just letting them too, he says it reminds them of Lydia.

Your family is boring to him, he’d much rather have thanksgiving at your own house with Lydia and Adam and Barbra.

“Come on babes, this is boring, we’re out of here,” he states as he takes a Turkey leg and promptly leaves the home, hand in yours.

———————————————————————————-

Billy Loomis & Stu Macher

Your parents and family do not approve.

They’re mostly confused as to why you brought two boys with you. They call it slut behavior.

Billy’s family most likely can’t even get through a normal dinner, let alone Thanksgiving, so he was down for coming.

Stu’s family were out of town and he didn’t want to go to some fancy thanksgiving with a lot of people he didn’t know. He’d rather stay in Woodsboro and get drunk for Thanksgiving, but being with his partners worked too.

Your family is way turned off by Billy, they think he’s rude, where as they think Stu is too energetic.

Billy and Stu would find any excuse to dip, letting them have private time, away from everyone.

Stu would make dirty jokes at the table in you and Billy’s ear.

You get a lot of side eyes from everyone..

You knock on the door with both of your boys, only to be greeted by a strange look.

“Y/N, baby, you brought your friends? How..nice..”

When you were all sat down at the table, your aunt started,

“Two boys Y/N? You friends from school?” Your uncle interjected

“I recognize you Loomis. You better not be causing any trouble.” He practically growled. Billy just nodded.

Lots of apologies to your boys after.

“It’s alright baby, it was bound to happen,” Stu said, grabbing a beer from his fridge

“It’s alright puppy, the food was good,”

———————————————————————————-

J.D

Would genuinely probably be the politest to your parents and family,

Got to make a good impression!!

He’d stay close to you the entire time, making sure to show off who he was to you,

God don’t even get him started on his opinion on politics PLEASE..

I feel like he’s the type of guy that your parents would be nice to in person but when he leaves everyone’s like “he’s so weird?😀”

The type of guy to call older relatives ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’

Would hit the deserts HARD

“Sweetie your new boyfriend is very nice,” your grandma hums as you help with the dishes, he sits in the other room, arguing about politics.

“Yeah, he sure is something,”

“I’m very glad you could bring him,”

Your aunt walks in the room, shaking her head, “he’s really weird honey,” you looked at her with a confused facial expression, “I don’t know how to explain it. He’s just.. odd.”

———————————————————————————

Otis Driftwood

You’re eating dinner at his house. Nothing else.

——————————————————————————-

Baby Firefly

Would actually try to go to dinner with you if that’s what you really wanted.

Would probably make an okayish impression on your family,

They think she’s energetic and odd,

She knows…a lot,

I like to think that she does like domestic feelings, so she might actually love to go to your thanksgiving,

You’re holding her hand as you drive back to the firefly home, smiling as your stunning girlfriend rambles next to you.

“It was so fun! Thank you for taking me baby,”

“Of course,” you hun as she continues to speak very highly of the little tradition.

———————————————————————————-

Poly Lost Boys

Your parents are very thrown off when you tell them that Thanksgiving needs to be a little later than 1:00 this year because your boyfriends get off at 5:00.. (when it gets dark)

They are even more thrown off when four bikers walk in with mullets and frills and no manners at all.. well, the quiet one has manners.

David would try and make a good impression while keeping up his ‘I’m the top dog’ behavior.

Dwayne just wants to help out and actually make a good impression.

Marko will spend most of his time with any pets and Paul will follow in foot.

They house down food. It’s sort of embarrassing

Your parents are so thrown off it hurts.

“Sweetie where did you meet them again?” Your mom whispers to you from across the table,

“So, boys, what do you do for work?” Your father questioned, each boy having a way different reaction it looks suspicious.

Your parents just nod and try there best to get through the dinner.

After dinner it gets even worse, they’re all over you, touching and giving little kisses during conversation, right in front of your parents.. god it was going to be a long night.

———————————————————————————

Carrie White

Genuinely would do her best to come to your thanksgiving if her mama let her.

She’d be all dressed up and pretty, silently so excited that she gets to go to someone’s thanksgiving.

She’s so polite and quiet around your family,

If you all say grace, she’s an active part of it.

She’d be so flustered and happy to be there,

She thinks your family is so nice!!

You knock on the door of her house for her to rush down, saying goodbye to her mama. You would say hello to Mrs.White, but very uncomfortably.. you didn’t like Carrie’s Mama.

You smile upon seeing her. She looks so pretty.

“Hey darling, you look great,”

She blushed, looking down a little flustered, “thank you,”

You open the passenger door, letting her get in and closing it for her. She felt so nice, being treated so kindly. She’d remember this day for a while.

Please send me any slasher requests,

(Although I’m more prone to write for Billy & Stu at the moment)

#fanfic #fanfiction #the lost boys #the lost boys fanfiction #the lost boys x reader #slashers x reader #slasher fanfiction #Billy and stu x reader #billy and stu #carrie white #carrie x reader #michael myers x reader #Michael Myers #jd x reader #Jason Dean #Otis driftwood #otis driftwood x reader #baby firefly #baby firefly x reader

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novaursa · 6 months ago

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Between Pride and Fire (crossroads)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: flares

- Next part: the blessing

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark

The carved map of Westeros stretched before them, marked with tokens representing their forces, the Greens’ positions, and the uncertain loyalties of lords who had yet to choose a side. Daemon stood at the head of the table, his sharp violet eyes scanning the map with a hawk’s focus, while Jason Lannister stood to his right, his arms crossed over his chest. Both men were visibly tense, their voices low as they debated the next move.

“Corlys and Rhaenys are holding the Gullet well,” Jason said, gesturing toward the token representing the Velaryon fleet. “They’ve blockaded the narrow sea, and with the Driftwood Throne secure, their ships patrol the waters from Driftmark to Blackwater Bay. The Greens won’t be sending reinforcements by sea anytime soon.”

Daemon nodded curtly, his fingers drumming against the table. “Good. But that only holds one flank. The Riverlands remain the key to our cause. Harrenhal must be taken, and the Riverlords must be reminded of their oaths.”

Jason frowned, leaning forward to study the map. “Agreed. But with the queen absent, the Riverlords may hesitate. They’ll want to see her resolve before they commit their swords.”

Daemon’s expression darkened at the mention of Rhaenyra’s absence. “Rhaenyra is grieving,” he said sharply. “She searches the shores for her son, as any mother would. When she returns, her fury will be the fire that ignites this war. Until then, we prepare.”

Jason nodded, though his expression remained grim. “And if she doesn’t return soon? How long can we wait before the Greens press their advantage?”

Daemon’s jaw tightened. “Not long. That’s why we must secure Harrenhal as soon as possible. It will show the realm that the queen’s cause is not stalled, and it will give us a foothold in the Riverlands to rally our armies.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Your voice broke through the heavy silence, drawing the attention of both men. You stepped forward, your hands resting on the edge of the table as you met Daemon’s sharp gaze. “Morrath and I are more than capable. My dragon is as large, almost as Silverwing, and I’ve trained with bow and blade for years. I’ll be more useful in the air than any archer or swordsman you have.”

Jason’s head snapped toward you, his green eyes flashing with alarm. “Absolutely not,” he declared, his voice firm. “You’re not flying into a war zone. It’s out of the question.”

You straightened, your own gaze hardening as you looked at him. “Jason, I’m not a helpless girl who needs protecting. I’m a Targaryen. I’ve ridden Morrath since I was fourteen, and I’ve fought alongside you in battle before.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, his frustration evident. “That was different. This isn’t some skirmish in the Westerlands. This is the Riverlands—a region crawling with Greens and traitors. You’d be flying into danger, and I won’t have it.”

Daemon watched the exchange with faint amusement, though his expression remained thoughtful. “She’s not wrong, Lannister,” he said finally, his tone calm but pointed. “A dragon the size of Morrath is a valuable asset, and she’s proven her skill in the air.”

Jason turned his glare to Daemon, his voice sharp. “Don’t encourage her, Targaryen. She’s my wife, and I’ll not see her risk her life for something that can be done without her.”

You stepped closer to Jason, your tone firm but not unkind. “Jason, you trust me to stand by your side in every other matter. Trust me now. Morrath and I can make a difference.”

Jason shook his head, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You’re not going, and that’s final. I’ll not have our children lose their mother because she felt the need to play the warrior.”

“I’m not playing,” you snapped, your voice rising slightly. “This is our fight, Jason. Our children’s future depends on it. I won’t stand idly by while you and Daemon risk everything.”

Daemon raised a hand, his voice cutting through the debate. “Enough. Jason is right. You’re not going to the Riverlands.”

You turned to him, your eyes narrowing. “Daemon—”

He held up a finger, silencing you with a look. “This isn’t about your capabilities. It’s about the perception of the realm. If you fall, the Greens will spin it as weakness, and we cannot afford that. You’re needed here, for Rhaenyra and for your children.”

Jason exhaled sharply, clearly relieved by Daemon’s agreement. “For once, we’re in accord,” he muttered.

You glared at both men, your hands clenched at your sides. “Fine,” you said tightly, though the anger in your voice was evident. “But don’t think for a moment that I’ll just sit and wait if things go awry.”

Daemon smirked faintly, though there was no humor in his eyes. “We wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Jason placed a hand on your arm, his grip firm but gentle as he met your gaze. “You’re staying here, with our family. That’s where you’re needed most.”

You pulled away from his touch, turning your attention back to the map. The fire in your chest burned hot, but you knew they wouldn’t be swayed. For now, you’d remain on Dragonstone—but you swore to yourself that if the tide turned, you’d do whatever was necessary to protect your family and the queen’s cause.

Daemon straightened, his gaze sweeping over the gathered lords. “Once Rhaenyra returns, we’ll march. The Riverlands will know the might of House Targaryen.”

The lords murmured their assent, though the tension in the room lingered as the plans solidified. And though you said nothing more, your mind churned with the weight of what was to come. The Riverlands would soon see fire and blood, and you’d ensure that the legacy of your house endured—no matter the cost.

The skies above Dragonstone were heavy with gray clouds, the threat of rain looming as the sharp cries of dragons filled the air. From the courtyard, the returning forms of Vermax, Vaelora, and Silverwing came into view, their wings slicing through the mist like blades. The sight brought a strange mix of relief and uncertainty to the castle—relief that the children had returned, and anxiety at what news they might bring.

You stood beside Jason, your hands clasped tightly in front of you, watching as the dragons descended. The weeks had felt like an eternity since Rhaenyra’s return with only a broken wing of Arrax, her grief a palpable weight that hung over the castle like a storm. Now, the return of your daughters and Jacaerys brought a flicker of hope, though it was dampened by the shadows that lingered in everyone’s hearts.

As the dragons landed, their riders dismounted quickly, Vermax roaring low as Jacaerys stepped forward, his face a mask of sorrow. Leona and Aemma followed close behind, both cloaked in crimson and gold, their expressions wary but composed. Jason took a step forward, his eyes fixed on his daughters, though his usual confident demeanor was tempered by the weight of the moment.

“Leona,” you breathed, your voice barely audible as you broke into a run. “Aemma.”

Your daughters turned at the sound of your voice, and for a moment, the guarded expressions they wore melted away. Leona was the first to step forward, her golden mask reflecting the dim light as her arms opened to meet you. You enveloped her in a fierce hug, your hands clutching at the fabric of her cloak as though to ensure she was truly there.

“I’m here, Mother,” Leona murmured, her voice steady despite the emotion in her eyes. “We’re both here.”

Jason was just behind you, his strong arms wrapping around Aemma as she reached for him. She buried her face in his chest, her shoulders trembling slightly as he murmured quiet reassurances, his hand cradling the back of her head.

“You’re safe,” Jason said, his voice thick with relief. “Thank the gods, you’re safe.”

Aemma pulled back slightly, her wide eyes meeting her father’s. “We did as the queen commanded, Father. We spoke with the lords of the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale. They’ve pledged their support.”

Leona added, her voice sharper but laced with exhaustion, “The North stands firm with us. Lord Stark gave his word—and his men. The Riverlands will follow once Harrenhal is secured.”

Jason nodded, though his hands didn’t release Aemma. “You’ve done well, both of you. But this was not an easy task. You should never have had to carry it.” His green eyes flicked toward you briefly, a shared understanding passing between you.

“I’m proud of you,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly as you cupped Leona’s face, her mask cool beneath your fingers. “Both of you. You’ve proven yourselves as strong as the dragons you ride.”

Leona smiled faintly, her pride shining through the weariness in her posture. “We did what was needed, Mother. For the queen—and for our family.”

Jacaerys, who had lingered behind, stepped forward then, his gaze sweeping over his mother’s chamber window high above. His face was pale, grief etched into every line of his features. “I must go to her,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with pain.

Jason nodded, stepping aside to give him passage. “Go to your mother, Jace. She needs you now.”

Jace inclined his head and made his way toward the stairs leading to the private chambers. The weight of his grief was evident in every step he took, his shoulders sagging beneath the burden of his loss.

Leona and Aemma exchanged a glance before turning back to you and Jason. “How is she?” Leona asked, her voice quieter now. “The queen?”

You hesitated, glancing toward the darkened window of Rhaenyra’s chambers. “She grieves still,” you admitted. “But she holds on—for all of us.”

Jason placed a hand on Leona’s shoulder, his touch grounding. “And now, you’re here. That will give her some strength.”

Aemma stepped closer, her voice small as she asked, “What of Lucerys? What happened to him?”

Jason’s face darkened slightly, and his grip on her shoulder tightened. “He’s gone,” he said quietly, his voice heavy. “Arrax was torn apart above Storm’s End. Rhaenyra found only a broken wing on the shores.”

Aemma’s lips trembled, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “The Greens…” she began, but her voice trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Leona’s jaw tightened, her amber eyes blazing behind her mask. “They’ll pay for this,” she said sharply, her tone cold. “Aemond will answer for what he’s done.”

Jason exchanged a glance with you, his own frustration mirroring hers. “And he will,” he said firmly. “But for now, you both need rest. You’ve done more than enough.”

You nodded, pulling them both into another embrace. “Come. Let’s get you inside. You’ll need your strength for what’s to come.”

As the four of you began to make your way back toward the keep, the weight of the weeks apart and the grief of what had been lost hung heavy in the air. But for the briefest moment, the relief of having your daughters home was enough to push back the encroaching darkness. Together, you would face whatever came next. Together, as a family.

The Painted Table glowed faintly under the light of the many torches burning in their sconces. Around it stood the most trusted of Rhaenyra’s council: Daemon, Jason, and you at one side; Jacaerys, Leona, and Aemma at the other. The atmosphere was heavy with the weight of the war that loomed ever closer.

Jacaerys stood at the head of the table, his shoulders squared but his expression tight. He was clearly trying to present himself as composed, but the strain of his grief and the enormity of the task before him lingered in his violet eyes. Beside him, Leona stood tall and steadfast as she offered him silent support.

Daemon leaned forward, his palms flat against the table as his sharp gaze swept the room. “Well, boy?” he asked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Do the Vale, the Riverlands, and the North stand with the queen?”

Jace nodded, though his hesitation was evident. “Lady Jeyne Arryn has pledged her support, though…” He glanced toward Leona before continuing. “She asked for a dragon to strengthen her position in the Vale. She believes a dragon would solidify her rule and deter any rebellion.”

Daemon smirked faintly, tilting his head. “Of course she does. And what did you tell her?”

Jace’s jaw tightened slightly. “I told her we would consider it. The Vale’s loyalty is crucial, and if the queen decides it’s worth the price, we can spare a dragon egg.”

Daemon grunted but said nothing, his expression unreadable as he turned his attention back to the table. “And the Riverlands?”

“The Tullys may need more persuasion,” Jace admitted reluctantly. “Lord Grover Tully is old and cautious. He wavers, though his heirs may be more easily swayed. The Riverlands are divided, but they’ll fall in line once Harrenhal is secured.”

Jason’s green eyes narrowed. “And the Ironborn?”

Aemma stepped forward, her voice calm but determined. “The Greyjoys will not be a problem, Father. Silverwing flew over the Iron Islands, and it was enough to remind them of what dragons can do. They won’t rebel—not now.”

Daemon chuckled darkly, clearly pleased. “Good. Fear is a language the Ironborn understand well.”

Then, Daemon’s attention turned to the northernmost part of the map, his hand brushing over the carved figure of Winterfell. “And the Starks? Did the wolf remember his oaths?”

Jace hesitated, glancing at Leona and Aemma. The three exchanged a brief look, one heavy with unspoken meaning, before Leona stepped forward, her voice even and composed. “Lord Cregan Stark promised ten thousand Greybeards. They will march south when the time comes, but winter is upon the North, and he cannot spare the rest of his forces until it passes.”

Daemon frowned, though his tone remained measured. “Typical Northerners. Stubborn as stone and just as slow. Anything else?”

Jace glanced toward Jason, his voice quieter as he spoke. “There is… another matter.” He hesitated, looking briefly to Aemma, who shifted uneasily beside him. “To further strengthen the ties between the North and the South, an agreement was made.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What agreement?”

Jace’s gaze darted toward Leona, as though hoping she would intervene, but it was Aemma who stepped forward, her voice soft but firm. “I am to marry Lord Cregan Stark, once I come of age.”

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.

Jason’s reaction was immediate and visceral. His expression twisted into something akin to horror and disbelief, his hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white. “You what?” he said sharply, his voice rising.

Aemma raised her hands in a placating gesture. “Father, please—”

“No,” Jason snapped, stepping around the table to face her directly. “Absolutely not. This is madness! You’re not marrying a Stark.”

“Father,” Aemma began again, her voice calm but insistent, “Lord Cregan is an honorable man. He is strong, wise, and loyal. This union will strengthen the queen’s cause—”

“I don’t care if he’s the Seven reborn,” Jason interrupted, his voice tight with emotion. “You are my daughter. My child. I will not have you sent to the frozen North like some pawn on a chessboard.”

Daemon, who had been watching the exchange with growing amusement, leaned back in his chair with a smirk as he turned to you. “It seems your lion has found his roar, niece.”

Jason shot him a glare, but Daemon only chuckled, clearly enjoying the display.

“Father,” Aemma pressed, her tone growing more insistent. “This was not a decision made lightly. Lord Stark offered this alliance, and it was the right choice for the realm. I agreed because I believe in this cause. Please, trust me.”

Jason stared at her, his jaw working as he struggled to find the words. His green eyes flicked to you, his expression a mix of frustration and desperation. “And you?” he asked, his voice softer but no less strained. “Do you approve of this?”

You hesitated, your heart aching at the sight of his turmoil. “Jason,” you said gently, stepping closer, “Aemma is right. This union will solidify the North’s loyalty, and Cregan Stark is a good man. He will honor and protect her.”

Jason turned away, running a hand through his curls as he muttered under his breath. “Protect her? The North is a wasteland. What protection does she need in a place where the snow never melts?”

“Enough,” Daemon said, his voice cutting through the tension. His amused smirk had faded, replaced by the sharp authority of a commander. “The decision is made. The North stands with us, and Aemma’s betrothal will ensure that alliance holds.”

Jason clenched his jaw, his shoulders taut with frustration, but he said nothing further. Aemma stepped forward tentatively, placing a hand on his arm. “I promise, Father,” she said softly. “This is what I want. Please don’t be angry with me.”

Jason sighed heavily, his hand covering hers as he finally looked at her. “I could never be angry with you,” he said quietly, though his voice was laced with sorrow. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like this.”

Aemma smiled faintly, relief flickering in her eyes. “Thank you, Father.”

Daemon leaned back against the table once more, his smirk returning as he addressed the room. “Well, now that that’s settled, shall we move on to the part where we burn Harrenhal to the ground?”

Jason shot him another glare, but this time, he said nothing.

Jason stood near the window of your chambers, his back to you, his hands gripping the edge of the stone sill as he stared out into the night. His shoulders were taut, his hair disheveled from the way he’d raked his hands through it repeatedly since you’d entered.

You sat on the edge of the bed, watching him silently for a moment, your own emotions swirling within you. The news of Aemma’s betrothal to Lord Cregan Stark had been a blow to both of you, though you were trying to find solace in the fact that your daughter had made the decision herself. Still, Jason’s reaction had been far more volatile, his protective instincts battling with the political reality of the situation.

“Jason,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

He didn’t turn, his voice low and tight as he replied. “How could you stand there and agree to this?”

You sighed, rising from the bed and moving toward him. “Because it wasn’t my decision to make, Jason. Aemma is no longer a child. She made a choice—for herself and for the queen’s cause.”

Jason finally turned, his green eyes blazing with frustration. “She shouldn’t have had to make that choice,” he said sharply. “She’s barely more than a girl, and now she’s to be shipped off to the frozen North to marry a man she barely knows.”

“She knows enough,” you countered gently, reaching for his arm. “Cregan Stark is honorable, Jason. He’ll treat her well.”

Jason pulled away, pacing the length of the room with restless energy. “That’s not the point,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair again. “She’s our daughter. She deserves more than being used as a tool in this damned war.”

You stepped closer, your voice soft but firm. “And do you think I don’t feel the same way? Do you think I don’t wish we could shield her from all of this? But that’s not the world we live in. She made a decision, Jason. A wise one. One that shows just how much she’s grown.”

Jason stopped, his gaze meeting yours, his frustration giving way to a flicker of pain. “She’s too young,” he said quietly, his voice cracking. “Too young to leave us. Too young to face the cold and the wolves of the North.”

Your heart ached at the sight of him, the strong, confident Lord of Casterly Rock brought low by the thought of losing his daughter. You reached for him again, this time taking his hands in yours and holding them tightly. “She’s strong, Jason,” you said softly. “She’s your daughter. She has your courage and your fire.”

Jason let out a heavy sigh, his head bowing slightly. “And what of us?” he murmured. “How do we watch her go? How do we let her fly to a place we may never see again?”

You stepped closer, your hands sliding up to cup his face as you tilted his head to meet your gaze. “Because we raised her to be strong. To make her own choices. And because we trust her to find her way.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his green eyes searching yours. “You’re proud of her,” he said quietly, though it wasn’t a question.

You nodded, your lips curving into a faint, bittersweet smile. “I am. And I know you are too, even if you can’t admit it right now.”

Jason exhaled sharply, his hands coming to rest on your waist. “How do you always manage to make me see reason, even when I don’t want to?”

You smiled softly, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips. “Because you love me,” you murmured against his mouth. “And because you know I’m right.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, though it was tinged with sadness. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close as he buried his face in your hair. “I hate this,” he muttered. “I hate that this war is tearing our family apart.”

“I know,” you whispered, your hands smoothing over his back in a soothing gesture. “But we’ll endure it, Jason. Just as we always have.”

He pulled back slightly, his hands framing your face as he kissed you again, this time with more desperation. You returned the kiss, your arms looping around his neck as you poured every ounce of comfort you could into the embrace. For a moment, the weight of the war, the grief, and the uncertainty melted away, leaving only the two of you.

When you finally parted, Jason rested his forehead against yours, his voice low and rough. “Promise me we’ll find a way through this. That we’ll see all our children safe again.”

You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over the faint stubble there. “I promise,” you said softly. “We’ll see this through.”

Jason sighed deeply as he held you close, his forehead still resting against yours. The weight of his earlier frustrations seemed to lift slightly in your embrace, but his expression remained pensive. His fingers absently traced the curve of your waist as though grounding himself in the moment.

“There’s something else,” he murmured, his voice hesitant.

You pulled back slightly, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “Something else?”

Jason hesitated, clearly reluctant to speak, before he let out a humorless chuckle. “Daemon. Your charming uncle keeps insisting that when Rhaenyra gives the word, I fly with him atop Caraxes to Harrenhal.”

Your eyebrows shot up, a mixture of surprise and amusement flickering across your face. “Caraxes? He means to take you with him still? I thought you talked him out of that.”

Jason shook his head, his green eyes narrowing slightly. “Apparently not. Daemon Targaryen isn’t a man who easily forgets his plans—or relents once he’s set his mind to something. And for some gods-forsaken reason, he insists I go with him.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head in disbelief. “He must have a great deal of respect for you, Jason. Daemon doesn’t suffer fools or cowards. That’s a high compliment.”

Jason snorted, his grip on your waist tightening slightly. “If this is his way of showing respect, I’d rather he didn’t. I’d rather face a battlefield than be strapped to that damned saddle with your uncle. Caraxes is terrifying enough; flying with Daemon is a whole other level of madness.”

You smiled, a playful glint in your eye as your fingers moved to the laces of his tunic. “Flying on dragonback with my uncle to take an old, haunted castle does sound dangerous. And a long trip, no less.” You tugged at the laces, your voice softening into a teasing lilt. “We should make the most of the time we have in the meantime. Don’t you think?”

Jason’s brows furrowed for a moment as he processed your words, but then a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. His hands slid from your waist to your back, pulling you flush against him as he leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “Are you suggesting we spend some quality time together, my love?”

“Am I not always full of good suggestions?” you replied with a smirk, slipping his tunic off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. “Besides, you might need the memory of this when Daemon inevitably throws you off Caraxes to suit his own plans.”

Jason laughed, his earlier tension melting away as his hands moved to the laces of your gown. “If that happens, you’ll need to avenge me,” he teased, his voice low and warm. “But perhaps I can convince your uncle not to kill me with the promise of your wrath.”

You laughed softly, your hands sliding up to rest on his bare chest. “Oh, Jason. You’ll survive Daemon’s schemes—if only to come back and gloat about it.”

His hands worked deftly at the laces of your gown, his smile turning wicked. “Well, if I do survive, it’ll only be because I have such a remarkable wife who keeps me grounded—and distracted.”

“Distracted?” you repeated with a mock frown, your hands tangling in his curls. “Is that what this is?”

Jason leaned in, his lips brushing against yours as he whispered, “Always, my love.”

The kiss deepened, his hands sliding the fabric of your gown down your shoulders and letting it pool at your feet. You pressed against him, your earlier amusement giving way to the intensity of the moment. Jason’s fingers traced your bare skin, his touch both gentle and possessive as he guided you toward the bed.

As he laid you down, his green eyes met yours, filled with a mix of desire and affection. “You’ll keep me sane through all of this,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “Through the war, through Daemon’s madness… through everything.”

You cupped his face, pulling him down to kiss him again. “And you’ll do the same for me, Jason. Always.”

The rest of the world faded away as his lips trailed down your neck, his hands exploring your body with the familiarity of a man who had loved you deeply for years. For a time, there was no war, no council, no dragons or castles—only the two of you, lost in the solace of each other.

His body moved against yours with a fervent, familiar rhythm that sent waves of pleasure through you. His hands gripped your hips with a possessive urgency, pulling you closer as though he could never have enough of you.

You arched beneath him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you gasped, your voice breaking through the charged air. “Jason… even before we met, I thought you were unbearably annoying.”

He stilled for the briefest of moments, just enough to raise his head and smirk down at you. His green eyes gleamed with amusement and that ever-present arrogance that hadn’t faded over the years. “Did you now?” he teased, his voice rough but laced with smugness. “And yet here we are, my love, with you beneath me, calling my name.”

You rolled your eyes, though the fire in his gaze sent a thrill through you. “You were too arrogant. At the hunt—before we even spoke properly—you strutted about like you owned the world.”

Jason leaned down, brushing his lips against yours in a kiss that was both mocking and tender. “And yet you dared to insult me,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. “Without a hint of fear or decorum, and you didn't send me away. That’s when I knew what I wanted.”

Your laugh turned into a gasp as he thrust into you again, his movements wild and untamed. “You didn’t care at all, did you?” you managed to say, your voice trembling with both exasperation and pleasure.

“Not a bit,” Jason replied smugly, his hands sliding up your body, tracing every curve. “You can call me arrogant, unbearable, whatever you like. It changes nothing. I knew the moment you opened your mouth that you were mine.”

His words sent a shiver through you, and your response was lost in the throes of passion as his lips found the sensitive skin of your neck. Your hands tangled in his curls, pulling him closer as your bodies moved together with a frantic, desperate need. The years had done nothing to dull the fire between you—it burned as brightly as it had the first time you had been together, igniting every nerve and consuming every thought.

“Jason,” you gasped, your voice breaking as you clung to him. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll come back to me—to our family.”

He groaned softly, his movements slowing for a moment as he met your gaze, his green eyes fierce and unyielding. “You think I’d let Daemon throw me off a saddle and die before I’ve had my fill of you?” he said, his voice low and rough. “Never.”

“Promise me,” you insisted, your hands framing his face, pulling him closer. “I need to hear you say it.”

Jason grinned faintly, his lips brushing yours before murmuring, “I promise, my love. Though I’ll admit, it’s mostly because the idea of leaving you and our children in Daemon’s care terrifies me more than war ever could.”

You huffed a laugh, your eyes bright even as tears threatened to spill. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” he replied, his voice softening as he kissed you deeply, stealing the breath from your lungs.

His pace quickened again, and the two of you lost yourselves in each other. Your nails raked down his back as his name left your lips in a broken cry, his hands gripping your thighs as though anchoring himself to you. His movements were wild and unrelenting, a desperate, consuming passion that spoke of years of love and desire that had only grown stronger with time.

When the peak finally came, it was like a storm breaking—a chaotic, beautiful release that left you both trembling in its wake. Jason collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms as the two of you lay tangled together, your breathing heavy and uneven.

For a while, neither of you spoke, the silence filled only by the crackling of the fire and the steady beat of Jason’s heart beneath your ear. Finally, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, his voice soft but filled with conviction. “I’ll come back to you, I swear it. Nothing will keep me from you.”

You closed your eyes, your hand resting over his heart. “You’d better, Jason Lannister. Or I’ll ride Morrath myself and drag you back from the Seven Hells.”

Jason chuckled, the sound warm and comforting. “I’d expect nothing less from you, my fierce dragon.”

The hollow interior of Dragonmont echoed with the low growls of restless dragons, the air thick with the heat of volcanic vents. The massive cavern was dimly lit by the flickering glow of molten lava that seeped through cracks in the stone. You stood beside Jason, your hand resting lightly on his arm, though your grip tightened when the sound of heavy wings reverberated through the chamber.

Ahead of you, Daemon stood with the poise of a man entirely at ease in the presence of dragons. His sharp eyes were fixed on the crimson form of Caraxes as the dragon slithered into the chamber, his elongated neck snaking through the air like a serpent. A handful of Dragonkeepers trailed behind, their expressions reverent as they guided the beast closer.

Caraxes let out a low, guttural rumble, his golden eyes gleaming in the low light. His saddle had been altered, now featuring two seats instead of one—a sight that sent a pang of unease through you. Jason shifted beside you, his jaw tightening as he stared at the monstrous dragon.

Daemon turned to face the small gathering, his silver hair catching the faint glow of the lava. His gaze settled on Jason, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “Lannister,” he said, his voice carrying effortlessly in the cavern. “You and I will take Harrenhal. We’ll secure it and hold it until the queen’s armies arrive.”

Jason’s brow furrowed, his green eyes narrowing as he took a step forward. “Just the two of us?” he asked, his tone incredulous. “How exactly do you plan to take and hold Harrenhal with just two men?”

Daemon’s smirk widened slightly, his confidence unwavering. “We’ll have Caraxes,” he replied simply, as though the dragon’s presence alone was answer enough.

Jason let out a sharp breath, muttering something under his breath about the Targaryen penchant for madness. He turned toward you and your daughters, his expression softening as his gaze lingered on each of you in turn. “Well,” he said quietly, “it seems I’m off to seize a haunted castle with your uncle and his overgrown lizard.”

Leona stepped forward, her amber eyes gleaming behind her golden mask. “You’ll come back,” she said firmly, though her voice carried the weight of her concern. “You always do.”

Jason managed a faint smile, resting a hand on her shoulder. “That’s the plan, my little lioness. And while I’m gone, you’ll keep your mother in line, won’t you?”

Leona smirked faintly, though her lips trembled ever so slightly. “If I must.”

Aemma moved closer, her hands twisting nervously in front of her. “Be careful, Father,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”

Jason knelt slightly, brushing a stray curl from her face. “I will,” he promised, his voice gentle but firm. “And you’ll look after your sister and mother while I’m gone. Deal?”

Aemma nodded quickly, her wide eyes brimming with tears. Jason straightened, turning back to you with a faintly forced smile. “And you,” he said, his voice dropping as he stepped closer, his hand brushing against your cheek. “Don’t let my absence drive you mad.”

You reached up, placing your hand over his. “I should say the same to you,” you replied softly. “Come back to us, Jason. No matter what happens, come back.”

“I will,” he promised, his voice rough with emotion. “Even if Daemon tries to throw me off Caraxes, I’ll find a way.”

Behind him, Daemon chuckled, his tone laced with dry amusement. “You’d best hold on tight, Lannister. Caraxes doesn’t take kindly to passengers who lose their nerve.”

Jason shot him a sharp look before returning his attention to you. He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before stepping back. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he said, though the anxiety in his voice betrayed his unease.

Daemon turned his gaze to you, his expression softening slightly—an unusual sight. “Guard Dragonstone,” he said firmly. “Guard the queen. She’ll need her strength now more than ever.”

You nodded, your heart heavy as you watched Jason step toward the massive dragon. Caraxes lowered himself slightly, his serpentine body coiling as Daemon climbed into the front seat of the saddle with practiced ease. Jason hesitated for only a moment before following, his movements slower and less certain.

The Dragonkeepers worked quickly to secure the straps, their hands steady despite the immense presence of the beast. Jason glanced back at you one last time, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of determination and longing. Then, with a deafening roar, Caraxes unfurled his massive wings, the wind from the motion whipping through the chamber.

The dragon launched himself into the air, his elongated form twisting as he soared upward through the volcanic shaft. The sound of his wings faded as he disappeared into the sky, leaving the chamber eerily quiet.

You stood there for a long moment, your heart aching as you stared at the empty space where Jason had stood. Leona and Aemma moved closer, their presence a small comfort as you forced yourself to turn away.

Daemon and Jason were gone, and now, all you could do was wait—and hope.

The wind roared around them as Caraxes soared high above the Riverlands, his massive wings slicing through the air with every beat. Jason clung to the saddle behind Daemon, his grip firm but cautious as he adjusted to the surreal experience of riding atop the Blood Wyrm. The landscape below stretched endlessly, a patchwork of fields and forests that blurred together in the dim light of dawn.

Jason leaned forward slightly, raising his voice to be heard over the wind. “I’ve been meaning to ask, Targaryen,” he began, his tone edged with curiosity. “The second assassin—the rat catcher. Did he escape?”

Daemon’s head turned slightly, though he didn’t look back. “He did,” he replied, his voice calm, though the words carried a sharp undertone. “The rat vanished into the bowels of the Red Keep. But it doesn’t matter. The debt has been paid.”

Jason’s brows furrowed, his tone more pointed now. “You think killing Helaena’s son is payment enough? What about the one who got away? He could still be a threat.”

Daemon scoffed, his grip tightening on the reins as Caraxes tilted slightly in the air. “The debt was son for a son, Lannister. Lucerys is avenged, and the Greens will know the pain we’ve endured. The rat catcher is insignificant.”

Jason frowned, leaning back slightly as he considered Daemon’s words. “Insignificant,” he muttered under his breath, though the roar of the wind drowned out the rest of his thought.

The two lapsed into silence for a time, the only sound the rhythmic beat of Caraxes’ wings and the distant howl of the wind. As the sprawling ruins of Harrenhal came into view, Jason spoke again, his tone shifting to something lighter, though no less deliberate.

“When we reach Harrenhal,” he began, “let me do the talking with Lord Simon Strong. My charm is far more convincing than your... let’s call it directness.”

Daemon barked a short laugh, the sound carried away by the wind. “Charm, is it?” he retorted, his tone dripping with mockery. “The only person who finds you charming, Lannister, is your wife. And even she must have her doubts from time to time.”

Jason smirked faintly, leaning forward again. “I’ve charmed more people than you think, Targaryen. And in case you’ve forgotten, we need Lord Simon and the Strong forces if we’re to hold the Riverlands.”

Daemon didn’t reply immediately, his focus shifting to the dark silhouette of Harrenhal looming on the horizon. When he did speak, his voice was colder, more resolute. “We’re not coming to Harrenhal to negotiate,” he said bluntly. “We’re going in, killing anyone who stands in our way, and taking the castle. If Lord Simon wants to talk, he’ll have to be very convincing.”

Jason sighed heavily, muttering under his breath again, though this time Daemon caught it.

“What was that, Lannister?” Daemon asked, his tone edged with amusement.

Jason raised his voice, his frustration more evident now. “I said you’re about as subtle as a dragon in a dining hall. Maybe if we didn’t kill every potential ally outright, we’d find more people willing to support Rhaenyra.”

Daemon smirked, though his eyes remained fixed on the castle ahead. “Subtlety has its place,” he said, his voice smooth. “But not here. Harrenhal isn’t won with words, Lannister. It’s won with fire and blood.”

Jason shook his head, though his grip on the saddle tightened as Caraxes began to descend. The jagged towers of Harrenhal grew larger with every passing second, their scorched stone walls standing as a grim reminder of the castle’s cursed history.

“Well,” Jason muttered, his voice low but resigned. “If this is how we’re doing it, let’s make it quick. I’d rather not be here longer than necessary.”

Daemon’s smirk widened as he guided Caraxes toward a crumbled section of the castle’s outer wall. “Don’t worry, Lannister,” he said, his tone laced with dark humor. “You’ll be back on the ground before you have time to lose your nerve.”

Caraxes let out a deafening roar as he descended, his massive claws raking against the stone as he landed with a bone-shaking thud. Jason swallowed hard, steeling himself as he prepared to dismount.

“Fire and blood,” Daemon murmured, his voice barely audible over the dragon’s growls.

Jason exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath as he followed Daemon’s lead. “More like madness and mayhem.”

Daemon chuckled, the sound low and dangerous as the two men prepared to take Harrenhal.

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