#am I laying down Themes too heavy handedly

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

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The sudden flames in the mist and puddles along the road cause a steam reaction that temporarily blinds her, and Dany spends too much precious time scrambling to her feet. What before was ugly gray-yellow in the mist is now blazing orange, and the beam of the telephone pole is blocking her best pathway out of the flames. All her bags weigh her down and trip her over and over again, and by the time she gets untangled from the straps that tangled when she fell, she's surrounded by fire and heat.

"Robin!" She shouts, not knowing if she's yelling for help or to check that he's still alive. There's no reply, and her heart thumps in her chest. "Robin!" She can't see anything. Before all this she probably needed glasses. But the blurriness in her vision now is caused by heat and fear, though she refuses to acknowledge the latter.

Her ears are ringing nearly as loud as the fire is roaring around her. At least the wind is still, held down by humidity. Dany stands in the midst of the building inferno, turning slowly, frantically. It's nearly impossible to see. Something drops against her face and she reaches a hand up to touch it. It's a raindrop.

She prays for miraculous timing, but as the rain picks up, it only becomes harder to see and hear. It's all she can do to avoid the heat around her, but there's a path clear now and she takes it. The drainage ditch on the other side of the road is wet enough to be safe, she thinks. It's the best chance she has right now. Something keeps her tethered to that street, much as it may be safer to get far away.

She looks up, staring through the smoke and steam and mist, when she hears a cry of her name. "Dany!" It's Robin. Dany can't see him, but she throws a hand up and waves it on the off chance he can see her.

"Robin!" She shouts again. "Over here!" Her voice is ragged and dissolves into a barrage of coughing the more she tries to yell, but at least they're both alive.

"Dany!" Robin stumbles toward her, nearly falling into the ditch headfirst and looking like he's about to hug her. "Are you okay?"

She nods. "I'm-" she's about to say fine when the air crackles sharply again and she sucks in a breath. She grabs Robin by the back of his hoodie and drags him with her. "Get down!"

Lightning doesn't often travel horizontally. But it's the end of the world, so it may as well do now. The flash of white light hits nearly right over top of them, drowning out the still-crackling blaze of the electrical pole that had been knocked down in the first place. Dany doesn't let go of Robin. When they look at each other next, with his sweatshirt twisted by her grip on it, their eyes are wide.

The rain keeps falling for nearly an hour. Lightning strikes three more times, once close enough that the hair on the back of Dany's arms stands up, with thunder loud enough they can't speak over it. The entire time, until it's been twenty minutes without thunder, Dany doesn't let go of Robin. She doesn't think he's stupid, not stupid enough to try and move, but this is security.

She hangs onto her bags, and she hangs onto him. That's just the way it works. She doesn't think about it any deeper than that. She can't afford to. And Robin doesn't mention her death grip on him, either. He's smart enough to know not to question things that even she won't address. He just walks a bit closer when they take back up the trek afterwards.

Dany, attention fixed on seeing through the remaining fog and listening for any telltale warning noises, doesn't speak. She thinks maybe enough was said through the looks exchanged in that ditch. Maybe too much, she thinks. Maybe she'll never know why she's let Robin stick around. She doesn't really want to, anymore.

She won't give him her full trust, either way. That's one thing she can't do. The list of those is growing. She grits her teeth and adjusts the bags again. She keeps trekking on.

[seungkw1]

maestro — ljh // chapter 1

⛧ pairing: lee jihoon x afab!reader (reader uses she/her pronouns) ⛧ theme: fantasy, suggestive (18+ smut in future chapters) ⛧ chapter wc: 2.7k ⛧ warnings: minor knife violence ⛧ a/n: when i tell u that lee jihoon wrecked me sooooo bad this comeback !!!! the maestro mv was fully giving villain!woozi and my brain took that and absolutely ran with it. also, this is my first chapter fic!! much more to come, stay tuned <3

Your knowledge of the enemy is minimal, but what is known for certain is this: the Maestro is a dark and powerful sorcerer that is not to be trifled with - and you’ve just walked right into his trap.

You fucked up.

Your task was simple enough: sneak into the palace, steal the ring, and get the hell out. You’ve done countless jobs like this over the years - you're a professional for fuck’s sake. Sure, this gig was a bit more high-profile than usual, but nothing you couldn't handle. 

Yet somehow, they caught you. 

You rack your brain for a clue - something, anything, to indicate what went wrong. But you come up blank. Everything had gone according to plan (up until you found yourself surrounded by imperial guards with a knife at your throat, anyway), not a single detail overlooked. Something is off here, your instinct tells you. 

Here you are now, being forcefully escorted through the palace’s underlevels by a squad of imperial goons. The head goon hauls you through the dim hallways, his grip on your arm painfully tight, knife drawn and at the ready in case you were to try something foolish. A dark mask covers his lower face, so he's hard to get a read on, but you can tell he’s nothing more than a large, brainless oaf. You’ve single-handedly outwitted enemies like him in the past - but here, you are far too outnumbered. For the time being, you comply. 

You arrive at a large steel door, adorned only by a small barred window in its middle. With a rough shove the guard pushes you into the cell - you fall to the ground, your palms striking the cold stone floor. The hinges let out a horrid creaking sound before the door slams shut with a loud CLANG. You hear the clunking of a heavy chain, then the click of a padlock. Footsteps fade away as the imperial squad retreats - then, silence. You are all alone, trapped, imprisoned in this musty cell, somewhere in the depths of the Maestro’s palace. 

You sit on the hard ground, alone with your thoughts. The more you think about it, the only explanation is that this was a setup. But the Agency’s entire job is to sift through lies and misinformation; if this was a trap, there must be something larger at play - something elaborate, sinister. 

Unfortunately for you, you have nothing but time to try and piece together this puzzle. You lean your head against the stone wall, trying to figure out how the fuck you're gonna get yourself out of this mess. 

The absence of natural light leaves you with no way of telling time. The silence grows eerie. Your mind wanders, imagination soon running wild. You’ve heard of people who lose their minds within days of solitary confinement. Will that happen to me?, you can’t help but wonder. How long will I be here? Are they going to bring me food, or am I doomed to die of starvation? How did I even end up here? What are they planning to do with me? What if they forget about me? What if…

Your mind grows weary. You decide to lay down - no use in staying awake and overthinking. You rest your head on the gravelly floor - it’s uncomfortable, but your eyelids soon become heavy. You drift in and out of consciousness, strange visions and voices floating through your mind. Before long, you are asleep.

You’re running. You don’t know where to, but you are running through winding, endless corridors. Running from… something. You don’t know what. The sound of your racing heartbeat pounds in your ears, surpassed only by the heaving pants of your labored breathing. The neverending halls begin to expand around you - they grow larger and larger, disorienting your sense of perception. From behind, unsettling noises draw nearer and nearer: screeching echoes, thunderous crashes, wicked laughter. You run, but it’s not fast enough. The horrid sounds infiltrate your mind, reverberating through your skull so loudly you feel as if your head is about to explode. Suddenly, through blurred vision you see the hallway’s end; at it stands a cloaked figure, facing away from you. You can’t see anything else of the entity, but you sense the dark energy that surrounds it. Dread wells in the pit of your stomach, filling you with terror - but, for some reason, you are drawn to the malevolent being. Their presence is magnetic, alluring - frightening, but seductive. You press on - you don’t know why, but you must get to them. Your legs feel as if they’ve turned to lead - each footstep slowing you down further. You’re almost there, almost, almost… finally - the figure is within arm’s reach. In excruciating slow motion, you extend your hand toward them. Your fingertips graze the black cloak, its woven texture coarse against your skin. Your hand glides over the thick fabric - you close your grip around their shoulder, forcefully turning them around to face you. You lift your gaze to look at their face-

BANG.

You jolt awake in a panic. Disoriented, heart pounding, it takes you a moment to realize you’re still in the cold, dark prison cell. Faint light enters the room through the now-open doorway. Standing in it is a tall, thin man - you can barely make out his face, but his presence is unsettling. He peers down at you, his piercing eyes practically boring a hole into your head. 

“Come with me,” is all he says. 

You blink dully a few times, still not fully lucid. You try to process what all is happening, but your dream (nightmare?) weighs heavily at the forefront of your mind. The odious man quickly becomes irritated.

“GET UP!” he bellows at you.

You rise, stumbling to your feet. Two guards enter from behind him, swiftly seizing hold of your arms and yanking you out of the cell. They halt in front of the man. An unpleasant scowl seems permanently engraved on his face. He smirks at you.

“Well aren’t you pretty.”

You spit on the ground in front of his feet. The man glares at you with vitriol. He draws a short sword from the depths of his cloak, pointing it at your face. He traces the razor-sharp tip lightly across your cheek.

“Act like that again,” he sneers. With a quick flick of the wrist he delivers a small slash into your cheekbone. You barely flinch.

“And I’ll carve some very permanent scars into that pretty little face of yours.”

You stare at him, but say nothing. With a huff he turns, sauntering off into the hallway.

“Come along now. The Maestro wants to see you.”

—

The first thing you notice upon entering the chamber is the hundreds of candles set alight, illuminating the otherwise unlit space. The second is the hooded figure seated upon the throne at the room’s distant end, reclining arrogantly - watching you intensely. 

You hadn’t seen their face, but you know: it is the figure from your dream.

The guards stand you before the Maestro. You still can’t see their face. The thin man who summoned you steps forward, giving a small bow to his master.

“The thief, Your Majesty.”

The Maestro leans forward. Their face, previously shadowed, becomes illuminated in the candlelight: you see a man, much younger than anticipated - and strikingly beautiful. His eyes, adorned with dark makeup, peer up and down your body, studying you. He rises, nonchalantly descending the few steps before him; the clacking of his boots against the dark marble echoes through the otherwise silent chamber. He strolls toward you, maintaining eye contact, coming to a stop within mere inches of you. Slowly he removes his hood, revealing a head of long pale tresses. Up close, he is even more stunning. 

The man lifts his hand, delicately taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. He tilts your head, observing the cut on your cheek.

“I told you to bring me the prisoner unharmed,” he scolds his servant. His gaze doesn’t stray from your face.

The subordinate’s face drops. “Apologies, my liege,” he responds hesitantly. “I-”

“Leave.”

He says nothing else. The servant’s eyes darken with fear. “My liege-”

The man before you motions to the guards. “Take him away.”

The guards seize the man, dragging him from the chamber in silence. The door closes with a heavy thud. You are now alone with the enemy. 

Your existing knowledge of the mysterious individual known as the Maestro is minimal - you have a fairly high level of clearance within the Agency, but even there the details are sparse. Rumors abound, but what is known for certain is this: the Maestro is a dark and powerful sorcerer, and is not to be trifled with.

You watch the man before you intently as he turns on his heels, meandering casually across the room, hands behind his back. Undoubtedly, his presence is intimidating; but admittedly he does not seem to be nearly the loathsome monster you’ve been led to believe he is. Regardless, you will not be letting your guard down. 

“My apologies for the poor treatment you have received thus far,” the man starts as he resumes his seat upon the large, ornate chair. A bowl of deep-purple grapes sits on the table beside him; he reclines again, reaching for the supple fruits. He plucks a particularly round grape from its stem, drawing it to his lips - he places it upon his tongue, holding it there momentarily before biting down, its juicy flesh bursting within his mouth. He chews, his eyes fixated upon you. He swallows before continuing.

“I had to ensure you were who I thought you were, and not some irrelevant member of the Agency.”

You grimace, displeased to learn that your suspicions were correct. He did know about the mission, and presumably the Agency’s agenda too. If that’s the case, then how much else does he know…

You’re itching to ask him who exactly he thinks you are, but you hold your tongue. You know better than to engage with the enemy unless absolutely necessary.

“But now that I am certain, I assure you you will receive nothing but the finest accommodations.” 

You say nothing. He eats another grape. You’ve been staring for far too long when you realize his plush lips seem to have you in a trance; you quickly return to glaring at him.

A few moments of silence pass. The intense eye contact he sustains stirs up a sensation within you - not fear, not worry, but rather… intrigue. You know the man is dangerous, yet here you are - simply captivated by him. You silently curse yourself for allowing emotion to infiltrate your mind like this. You’re smarter than this. Get your shit together.

“Refusing to speak, I see. Very well then. But aren’t you curious?” He leans forward, taunting you. “You know I hold the answers you seek, y/n.”

Your stomach drops. He just called you by your real name. Members of the Agency are exclusively referred to by their code names - even amongst colleagues, true identities remain concealed. How does he…

Your face remains stoic, indifferent, but he smirks. He can read you like an open book, and he knows you know it. 

“Go on, question me. You must see there is no threat here - I am unarmed. You may speak freely.”

You know that’s an absolute crock of bullshit. A cunning sorcerer is never truly unarmed - god knows what he could conjure up in the blink of an eye. But, admittedly he does have a point. You very well may die here - might as well get some fucking answers first. 

“How did you know I was coming?” you ask coldly.

A sly grin appears on his face. “Ah, she speaks! Good girl.” You scowl at him; he continues. “It’s simple, really - it was me who allowed the Agency to ‘discover’ the location of the palace. I made sure their little reconnaissance efforts would lead them to send their most skilled operative to retrieve the ring.”

“You wanted the ring to be stolen.”

“No. I wanted the ring to be stolen by you.”

You pause at his unexpected words. What?

Every neuron in your brain is screaming at you to be silent, don’t play into his little games. But you open your mouth anyway.

“And why me?” 

“Oh, I’ve had my eyes on you for quite some time, darling.”

Your stomach jolts. He said it so nonchalantly, as if he was telling you the weather rather than admitting he’s been watching your every move for god knows how long.

You stare at him incredulously. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

He simply shakes his head. “Patience - you will learn the whole story in due time. Guards!”

A new pair of imperials, much more polished and intelligent-looking than their brutish counterparts you’ve dealt with thus far, enter the room. 

“Please escort my guest to her bedchamber for the night. I must retire.”

The guards steer you toward the hallway. You follow without resistance. 

“Goodnight, y/n,” the man calls as you step through the doorway. You glimpse back: he is seated in the same position, watching you intensely. You catch a curious look in his eye, one you can’t quite read. He disappears as the heavy door shuts behind you.

—

As promised, your new accommodations are satisfactory - lavish, even. You’ve never seen a room with so many ornate embellishments, nor a bed with so many cushions and fine coverings. The washroom was equally fanciful, offering a large tub and luxurious-looking towels. Enticing, certainly, but at this point you are exhausted, and simply want to sleep anywhere that isn’t a cold stone floor. You lay upon the bed, not even bothering to retreat under the covers. Within seconds, you drift off to sleep.

You find yourself in the same hallway again - this time, not running, but merely standing behind the cloaked figure. You extend your hand, grabbing his shoulder and turning him round. You raise your eyes, meeting his gaze - but where his eyes should be, you only found blackness. You stare into the void of his sockets, hypnotized in fear, their darkness seeming to infiltrate your soul. He draws a dagger from his cloak, shoving you into the wall and placing it against your throat. You feel its pressure, but it does not break skin. He draws his face into yours, tenderly placing his lips upon your cheekbone - right atop your freshly-scarring cut. He kisses you - slowly, fervidly, his lips burning against your skin, but instead of pain you feel only pleasure. His free hand wraps around the small of your back, pulling your torso into his, holding you tightly against his blisteringly-hot form. The dagger remains perilously at your throat, a constant reminder of the power he holds over you. His lips parts from your cheek as he draws his head back, looking at you once again, the abysmal darkness of his stare penetrating through you. Slowly, he leans in, his lips converging on yours. Your mouth reaches for his, wanting for his kiss, yearning for his taste- 

Your eyes open. There are no windows in your room, but you get the sense that it is morning, midday perhaps. Dazed, you try to wake yourself up, but your mind keeps drifting back to your dream - to the man who has somehow infiltrated your subconscious. You raise your hand to your face, running your fingertips over your wound, but…

Quickly, you sit up, tossing your feet to the floor and heading toward the washroom. You approach the mirror, peering your face in close to the glass. Where there should have been a fresh scar: nothing. Not a mark on your skin. 

You frown. You don’t know what this means, but you suspect nothing good will come of it. 

A knock comes from the door. You hear the turn of the lock, followed by the creaking of the door swinging open. A young female servant enters, carrying a bundle of fabrics. A second follows, placing a tea set on the small table.

“You are expected at supper today,” the first woman informs you curtly. She places the fabrics upon your bed. “Wash up and dress in fresh clothes.” The two leave swiftly without another word.

You let out a sigh of annoyance. So this is how it’s going to be then. Fine - I’ll play along with his little games. You glance back at the mirror. A tired face looks back at you, grimacing.

Not like I have much of a choice anyway.

⛧ chapter 2: coming soon ⛧