#and maybe its because i've never moved always lived in the same place all my life but i hate having a room cleared i hate having to stuff

[folkloregirlfriend]

i am in a miserable place

[ryes-brownies08]

feature me [jay x male reader]

"You really killed it out there." Jay spoke, almost taunting. "You really think so?" You asked, reciprocating his energy. "I know so. Because I watching the entire time."

NSFW - If you're a minor, i literally do not care. Just dont let ur mom catch u or whatever 🤷‍♂️

Requested by: Anonymous

˙⋆✮ genre: SMUT ˙⋆✮ roles: top! jay, bttm! mreader ˙⋆✮ word count: 3.7k words ˙⋆✮ inspo: feature me - flo

SYNOPSIS: Jay and M/n. Two fierce performers in their respective categories, and a surprisingly good fit for one another. Their label knew what they were doing when they arranged for the two to perform a cover song together. What the two musicians hadn't known, though, was how attracted they'd be to each other, and how they weren't just impressed with one another's talents. As Jay and M/n entertained their mutual attraction, they found themselves caught in a night they'd never forget.

WARNINGS + TAGS: flirting, music industry, rough unprotected sex, swearing, insensitive at times, guitarist jay, fingering, intense sex, tension ;))), depictions of any irl character here does not reflect who they are irl this work is purely fictional, etc

The stage is set. The room holds its breath with anticipation. You stand in the middle of darkness as you stare out into the audience of the acoustic lounge you're in. You can see them, but they can't see you.

It's somehow nerve-wracking given you've performed in a lot of places for a lot of different people before. Maybe it’s different now because this acoustic lounge had pretty skilled instrumentalists in it, and you never really performed with a live band before. That means you have to match their performance with the only tool you have, your voice.

Then it hits. The kick and closed hi-hat. The signature sound of the song you were covering, aside from the notable guitar; ‘Feature Me’ by FLO.

The lights fade in, and you barely manage a 'singer-model expression' before it gets illuminated. The hi-hats of the intro shuffle complexly, matching the rhythm of your tense heartbeat. God, this live set makes you so nervous. That didn't matter now, it was time to do what your fans loved best; sing and move your body. After all, you know that this performance, much like any other, would definitely be recorded and posted.

Your makeup glistened as the light rose, reminding you of your look. A light streak of blue and white glitter, spread across either cheekbone like glossy freckles. Silver piercings in your ears, small but intricate - you can't remember them too well. Light blue denim jeans, well-fit at the thighs and gradually loosening at the calves, paired with a sleeveless denim vest of the same color, buttoned up except for the top button, showing off your collarbone.

Your arms were also out, and while they weren't built at all, sometimes your biceps flexed, and it felt like the stylists made the right choice. Maybe that dreadful gym was proving to pay off more than you thought.

You’re set up for success, and can't make this all for nothing.

You hold the mic stand firmly as you do your best to look confident. You’ve got to sing your first line as the intro comes to an end. "Not what I usually do, but I've been peeping you." You sing. Not bad, albeit a bit breathy for how you'd prefer to sound.

"I'm tryna play it cool but it's too much, yeah." You follow, your free hand slithering up to your collarbone. Still getting used to everything, you wonder if that move was too much. Your hands weren't really free in your other performances, always busy with a handheld mic or doing a dance, so you thought to pull that sensual move.

"Got me breaking the rules; there ain't no second to." You take a breath, a sharp inhale which could have been avoided if you managed your breath better. "He's my forbidden fruit, yeah." You do a good job at the latter half, your tone rich with vibrato.

Then, the bass kicks in, and an ambient light from behind you casts a warm, orange glow on your (S/c) skin. The hall is acoustic and cozy, but quite modernized as well, and it excites you. The keyboardist plays a vibey tune, followed by the guitarist playing the signature sound of the amorous, seductive R&B anthem. What surprises you though, was the electric take on the originally acoustic guitar. It made everything more sensual and interesting.

You take the mic from the stand, and walk around slowly, the crowd lightly cheering as you become comfortable. You gotta move and give this performance some flavour; you were always about adding a bit of zest into the things you did, which made you as authentic as you were.

A nod from the drummer, a grin from the keyboardist, but one instrumentalist in particular catches your eye. The guitarist. Amongst them all, he's someone you know. Not personally, but you're a pretty big fan of. You've liked almost every post of his, despite having a load more followers than him.

Park Jongseong. Or better known as the attractive guitarist Jay. Beautiful and talented, seductive by just doing his thing. He was an actualisation of a very interesting concept, his visual sleek, polished and upper-class, whilst his aesthetic and marketing was edgy, sexualised and so seductively masculine.

He catches you looking at him, and you see that look in his eye. Slender and strapping. He’s biting his lip in concentration, his eyebrows knit tightly together as he focuses on his guitar. But something about that gaze feels partially reciprocal, with undertones of tension. That’s the sexy look you’ve been dying to see up close – as a fan, all you’ve done so far is fantasize about him in ways not appropriate for everyday conversation.

You change your trajectory and strut up to him, as you sing the lines of the chorus, now being able to balance your voice against the volume of the live band. "Set the scene and feature me. Touch on me, get on your knees. I'll take the lead." You smile as the audience around you warms up with your performance. He plays the guitar, bopping his head as he vibes to the beat.

You approach him, and the two of you are standing before each other. You're testing the waters, and it doesn't seem like he minds at all. The crowd cheers; loud enough to be appreciative and quiet enough to be respectful of your show.

To look casual, you swagger over to the other band members, trying not to look hyperfixated over Jay. But it's clear that when you waltz over to them, it's more supportive than when you and Jay stand before each other. It's like pitting a growing flame against a gentle daisy; intense tension against a friendly, platonic support.

As you reach the bridge and the song gets closer to its end, you find yourself drawn back to the centre stage. You roll your body just a little, and the crowd loves it. You've performed expertly, and subtly but effectively seductively.

"Are you receiving the signs? I'm speaking on my mind." You sing, and it comes out like velvet and thunder; you're not just singing, you're inviting him. And when you look back at him, he's biting his lips and shredding that guitar. He's definitely not minding the signs.

"I just want you to come through. I've already set the mood; I'll tell you what to do to me, yeah, yeah." You sing, hitting the high note of the song. Grand and demanding in it's tone - rich yet sultry enough, wavering healthily with vibrato.

The crowd erupts in a full blown cheer, some hands in the air, some jaws knocked right open, and unseen tongues tied for sure. You can see the instrumentalists truly feel it from your peripherals, appreciative of your high note as they continue to do their thing. But again, you come back to Jay.

In a surge of confidence, you place a hand on Jay's free shoulder, gyrating your hips slowly as you wink at him, and he looks at you with a bold smile, dimples forming on either side of his cheeks. The crowd goes wild as you follow up with some ad-libs and riffs in honour of your inspiration trio, FLO.

The last post-chorus feels danceable, and you don't have to do so much at all. You repeat a simple "oh-oh~" over and over and that takes you to the end. But just before the song finishes, you walk behind Jay, and as you sing the finishing line, "I'll take the lead," you slither a hand up on his shoulder. The crowd delivers a round of applause, and you let out a breath of amusement and gratefulness.

The band members look at each other in reverence, and you smile at the audience gratefully. You, alongside the rest of the crew, bring your hands together as you applaud each other, and you and Jay spare a glance at each other. His is firm, his smile stoic and a bit more than just platonically appreciative. Flustered, you chuckle and break the eye contact, drawing a laugh from him.

You turn to face the audience, placing the mic back in the stand. They cheer and have faces full of smiles. It takes a moment, but it dawns upon you; you did well.

After giving the audience a few words of gratitude, you and the rest of the members leave the stage.

The rest of the crew vanishes elsewhere, whilst you walk backstage, catching a breath as you grab your water bottle from your desk in the dressing room. Everyone is gone by now, and the night feels like it's coming to an end. It's nice to have a moment to yourself knowing you didn't do that bad at all on stage.

You hear the door creak and shut lightly. It doesn't alarm you, but someone else just entered your dressing room. "I'm not interrupting, am I?" You hear from behind you, and already know who it is.

You whip your head back, and you're met with the sight of exactly who you expected. Your favourite guitarist, in a silk white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top with his sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, with black slacks that fit his legs delectably.

"Not at all. What's up?" You respond before thinking. It's quite casual for who you are, but you can't undo the trajectory of the conversation now.

He lets out an expensive chuckle. It's like fine wine, or cigarettes after sex, or a hybrid of both - it calls out to you. "It's M/n, right? I mean, I just wanted to say that you killed it out there. Every part of that." He smiles nonchalantly as he puts his hands in his pocket and leans on a hip. In your opinion, he didn't need those pants.

"Awh..." You manage, your fingers running through your collarbone sheepishly. It was a little penchant of yours, and a weird contrast to how you'd touch it on stage. Maybe it just looked charismatic, but was you trying to comfort yourself. "I'm actually a big fan. I follow your page." You admit.

"For real? Appreciate it man." He says, tilting his head a little before placing right back to a neutral position. How seductive. You weren't that type of guy, but Jay was so attractively masculine. Grounded, sexy, dominant, and enough of a tease to get you going without pissing you off.

"No, you're great! Tonight, too; and the guitar was electric, so I was so surprised. Cause the guitar of 'Feature Me' is acoustic, if I'm not wrong?" You cross your arms and lean on your hip, comfortable and enjoying his company.

Jay shrugged, hands still in his pockets. "I dunno, I just followed the sheet. Glad you liked it. But really," Jay spoke, his voice with an undertone of implication. "You really killed it out there." It was like a taunt. It was prying something out of you, the way he took no more than half a step closer to you. Not yet implicit enough to be brass-necked, but audacious enough to be exciting.

The air in the room shifted, and you knew exactly where this was going. There was no more room for the cute chitchat, things were taking a turn. "You really think so?" You ask, reciprocating that energy. But to be fair, that was just you; led easily into submission and ready to serve. In your experience, it felt like that nature about you excited the more assertive type, the trait acting like a beacon to people like Jay.

"I know so. Because I watching the entire time." Jay replies, the tone in his voice no longer a question. His hand reaches out to gently grab your chin, vigilant for any signs of discomfort.

You look up to meet his gaze. It's everything you want. Assertive, strapping, lustful, sly. Undeniable.

"Well," Your eyelids relax as your expression, once eager, submissive and excited, was now sedative, alluring and lustful. You want him bad. "What happens now?"

He can't help but grin, letting out a playful scoff. He doesn't say anything, letting the silence speak for itself as you stare in each others eyes, as you realise the two of you are much closer to each other than before.

TIME SKIP

The sound of moist squelching fills up the now locked dressing room, and the air around you is still except for the whirr of a nearby fan. You're out of breath, panting helplessly as you're now certain that your face is red through your (S/c) skin. The leather couch in the dressing room feels cold against your bare ass, your legs spread on either side as Jay kneels in front of you, two slender and skilful fingers deep in you.

Your leg twitches, hips locking as if shifting between becoming free of tension and tense again as he does so. You're a whimpering hot mess beneath him. He pushes his fingers in deep, admiring your face as he fingers you. The only clothing on you now was your unbuttoned denim vest, revealing your slender body.

"Jay... fuck..." You bite your lip, trying your best to hold back your moans.

He just chuckles in response. It makes you feel weak in the knees, and slightly embarrassed. "You're so cute, M/n." He leans closer, face to face with you as his fingers remain sunken deep inside you, making you squirm and arch up as your shoulder blades press against the back of the couch. "You're gonna feel so good around my cock."

You melt, and you can't keep the eye contact with him. He looks so sure, so ready, and it makes you feel completely at his disposal. He smirks and leans in for a kiss. Gentle at first, then gradually more demanding. His tongue slides into your mouth, swift, slippery and expertly taking charge. Alongside the slurping, squelching sounds of your lips, you can still audibly hear him still finger you, rubbing against your prostrate every now and then.

He then bites your bottom lip. Hard. But not hard enough to draw blood. You gasp, and hold onto him out of reflex, needing support. He lets out another chuckle against your lips, finding you adorable. You blush every time, more and more bashful of your reactions while you're just entranced by the sexy and dominant man he is.

With a few more kisses and strokes to the inside of your tight hole, he pulls his fingers out. Sharp enough to make you wince, but gentle enough to feel pleasurable.

You take a breath, and it comes out shaky and frazzled, then watch him as he undoes his zipper, bringing something solid out of the confinements of his pants. "Alright, M/n. You ready for this?" He asks, and his sly gaze is something you realise you'll never get over.

You nod in response.

"Nuh-uh." He tuts. "I wanna hear you say it." Jay replies, pulling a sizeable erection out of his pants.

"Jay, please fuck me..." You respond, flustered, your own erection hardening at the thought of sex with him.

And just as you expect he would, he lets out another chuckle. "God, M/n." Jay spoke, getting up for a moment as he took off his shirt. He reaches for the lube you have in your bag, and pours a sizeable amount onto his shaft, unzipped and free from the restraint of his pants. He doesn't bother to take his pants off fully, letting them hang below his v-line. Then, he begins leaning over you, fists buried in the couch above either of your shoulders.

Jay looks down at your legs, spread wide open, making him lick his lips at the thought of fucking your pert ass. His tip teases your entrance as he tries to line the two up, hitting your perineum every now and then.

But then, when he's aligned perfectly, he enters you unmissably. It's swift, rough, and intense. He's prepped you up real good, and you can feel him inside you, his well-rounded size and thickness pleasuring you without even thrusting.

"Fuck!" You whine, letting out a wet moan. Jay growls as he enters, his cock surrounded by your walls.

"Shit, M/n." He lets out an eager, husky chuckle. "Still so tight after all that prepping, huh? I'm gonna enjoy this." He begins to pick up some momentum, and you can feel his pubic hair tingle against your leg every now and then.

Watching him like this was a treat; everything about him is perfect. His abs are lit up perfectly, the light behind him making him look ethereal. His arms are also well defined, and his thigh muscles flex with every thrust. Everything from his face, to his muscles, to the hair on his body; it's all gorgeous. But you don't have as much time to think about that as you'd like, given the way he furiously pumps into you.

Each thrust was raw and primal, going to lengths you hadn't known were possible. "Ah.. fuck... Jay..!" You moan exasperatedly, feeling an ache in your inner thighs and hips from being in the strenuous position for so long.

"Yeah, baby. Keep moaning for me. Don't you dare fucking stop." He replies, a hand reaching out to grab your face, squishing your cheeks. Jay is the epitome of hot, and you love being made into his plaything. You truly are all his tonight. And of course, you don't dare stop, no matter how shy you get. That's why Jay locked the door before any of this happened, so you can let as loose as he needs you to.

He thrusts hard into you, propping one of your legs over your shoulder. The pain is beautiful, hurting in the way you need it to every single night, in every single place.

"Jay.. f-fuck! P-Please..!" You beg. You don't know what for, but you do anyways. After all, the way his member slides in and out of you so perfectly, like a sensual caress to your insides and a roar of pleasure at the same time, you don't care about anything except for him right now.

Jay looks up at you, a tense grunt escaping his lips as he gasps, eyes rolling backwards for a split second before he regains composure. "Fuck, M/n. You're so fucking beautiful... I'm gonna fucking cum..." He growls, leaning in to meet your lips in a wet, sloppy kiss.

"Cum inside me, Jay. P-Please.." You moan, and in response, you get one back from Jay. It's a mix of submissive and dominant, yet still so strapping and masculine. Whatever it is, it makes your cock twitch with anticipation and arousal. It builds up an intense passion and longing for him, and you either need to hear that sound again or need to cum right now, because he's making you so horny.

"Oh, I'll fucking cum inside you alright. You just sit there and take it like the slut you are." He replies, delivering a firm slap to your lean ass. You let out a loud moan, and wonder if anyone heard. But truly, you don't care. You just have to reach to your climax.

"Oh fuck, M/n...!" Jay groans, delivering a few more thrusts with a newfound intensity as what must be adrenaline kicks in. You wince as he pounds into you, feeling a pain in your lower back as he essentially starts folding you.

Then before you know it, you and Jay start releasing at the same time. Frantically. Intensely.

The both of you moan into each other, gasping and grunting as you juice each other out as best as you can, lips tangling in a flame that seals the passion of the moment just minutes ago.

Jay places a few more kisses, less lustful, and more romantic, on your lips after you finish. He hunches over you, trying his hardest to catch his breath as he pulls out.

You relax, legs finally free of tension as they quiver from your tryst. That was fucking incredible.

"You know what, M/n?" Jay asked as he sits on his knees in fatigue, still in between you.

"Y-Yeah...?" You ask, still regaining composure.

"You're still so fucking beautiful." He says, flashing that same iconic smile of his. You let out a flustered scoff.

"Thanks. That was... that was pretty good." You reply.

"I know, right?" Jay smiles, the two of you breaking into soft laughs. "We should do this more often, huh?"

"Like... hook up?" You ask.

"Uh... well, I meant collabs." Jay chuckles, a bit caught off guard.

"Oh shit. No, no, I didn't mean to-" You start, another blush rising to your cheeks.

"No, no. Calm down. I was actually gonna suggest the hookup thing after I said we should collab." He smiles, holding your forearms to reassure you.

"Oh." You reply, throwing your head back in a wry, exhausted, but nevertheless content relief.

"Yeah." Jay laughs, eyes slim with glee. "Alright, let's get the fuck up." He declares, helping you up.

You get up, a wince escaping your lips as your ass begins to feel extremely sore. You didn't even wanna think of how it'd feel tomorrow.

"Pass me my shirt." Jay asks, holding out a hand as he put his now softened cock back in his pants. Like you thought before, he didn't need them at all.

As the two of you get dressed and laugh about how you surely have to shower when you get home, you see how the whole venue at this point is basically empty. When the time for you two to go your separate ways arrives, you exchange numbers, and Jay rakes your body just once more with his eyes as you head off.

"Catch you round, 'kay, M/n?" He holds a hand up as a greeting.

"For sure." You nod, offering a small smile before you walk off. You did well today.

As you walk out the venue, and the cool air of the pitch black sky hits you, you're able to take a breath and reflect as you make your way to your car.

What a fantastic fucking night.

[sweettu1ips]

PAIGE BUECKERS x FEM!READER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until now.

Because Wren would not have it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now, I was going back.

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

But the question lingered, heavy and unspoken:

Would we still know each other?

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

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

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

Martha’s Vineyard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And me? I was late. A day behind.

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

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

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

I was here.

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

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

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

And then—there it was.

The Honeycomb Garden.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

“Well, if it isn’t little Y/N!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if anything had changed.

As if everything had.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! I just remembered—”

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

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

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

A knowing pause.

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

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

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

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

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

It was so my mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But in the end, I caved.

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

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

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

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

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

“See you later, Miss Kristy.”

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

“Y/N Lexington!”

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

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

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

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

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

Lilly’s texts stood out.

“dude hurry.”

A second one, only minutes later:

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

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

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

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

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

To her.

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

God.

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

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

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

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

Except for one.

A certain Bueckers kid was missing.

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

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

"Y/N!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I’m home."

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, there she was.

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

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

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

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

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

She always saw too much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there was Wren.

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

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

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

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

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

I scoffed, shaking my head. "Unbelievable."

And then, finally, finally, she moved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even if I already knew.

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

Wren saw. Of course, she did.

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

That was all she said.

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

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

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

I returned it anyway.

There would be time for that later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shoved it down.

For now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But something in me ached to know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I swallowed.

I wanted to say yes.

I wanted to mean it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she was right. How had I forgotten?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/N’S SURF SHACK"

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

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

The scent hit me first.

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

Everything was exactly as I had left it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paige. 

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

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

My throat tightened.

It wasn’t just a room.

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

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

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

“Welcome back, Y/N.”

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

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

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

And just like that, I am alone.

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

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

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

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

God, I missed this.

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

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

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

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

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

My eyes drifted back to the lilies. 

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

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

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

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

"Welcome back, princess."

Princess.

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

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

I close my eyes.

Let myself sink.

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

Until—

“What’s up, stranger?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before I can react, before I can even think—

He launches himself onto the bed.

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

“Beau—” I wheeze, squirming under him.

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

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

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

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

And then—

“Are you two seriously wrestling already?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that—

The house feels alive again.

Buzzing. Humming. Crackling with something electric.

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

How much I missed them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, my eyes found her.

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

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

Three years. Three whole years. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then I moved.

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

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

And then, out the back door.

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

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

But Paige was still there.

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

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

What the hell was I even supposed to say?

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

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

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

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

And I stepped forward.

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

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

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

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

And when she did—

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

“Y/N.”

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

And for a moment, neither was I.

The world stilled.

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

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

Paige.

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

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

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

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

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

She had always been beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where the hell have you been?

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

I had missed things. So many things.

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

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

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

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

And I had just—disappeared.

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

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

Because she was here.

And so was I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You always sucked at talking about feelings.”

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

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

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

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

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

Slowly.

 Piece by piece.

 Step by step.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I didn’t expect what happened next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ᯓᡣ𐭩 TAGLIST: @jadasogay @paige05bby @unadulteratedcyclepaper @bueckers2fudd

© sweettu1ips.tumblr 2025 do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[agentstarkid]

WHAT THE GODS TRIED TO BURY ✦ 05

✦ WORD COUNT: 5.2K

✦ WARNINGS: language, angst, it is implied she had hair long enough to tie back, Rhys is called a bitch.

✦ MAY'S RADIO: Holiiiiis! it's been too longggg and so is this chapter, which is why I decided to split it into two parts 🫡 i've been reading too many theories on reddit and trying to make sense of the timeline because the OG one gives me a headache so bear with me. rhys' sister's name comes from this theory about what might've happened to her because it sounds so cute ngl 🤭 oh, I reload my activity feed every 3 seconds to see what you guys are thinking btw. N E WAYYYZZ. I love u. I hope u like it. k byee <3

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Azriel stood in the doorway of her old room.

The same room no one had touched in two hundred years.

It wasn’t like the others in the Town House—there was no polite neatness here, no curated quiet. This room was still unmistakably hers. The bed remained unmade, as if she’d just stepped out and would be back at any moment. Her books still lined the shelves in their strange, chaotic order—battle strategy shoved beside poetry, old tales of gods and monsters stacked on top of worn journals filled with half-sketched maps. A sword still rested against the window frame, catching the light like it remembered her hand.

He’d never come in here before. Not once.

Not when Rhysand sealed the doors. Not when Cassian stood outside it for an entire week after the battle, drinking himself numb. Not when Amren told them to let the dead rest.

He had avoided those oak doors like the plague. He had forced his brain to erase the knowledge of its existence, and shoved all the memories he had in a box, under lock, at the back of his mind—like all the other emotions he didn't want to ever deal with. 

Even his shadows had been forbidden to roam her hallway. Everytime he felt one of them pull away from the others, and try to sneakily go near these doors, he'd pull the metaphorical leash around them and yank them back to him. They’d always make sure he knew of their grievances.

But now—fuck, she wasn’t dead.

And this room, untouched as it was, had become the only place he could breathe. 

It started four months ago, the day everything cracked open.

The day he confronted Rhys in a rage so cold. The lie had lived too long. Festered too deep.

She had been alive. Taken, not lost. And none of them had known.

None of them, except fucking Rhysand. He thought bitterly.

He'd stormed out of the House of Wind, fury turning his wings to blades—only to stop mid-flight when his shadows twisted around him, tugging softly but insistently downward, like they knew something his heart still refused to admit.

He didn’t realize where they were guiding him until he landed.

Here. To her door.

He wasn’t sure if it had been them… or if it was his own damn heart, desperate for anything that might still hold her shape.

And now, every day since, he returned.

It became his daily routine. He didn’t move much. Usually, he just sat in the armchair near the fireplace—the one she used to curl up in, legs over one armrest, book balanced on her knees—and tried to remember the sound of her laugh.

Today, he stepped further in.

His hazel eyes moved slowly across the space, drinking in the details he’d refused to acknowledge for two centuries. Everything was exactly as she’d left it. Rhysand had made sure of that.

(Maybe it wasn’t grief but guilt that made him do it. At this point, he didn't know what was the truth and what wasn't, anymore.) 

A dagger rested on the vanity—its edge still gleamed under the moonlight. He remembered the day she’d stolen it from Cassian and swore it suited her better. Cassian hadn’t even argued. She’d been fierce even then—sharp and bright and entirely too much for his quiet, shadow-drenched soul.

He paused by the bed, fingers brushing over the worn blanket. His throat tightened. The last time she’d slept here, she’d woken from a nightmare and found him waiting outside her door. She hadn’t said a word. Just opened it, let him in, and sat beside him on the floor. Their shoulders had touched. She hadn’t looked at him and he hadn’t spoken.

But it had been enough.

Now, the silence inside this room was different. Hollow. Accusing.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, shadows curling around his boots like restless spirits.

You left me.

I screamed for you. For days.

I kept waiting. Because I believed you would come.

He shook his head, those words haunted his mind from the second they left her lips. He remembered the way her voice had broken when she told them, how her fingers trembled even as she curled them into fists. The wild, shattered edge in her expression—he remembered that too.

He closed his eyes and let the pain in. Let it settle deep, where it always lived anyway.

Azriel had only stood there, watching her walk away from them—again.

It felt like punishment. And maybe he deserved it.

Maybe this was the way the Mother was punishing him for all the pain he's inflicted and the blood he had spilt throughout the centuries. 

His gaze flicked to the wall where a sketch still hung—an old one. Not her work, but Rhosywn’s, Rhysand’s sister. It was a scene from Starfall, their first one after the War. She’d been laughing in it. Head tipped back, eyes closed, starlight caught in her lashes.

He remembered that night. He remembered every detail.

And now he wondered if he’d ever see that laugh again.

He reached for the pillow, thumb brushing over the seam as if he could conjure her out of memory.

He could still see her there—barefoot, half-asleep, with ink smudged on her cheek from whatever ridiculous map she’d fallen asleep drawing. (She used to pour over maps like they might one day give her an answer—He always thought that maybe it was less about it being a pastime, and more about trying to trace where she’d come from). He’d once found her like that, curled up and snoring softly, dagger still strapped to her thigh. He hadn’t had the heart to wake her. Just draped a blanket over her and stood watch by the door until dawn.

That had been her, always—a storm wrapped in soft edges. Brutal in battle, but soft with her family. With him, especially. Gods, she’d always been gentle with him. Teasing sometimes, yes. But never cruel. Not like he was with himself.

He let out a breath, the kind that scraped on the way out. His hand curled into the pillow, shadows whispering at his back.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

He dragged his gaze to the far corner of the room, where a ribbon still hung from a cracked wall hook. Midnight blue. She’d tied it around his wrist after a sparring match gone sideways when they were barely into their seventies. It had started as a joke—something about marking her wins so he didn't forget—but he’d carried it with him afterward, tucked secretly into the pocket of his fighting leathers.

It didn’t mean to come back to her. He was planning to treasure it for the rest of his life. 

But a few months later, they’d been sparring again, the sun unusually warm over the mountains, and she’d been struggling with her hair—the strands whipping into her eyes as she fought, her frustration mounting with every swat. Without a word, he’d stepped forward, pulled the ribbon from his leathers, and reached up to gently tie her hair back.

She’d stilled completely.

And when she looked up at him—wide-eyed, soft in a way that caught him off guard—he remembered how her throat worked around a breath, the light blush rising over her neck and cheeks like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with the tenderness of it. 

Even now, his heart sped up remembering how they were standing so fucking close. Close enough for him to notice how her eyes shimmered like the inside of a honeycomb, sunlight caught in every curve. And for a moment he swore the world went quiet—just so it wouldn’t interrupt.

It had been one of the most dangerous moments of his life.

And he hadn’t even drawn a blade.

His gaze swept back over the room, and more fragments rose like smoke in his mind.

He remembered the first time she fell asleep beside him—not from exhaustion, but because she felt safe. They’d been flying back from a mission in Vallahan, both too scraped up to make the full trip home. He’d kept watch, leaning against a crumbling ruin wall while she curled up beneath her cloak beside him, her head just barely brushing his thigh. When her breathing slowed, deep and even, he hadn’t dared move. Not for hours.

He remembered the way her laughter used to echo through the House—sharp and bright like shattered glass catching sunlight. She and Cassian had once turned the kitchen into a war zone with flour and eggs, and even now he could picture her—cheeks smudged, hair wild, grinning like a menace as she declared victory from the countertop. Cassian had called her a menace. Azriel had thought she was radiant.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth, then faded.

He closed his eyes.

The memory of her standing in the forest was carved into his soul now. Alive. Changed. Wounded in ways he couldn’t begin to understand.

Gods, she had changed.

Quieter in a way that screamed. There was something in her eyes that hadn’t been there before, something that had seen too much and wasn’t sure if it would ever stop seeing it.

And yet… it was still her.

Azriel exhaled slowly and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled loosely. His shadows wandered again, like they always did inside these four walls, over the remnants of her life.

A cold prickle danced down the back of Azriel’s neck a moment before he felt it: the familiar brush of talons against his mind. Subtle, insistent.

Rhysand.

Azriel didn’t open the door to his shields. Didn’t so much as flinch. He let the pressure sit there, like a knock he refused to answer.

He didn’t want to hear whatever Rhys had to say right now—didn’t want the High Lord’s voice crowding in on this space that still smelled faintly of her.

Not yet. Not while her presence still clung to his skin like smoke.

He turned back to the vanity, gaze tracing over the things she'd left behind as if they might start whispering.

A leather cuff with worn edges. The cracked spine of a book on sword forms in ancient Illyrian. A scrap of charcoal beside an unfinished sketch of some creature with too many eyes and wings drawn with practiced, bored strokes.

The talons pressed harder.

He clenched his jaw.

When the door slammed open, hitting the wall with a bang that jolted the shadows and sent a pulse of rage through his wings.

Cassian stood there, eyes blazing. “Az. We need to go.”

Azriel didn’t move. “Why.”

Cassian’s wings flared. “Because we are under attack! Rhys has been trying to reach you for the last ten minutes. You’d know that if you bothered answering.”

A beat of silence passed.

Azriel straightened immediately, the room falling into shadow behind him.

“…Who?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.

Cassian’s jaw flexed. “We don’t know. But it’s not just the borders. Whoever this is, they’re not subtle.”

Azriel’s fingers twitched at his sides. His shadows surged like a second pulse.

He cast one last look at the ribbon still hanging on the wall.

Then turned and followed his brother out.

As they strode down the hallway, Cassian filled him in, voice clipped and sharp with urgency.

“But whoever they are, they knew what they were doing,” Cassian muttered, “Coordinated strikes—just enough to rattle us, but not enough to cause real damage. No civilian casualties. No soldier lost. Just… chaos.”

Azriel’s brows furrowed. “Why?”

Cassian’s jaw flexed. “Distraction, maybe. But whoever it was,” He said as he turned a corner, “they knew what they were doing. Hit four outposts at once—precise, fast, and calculated. No fatalities but not a single scout made it back in time to get a warning out.”

“How did Rhysand find out?”

“Emery,” Cassian replied grimly. “She flew straight from Windhaven—the fire was closing in on the camp by the time she got there. Said the sky was black with smoke, like it had crawled in all at once. No signs of who did it. No one saw anything useful.”

Azriel’s shadows curled tighter around his shoulders. “That doesn’t sound like Koschei.”

Cassian shook his head. “We’re not sure. Rhys isn’t ruling it out, but he’s cautious. There was damage, yeah—but not the kind we’ve seen before. No bloodbaths. No twisted magic. Just fire and fear. Like someone wanted to scatter us, not kill us.” 

“Divide the board,” Azriel muttered. “Pull us thin.”

“Exactly,” Cassian said, his boots thudding heavily against the wooden floor, “and Rhys is responding fast. He’s sending you and me to the camps. Mor and Amren are heading to Hewn City to keep Kier in check, make sure no one’s trying to take advantage of the chaos.” His shoulders were tight as he headed for the door, “The Valkyries are moving to the border as reinforcement. Rhys is staying in Velaris with Feyre, just in case.”

“And Elain?”

Cassian gave him a look. He caught the subtle shift in Azriel’s voice, the way it lacked the quiet ache it once held. It wasn’t just now. That thread of longing had been thinned—like a candle had burned out in a room that no longer needed its light. Once, the middle Archeron’s name had cracked something open in the spymaster’s voice—now it barely stirred the surface.

“Elain’s staying with Nyx at the House of Wind.” He rolled his shoulders, a ripple of steel-tipped frustration running through him. “They’re putting all the power near home in case this thing spreads.”

It always did. Threats like this never stayed in one place for long.

Azriel didn’t say anything as they reached the front doors, wings flaring open under the arching doorway. The cool wind hit them like a slap, laced with the scent of lightning—far off, but coming closer.

Cassian glanced sideways at him as they launched into the air. “You sure you’re good, brother?”

Azriel didn’t answer right away. His mind was still half in that room, in the ache of memory and silence.

But his shadows curled close now. Focused.

Something deep in his bones whispered that whoever was behind it wasn’t just testing their defense. 

No signs. No faces. No magic that left its mark.

But whoever had orchestrated this had done it perfectly.

And that made it worse.

Because it wasn’t chaos. It was strategy. And they were only seeing the first move.

His voice was low and cold when it came. “Let’s go remind them what happens when they threaten what’s ours.”

The moment Rhysand stepped into the hallway outside his study, he knew something was wrong.

The air had shifted. Thicker. Charged.

Velaris magic never hummed like this—not unless it was being challenged.

He slowed his steps as he approached the double doors, shadows rising around him like a second skin. A silent command flowed from him, coiling darkness seeping beneath the threshold. They returned… hesitant. Warped. Almost scorched.

He frowned.

He pushed open the door.

The room was dark. The fire in the hearth was out, the windows shuttered. Only slivers of moonlight broke in, silver and cold across the carpet. The shadows he commanded slithered in cautiously—

“Uh-uh,” a voice said smoothly from the dark. Feminine. Calm. Mocking.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The shadows froze. Retreated.

Lightning cracked like a whip behind the desk.

A soft glow bloomed, flickering and alive—ribbons of electricity dancing along a pair of fingertips resting casually on polished wood. Like it was waiting. Eager. A predator’s yawn.

She leaned forward from the darkness then, and Rhysand’s heart stopped.

Golden eyes. That same voice—older now, roughened by time and the weight of too many unsaid things—but still hers.

Her.

“Hello, Rhysand,” she said, and the corner of her mouth curved—not quite a smile. Not really.

For a heartbeat, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

He hadn’t seen her in so long. Two hundred years of grief and guilt and a silence that had grown so large it had replaced her name in every room.

But here she was.

Alive.

Furious.

Beautiful.

Lightning crackled again, climbing up her wrist like it wanted out. He had never seen her power or the way she wielded it. And though her stance was relaxed, there was nothing calm about the current pulsing off her—restrained, but only just.

With a flick of her wrist, a single, precise arc of lightning snapped from her fingers—striking the pile of kindling stacked in the hearth. The wood ignited instantly, flames leaping up with a hiss, casting molten gold across her hooded face. Not a flicker of effort on her features, not even a blink.

“You attacked my court,” he said quietly.

“Technically,” she replied, tilting her head, “I just... distracted it.”

“You could’ve killed people.”

“If I wanted to kill people, Rhysand,” she said, that calm tone sharpening just slightly, “you would’ve known.”

His jaw clenched. His hands remained loose at his sides, even as his power bristled beneath his skin.

Feyre and Nyx were under the same roof. He had to keep them safe.

But gods, it was her.

He’d imagined this moment for two hundred years. Dreamed of it. Feared it. And nothing in those dreams had ever prepared him for the reality of her lightning, her eyes, the cold loathing in her voice.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

She stood slowly, the arcs of magic around her dimming—but not vanishing. “You sent your guard dogs to fetch me,” she said, voice rich with mockery. “To bring me home.” Each word dripped with scorn, like the punchline to a joke only she found funny. “Well—here I am.” She looked around, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Though I wouldn’t exactly call this place home. Doesn’t feel like it, does it?” She paused, then gasped—wide-eyed, all false wonder. “Oh. Maybe that’s because it never was.” The bitterness in her gold-flecked eyes said more than the smile on her lips. “But what do I know? I have a history of misjudging things.”

She leaned forward, both hands holding her weight on the desk. “Especially people.” 

Her voice dropped, softer now. “Either way, I needed your attention. The distractions worked, didn’t they?”

“So this is about vengeance,” he said smoothly, false calm draped over the words like a veil.

She stepped around the desk, crossing the distance with the kind of lethal grace only someone born to command storms could manage. She stopped just in front of him, close enough for him to see the faint scar that curved beneath her jaw.

“You betrayed me,” she said softly.

No anger. No rage.

Just a knife of truth.

Rhysand’s mouth parted slightly—but no words came.

“I don’t care about vengeance,” she went on. “Not anymore. If I wanted revenge, I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you.” Her eyes flicked past him, towards the hallway lined with painted portraits of each member of his family. No trace of her. “I would’ve burned this Court down.”

His blood iced.

“But I didn’t,” she finished, stepping back. “And that should tell you everything you need to know.”

Rhysand kept his stance relaxed, but his power remained coiled at the base of his spine, ready. Holding. Containing. 

She could unravel him if she wanted to. That much he knew.

And maybe she saw it in his eyes, that flicker of doubt, of fear, because she arched a brow slightly. “Still don’t trust me?” she asked, a fake pout on her lips and voice low, amused and tired all at once. “After all this time?”

“I’m not sure if I’d trust you even if we had all the time in the world,” he said evenly, his tone laced with that too-smooth calm he wore like armor. He strolled to the sideboard, uncorked a bottle of faerie wine, and poured himself a glass with unhurried grace—never once turning his back to her. “Not with my son sleeping just down the hall.”

Her jaw twitched—barely—but it was enough.

“I didn’t come here to hurt your family, Rhysand,” she said, each word clipped, held back by a dam built of rage and restraint. “If I did, there’d be nothing left of this House.”

“I had to be sure.” he replied, lifting the glass to his lips, his posture still deceptively easy. “You haven’t exactly been subtle.”

She smiled again, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “No, I haven’t. I wanted everyone out of Velaris. I knew you’d stay. It was too easy, really.” She drew in a breath, like she was about to say something else—but changed her mind at the last minute, “You know, it seems like since I left, your mighty army’s turned into a joke.” Her head tilted, mock-thoughtful. “You should probably tell Cassian to quit fucking around and actually do his job. I expected resistance. A little fun. A challenge.” She clicked her tongue, then gave a slow, exaggerated shrug—too casual to be real, like she was wearing indifference like a cloak just to see if it fit. “But all it was… was boring. Fucking boring.” Her gaze pinning him. “Anyway… I wanted to stand here and look you in the eye—and see if you felt anything. If you regretted it.”

She stepped closer, and his standby shadows retreated to the corners. Smart things.

Rhys didn’t move, not even when she was close enough to see the flickering storm barely held in her irises.

“Do you?” she asked, voice like smoke and shattered glass. “Do you regret what you did on that battlefield?”

Rhys’s throat bobbed, but he didn’t answer.

“Because I begged you.” Her voice cracked, the first sign of something fragile slipping through. “Do you remember, brother?” she sneered the word, like it tasted foul. “How I begged you to help me. My brother in all but blood.” She let out a low, humorless laugh—sharp as a blade dragged across old scars. “I know you heard me. And you—you turned away. You fucking betrayed me.”

Her hands trembled, lightning crawling up her arms like it was being pulled from her bones, straining to be unleashed. The study walls creaked faintly, wood and glass beginning to hum with the pressure building in her magic.

Rhys sent out a mental cry—quiet but sharp. Stand down. No threat after all. Return. But quietly.

Even as he said it, a different thread was already spinning through the bond to Feyre, frayed and desperate: Take Nyx. Take Elain. Leave the House. Now.

What’s happening? Feyre’s reply was immediate, worried, strong. Rhys, I’m not leaving you.

Please. Just do it. I can’t— he shut down his side of the bond before she could feel the rest. Before she could sense the splinter of fear at his core. He needed to give them time.

“Did you even think about me after?” she asked now, softly. “Or did you bury me like the others and pretend I never existed?”

Rhys exhaled. “You don’t understand what we were facing—”

“I understand everything,” she snapped. Lightning flared from her, brilliant and white and furious. But she clenched her fists, grounding it. Barely.

He stared at her, a little awe in his fear. “That power... it wasn’t yours before.”

“No.” Her lips curled bitterly. “That came after. Nine decades in chains. Nine decades in dark pits where I screamed and no one came. Where I changed. The lightning? That was a gift from the things that broke me.”

Silence.

And then, softly, sardonic and cold, she added, “Funny, isn’t it? I heard stories about you too. Under the Mountain. The High Lord who was so good at pretending. Great at being someone else’s bitch. Because that’s what you really are, at your core, no?—I guess the Cauldron really does have a twisted sense of humor.”

He flinched. Just slightly. But she saw it.

Her mouth opened—to say more, maybe, to finally let the fury fall like a storm—

But then—

Through the open door, the soft thud-thud of tiny bare feet echoed across the floorboards.

“Papa?” a small voice said.

Both of them froze.

A tiny figure tottered in, dark curls bouncing, little bat wings flaring as he rubbed his eyes with a chubby fist.

Nyx.

Her breath hitched.

He looked up at her, wide-eyed and curious. Not afraid. Not yet. Because he was too young to know what danger looked like—what type of face it could wear.

She stared at him. At the glow of starlight that shimmered on his skin like it had been woven into his blood. At his mother’s softness and his father’s darkness, wrapped into one impossibly small and fragile creature.

“I heard thunder,” Nyx mumbled sleepily. “And I wanted to see if it was real.”

Her eyes burned—not with rage. But something else.

Something worse.

She hadn’t felt anything in decades. Not like this.

Not like a sharp, unrelenting ache in her chest, staring at a child who should never have had to bear the sins of his father.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Rhysand’s voice, quiet and razor-sharp, cut through the silence. “Go to your mother, Nyx. Now.”

But the lordling looked at her again, tiny brows furrowed. “Who are you, Lady?”

Her throat worked around a sound. Not a word. Something choked and half-formed.

“I’m no one,” she said finally, her voice rough.

And for the first time in two hundred years, she meant it.

“Nyx,” Rhysand said again, firmer now, though his voice trembled just slightly. “Go back to your room.”

But the boy tilted his head—so much like Feyre when she was being stubborn—and took a tiny step closer to the cloaked woman, his eyes locked on the faint shimmer of lightning still dancing around her fingertips. He was mesmerized by it, by her. Curiosity softened his features as he slowly reached for her hand, as if drawn by something he couldn’t name.

Her entire body went taut. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. As if one wrong twitch might shatter the air around them and reduce everything to ash.

She wasn’t a threat to the boy.

But Rhys didn’t know that. Couldn’t trust that. Not after what he’d done.

“Nyx!”

Feyre’s voice came sharp and panicked, echoing down the corridor just seconds before she appeared in the doorway.

Her feet skidded to a halt the moment her eyes took in the scene: Nyx standing near the cloaked intruder. Her mate between them, expression tight with barely-contained fear. Shadows still curled along his arms and the corners of the room like they were trying to decide whether to strike or flee.

Feyre’s breath caught, and power flared in her.

The woman didn’t move.

Rhys’s voice entered Feyre’s mind like a gust of cold wind: Don’t. Don’t attack. Not here. Not with Nyx. She’s too dangerous. Please, Feyre—stand down.

Feyre’s brows furrowed as she slowly moved to her son’s side, scooping him up despite his little whine of protest.

Then she looked to the cloaked figure. That storm-threaded magic. That face—partially veiled by shadow and hood, but glowing faintly with something old and powerful and angry.

“Who are you?” Feyre asked, softly. Warily.

A beat of silence.

Then the woman lowered her hood.

Not with flourish or drama. Just simple, almost tired.

Her features were striking—too much like the sketches buried in old journals no one had dared open in centuries.

Feyre stared.

“I was his sister-in-arms, once,” the woman said, voice curling with bitter amusement. “Azriel’s best friend. Cassian’s sparring partner. Amren’s tolerated headache. Mor’s reckless shadow.”

Her gaze flicked to Rhys. “And his secret. His shame.”

Feyre blinked, confusion slipping across her expression. “I—”

“You don’t know me,” the woman said flatly, with a sharp, humorless smile. “Of course you don’t. I was erased. Scrubbed out like a mistake. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised he didn’t mention me. Would’ve ruined the whole tragic narrative, wouldn’t it?”

Rhys flinched.

Feyre opened her mouth, but the woman cut her off before she could try to explain or apologize for something she didn’t even know.

“It’s fine,” she said. But her voice cracked, just a hair. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t remember me. And I barely remember who I was when I belonged to this place. So let’s not pretend.”

Nyx peeked over his mother’s shoulder at the strange woman. Something in his little face—curiosity, not fear—made the tension in her chest twist tighter.

“You really don’t know who I am,” she murmured again, softer this time. Almost to herself.

And it hurt. Gods, it hurt—more than the fire, more than the chains, more than the betrayal. That the people she’d bled beside could forget her so entirely.

That Rhysand had made sure they did.

Maybe some part of her—some small, stupid piece—had hoped that even if Rhys had buried her name, the others might have remembered her laugh. Her stories.

But this woman—this High Lady—had never even heard of her.

And Rhys hadn’t told her.

Her gaze locked with his again. “You lied to all of them.”

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared at her with that same unreadable expression that used to make her want to punch a wall and drag the truth out of him with both hands.

Only this time, she didn’t have the strength to demand it.

“I came here to see if you felt any guilt,” she said. “Now I see you’ve just buried it under silk sheets and happy endings.”

She stepped back, drawing her hood up once more.

“I’ll leave you to your perfect little family, Rhysand.”

Feyre opened her mouth. “Wait—”

But Feyre���s voice was cut off by a shift in the air. Footsteps thundered down the hallway. Boots. Two sets.

Cassian entered first, the door slamming into the wall as he pushed through. He was in full leathers, siphons glowing faintly, Illyrian wings half-flared. (So much for 'Quietly'.)

Azriel followed, quieter but no less armed, his expression carved from stone, shadows still curling around him like smoke.

Both males froze.

Time fractured.

Azriel’s shadows surged toward her—not in warning or in defense—but in recognition. In joy.

They didn’t retreat from her as they had before. Now they curled around the cloaked female’s boots, her arms, the ends of her hair—caressing, curious, awed.

The shadows spun around her like they had waited for this moment. Like they had missed her every bit as much as he had.

She looked down at them, her breath catching. And for just a moment, something in her face faltered.

And Azriel’s breath hitched. He didn’t even try to hide it. His steps halted entirely, like his body didn’t know whether to move forward or collapse.

Cassian’s mouth fell open. “What the fuck—” 

But he stopped himself.

The woman standing in front of the hearth, hood once again drawn over her features, was the one who had vanished again after refusing Azriel’s outstretched hand. And at the same time, the one who once dragged him into the kitchens in the middle of the night to steal a pie—and then somehow made him take the blame when Rhys’ mom caught them.

She came home.

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[mydadleft471]

A Jester Indeed Part 3

I've brought the milk!

Lookie! Lookie! I'm doing it! I'm posting something for Messmer! Crazy, I know lmao.

Anywho, I had so much fun with this. I made Messmer a cocky little shit at the end because I can do whatever I want.

Side note: if you live in the USA rn like I do, it's a bit hectic to say the least. Please keep yourself and others safe. You have rights and I am with you. People of color, LGBTQ+, etc. are safe on my blog. If you have an issue with that, eat grass.

Thank you all for the crazy support, likes, reblogs, comments, and overall good vibes!

Link to my masterlist here!

Link to part 2 here!

Your mind had been spinning since you got back to your chambers in the evening. Lying in your comfy bed and squeezing your eyes tight did nothing to dissuade the tide of thoughts swirling through your mind.

Sir Ansbach was safe, and you were glad of it, as he had been a kind soul and stalwart in his deeds since you met him all those weeks ago. Though under Miquella’s influence, he assisted in any way he could and wished you luck when you told him you were going after Messmer. You can only assume he followed after you once Miquella’s charm broke upon your entrance to the Shadow Keep.

Now, he was probably pouring through information in an attempt to locate Miquella’s true reasoning for being in the Realm of Shadow. Something big was in the works, that was for certain, but the Demigods seemed to always have plans one could never fathom. Perhaps he wanted revenge on you for killing his beloved twin? But that couldn’t possibly be it; his followers would’ve killed you instantly upon seeing you. Maybe he considers you a threat.

Whatever it is, it has your stomach churning.

The lust for freedom, for adventure: you never thought it would land you here, at a Demigod’s side, in his Keep, as an ally. From what you had seen, the rumors of Messmer the Impaler seemed false, like rumors gone awry. But at the same time, you had seen the extensive damage his presence had caused in his many years in the Realm of Shadow. The Hornsent villages and towns had been nearly erased with only skeletal remains of buildings and homes left over. 

But even after all he had done, you couldn’t’ seem to hate him. Through your adventures, you had discovered his troubled past and his curse. You’d learned of his fate steered by Marika’s hands; a fate he took in stride to please his mother. You pitied him, if anything. 

You recall back to how much faith he put in you, a lowly Tarnished, as you were often called. Someone unfit to rule. Yet Messmer allowed you to speak among his council as a trusted advisor and treated you with the same amount of respect he treated the rest of his men with. He wanted your advice, your help. The thought makes your stomach tie into knots and flip over itself.

Finding yourself much too restless to continue laying down, you pushed your covers back and began pacing around your room. The cold air hits your skin and you move over to your fireplace to throw two more logs on. Soon, the flames roar and dance, the goosebumps on your body gradually fading.

On your dresser, a few old books, almost crusted over with dust, sat waiting for you to flip through their pages and delve through their mysteries. As much as you’d like to sit down and read them, you knew you’d be too jittery and anxious to focus on anything they said.

As luck would have it, a knock sounded against your door, making you jump a little. The moon had long since taken its place in the starry sky, and it was late. Salza was always in bed by this time, or, at the very least, busy in his study. He told you he preferred a few hours of solitude, which you totally understood.

It was too late for any servants to bring you anything, as they already had outfit choices laid out for tomorrow and dinner was a few hours ago. 

You were hoping it was Queelign so you could punch him right in his smug face. You probably wouldn’t get into trouble. Probably.

You quickly threw on a crimson silk robe for a bit more decency, as you were currently only in a thin sleepshirt and your underwear.

But when you opened the door, you were surprised to see Messmer, of all people, standing almost sheepishly at your door. His hand was curled into a fist, like he was about to knock again, but you opened the door before he had a chance to.

“Messer? Oh, sorry,” you fumbled a bit, curtsying. “Lord Messmer.” You wanted to ask why he was here so late, but you figured he would tell you.

“Good evening. I apologize for bothering thee so late. If it would be alright, I would like to come in and speak.”

“Oh!” You practically squeaked out, very conscious of how little you were wearing. “Sure thing.”

You opened the door wider for him and scooted out of the way. He lowered his head just slightly as a thank you. His serpents hovered over to you as he passed and one booped your nose with its head. You gave it a small pat before closing the door and walking further into your room.

Messmer sat himself down on your sofa near the fireplace in your room, his body much too large to actually fit on it. He made it work, but you let out a chuckle as you sat across from him in a comfy armchair.

“What is so humorous?” He took off his helmet and set it onto the nearby table, combing through his fiery red hair with his sharp nails.

“You barely fit on my couch.” You shake your head at him, still chuckling to yourself.

“Very well. ‘Tis not mine room.”

“I know. It’s just funny to watch.

You quickly realize he’s probably here for more important reasons than idle chit-chat, so you give him silence for when he’s ready to speak.

A serpent coils underneath his hair, and he lazily strokes its scales. “I would hear thine thoughts of today’s happenings.”

“What specifically?”

“Miquella, perhaps.” He focuses his gaze on you, and you feel very small.

“Well,” you begin, “I don’t really know. He’s up to something, that’s for sure. He placed some charm on his so-called Followers, so he’s powerful enough to influence people to do whatever he wants. But if he needed to put them under some sort of spell in the first place, I don’t trust his motives at all.”

“‘Tis a cowardly thing to do: to misguide others as one sees fit. Respect is earned.” Venom laces his tone and you see him ball his hands into fists where they lay on his lap.

“He even rid himself of St. Trina. I found her dying beneath the Cerulean Coast.” You shake your head at the memory, briefly wondering if Thiollier is still by her side, begging for her poison.

Messmer shifts, his body angling further towards you. “St. Trina?” He repeats the name with uncertainty.

“Miquella’s alter ego. She’s the patron saint of sleep, from what little I know of her.”

“Miquella possessed another self?” 

You almost mention Marika and Radagon, but you don’t think he’s ready to hear about that. Instead, you focus on Miquella. “Yes. At the cross where he abandoned her, it said that he abandoned his love.”

“He intends to rid himself of everything. Everything Mother gave him.”

“I suppose so. He’s been throwing parts of himself away left and right.”

“He shall come to regret his choices, I am sure.” Messmer spreads his hand over the arm of the couch, feeling the softness of it.

“I just don’t understand why he left everything behind. The Haligtree was full of his followers, including his sister. He abandoned them after promising them a better life.”

“Thou didst battle with the Blade of Miquella, no?” His serpents flick their tongues at you, almost like they’re excited to hear your answer.

“Yes. It was a hard fight. She was probably the greatest warrior I’d fought.” You shudder thinking back to her words, her blade, and her ferocity in battle.

“Dost thou believe her to be enchanted by Miquella as well?”

When you encountered Malenia, she appeared to be sleeping. She awoke and told you of her strange dreams that sounded like the Battle of Aeonia. Despite doubting how much of her was left after being ravaged by the rot, she proved a challenge. When you thought you had beaten her, she rose again as the Goddess of Rot. Was it her choice to blossom into something more, or was it simply forced on her, by Miquella or someone greater?

Perhaps you’d never know. Still, she remained Miquella’s loyal blade until the end. Maybe he did charm her, or maybe she was just that devoted to him.

You remember Mohg, towering over you. He had devoted his entire dynasty to Miquella, and whether that was for the power an Empyrean could bring him, or something more sinister, you remain unsure. One thing was for certain; he guarded Miquella’s body, or what you assume to be his body, with his life. 

You adjust the ties at the front of your robe, securing them tighter around your waist. “I don’t know. I don’t think charming a Demigod is out of the question for him.” 

Messmer closes his eye and sighs. His brows knit together, forehead wrinkling with stress. You want to reach out and hug him and let him know that you’ll get through this. That nothing is impossible for you, much less so with a powerful Demigod by your side. Great Rune or not, Messmer was someone who could hold his own in combat, as you had learned firsthand.

Messmer breaks the silence, opening his eye slowly, as if he’s afraid of what he’ll see when he does. “Couldst thou have been charmed? Thy story of seeking adventure false?”

You shake your head ferociously back and forth. “No! I was in control of my own actions the whole time. I felt no different when Miquella’s charm broke. I swear.”

He looks at you, his false eye glowing a bright gold, painting his face with what looks like false sunlight. There are bags underneath his eyes, and you can see just how tired he is. His posture, though straight, is incredibly strained.

You stand from the armchair and plop yourself next to him on the couch, your body barely squeezing in beside him. He, of course, straightens and tenses as you near him. You don’t pay him any mind, and you delicately take one of his hands in yours. It’s heavy and warm, almost like you can feel the weight of his entire world by having his hand in yours.

“I swear to you I am who you know. I’m the Tarnished that stubbornly stopped you from plucking out your eye. I’m who you trusted to speak among your most loyal followers. And I will stay with you and fight whoever I need to to keep us safe.” 

His eye is wide and he searches your face desperately for any kind of deceit. Once he finds none, he slowly raises his other hand to cover yours. You relax into the feeling, though his skin is calloused from years of war.

“I apologize for doubting thee. I promise it will not occur again.” He speaks low and soft, afraid to disturb whatever peace has settled over the room.

“It’s okay. It’s hard to trust people.” You shuffle an inch closer to him.

“Thou said us.” 

You tilt your head, confused. “Huh?”

He smiles. “Thou promised to fight. To keep us safe.”

You nod. “I did.”

“What wouldst thou have me do? I am no stranger to war, as thou hast seen.”

“I think you’re misunderstanding. I meant that I would fight alongside you to keep us safe. I don’t intend to refuse a Demigod’s help in battle.” 

He blushes, face going red. He looks away from you and he squeezes your hands. “I see.”

You think about teasing him, but you’re not sure if he’d survive that after all that’s happened today.

You gently slip your hands out of his, but you stay by his side on the couch. He looks slightly disappointed.

“Maybe I’ll ask Sir Ansbach what he knows of Miquella. We can do some research together so we’re more effective. I know the Storehouse pretty well thanks to Salza.”

There’s a breath of silence before Messmer speaks. “Dost thou hold affection for this Sir Ansbach?” 

If you were drinking something, you would’ve spit it out. You imagine your eyes are practically bulging out of your head with how out of the blue that question was.

“Interesting question, but no. We’re just friends. Come to think of it, I really don’t know much about him. I met him when he was charmed.”

Your answer seems to somewhat satisfy Messmer. “I bid thee be careful. Thou dost not know his motivations as of yet. Nor do I.” He says that last part a bit quieter, like he was trying to speak to himself.

You quickly pick up on what’s going on and you smile.

“Who knows? Maybe we’ll become great friends.” You say with a teasing lilt to your voice.

Messmer’s eye narrows almost immediately. His serpents rise up from where they were curled up underneath Messmer’s hair and start to writhe a bit.

“What?” You ask, feigning innocence.

“I wouldst prefer thee keep distance from him.” His voice is short and clipped.

“Messmer, are you jealous?” You raise an eyebrow at him, smirking.

“No. I am wary.” 

His red face indicates that he’s lying.

“You are so jealous.”

“Of whom? Sir Ansbach? Nonsense.” He doesn’t look at you.

“Whatever you say.”

In an act that leaves your stomach on the floor, and one you’d never expect from him, he tilts your head up with a finger underneath your chin, leaving you eye to eye with him. Well, eye to eyes. His face is intense and beautiful, something dangerous yet captivating. The point of his nail prickles under your chin, making you shudder.

“Thou’rt under my protection. Sir Ansbach is yet unknown to me, and I shalt consider him a threat until he proves to be otherwise. Dost thou understand?” He keeps his voice low and authoritative, imposing in a way that shows he understands how much power he holds over you.

“Yes.” You barely manage to croak out.

He removes his hand and stands up, towering over you still sitting on the couch.

“I shalt leave thee be for tonight. I thank thee for conversing with me.”

You spring up from the couch to lead him out of your room. Your legs are a bit shaky and you struggle to maintain your composure. He notices, and you can see a prominent smirk on his face. Your stomach does somersaults.

You reach the door after what feels like hours and you open it for him, albeit a bit too quickly.

“Have I offended thee?” He asks with mock concern.

“No! No, no, not at all. Just tired. Very tired. Long day.” You stop yourself from rambling.

“Then I shall leave thee. Rest well.” He bows slightly to you. 

You curtsy back on shaky legs and almost fall over your ankle. He catches you by your hand and pulls you up, smirking down at you all the while.

“I will admit I quite enjoy having thee blush for me.”

You think you’re going to die.

“Just—shut up and get out of my room.”

He outright laughs at that, slowly letting go of your hand before walking out your door. He gives you one last look before he leaves. You want to say something witty, but you can’t think of anything, so you hastily shut your door, the hinges groaning slightly at your speed.

You can practically see him smirking on his way to his chambers right now.

[persistence-and-adaption]

I never hear about anyone talking about how mild chronic pain creeps up on you.

When I was young and it hurt, it's dismissed as growing pain. So much I stop bringing it up. And eventually it goes away, so maybe they're right?

But it keeps coming back. Coming and going, slowly building pain tolerance as I refused to use pain meds unless I couldn't hide it.

And the "normal" pains were mixed in. Cramps and side stitches from running, soreness from exercise, period cramps and ect... Of course period cramps were not normal, and I knew that, but they still seemed normal enough at the time. Complaining got me nowhere with it regardless. I was always told to wait and see if it went away, medication wasn't even suggested. I had to get it OTC myself, and restock it when we ran out. Although I hardly touched it because I was more concerned about the side effects than a level 5 pain at the time.

And so on it went. I can't even tell you when I was able to tell the abnormal pain apart from the rest. Or when it grew more common, louder than the rest. Perhaps after I moved out?

It's so funny, without even realizing it I've built my pain tolerance to the amount that I don't always even recognize when it's a general blegh feeling day or pain unless I take a pain med on a whim and it goes away. A sudden, "huh... I didn't think that would work."

Back pain, knee pain, joint pain, what kind of sick song is this? Like some pokemon collection I never wanted.

An ache here, a pain there. Ignored, not even treated, just pushed through and dismissed.

Until slowly, eventually, it gets to a point it's always there, like background noise, more days than not. Relief when my back gets a break from it despite my knees being in more pain instead. Appreciating when each body part individually aches less than the others. Like some twisted +2 mood buff I'm not complaining about.

But then, how bad is my pain, really? compared to someone with none. Would they be able to move? Would they... Be able to sleep? Would stretching and moving about provide any relief to them at all? Or sitting down? I wonder how me from 10 years ago would feel with the body I have now.

It's all so strange. how the body adapts, even to the abnormal, to its own pain responses. I remember a doctor asking me to rate my pain on a scale of 1 to 10, and I was surprised. My default answer was 0, but when I stopped and thought about it, at the time it was a 2. She asked me how I managed it, and I chuckled and said I forgot it was there.

Right now? I can't forget it. It's little pop rocks under my skin around my joints going off, like the candy except less pleasant. You don't realize just how varied pain can be until you feel it every day. or, I didn't. I hope you never do realize.

I've broken 2 bones. I've shattered my nose, and I've broken my finger. My finger didn't even need Tylenol. My nose didn't need anything until after the surgery to fix it.

But I know what pain is concerning and what pain isn't because I live with it all the time. And the bone breaks sent me into shock both times, so I think that's my tell for 'hey that broke something'....

I don't think someone with chronic pain should ever be dismissed when they go to a doctor concerned about it. It happens too often. Even once is too often.

But yeah, it took me awhile to realize what I experienced was chronic pain. I was in denial about it partly because I didn't even understand it. I thought it was a lot worse than this. Chronic pain just has to be... Chronic. It doesn't have to be severe. It just has to be there more days than not. It doesn't have to be in the same place all the time. It can change how it feels, where it's at. But it's there most of the time, or all of the time. That's chronic pain.

You don't have to put up with it like I am. It's okay to get help. You're no more tough or macho for refusing to do things to reduce the pain. All you're doing is making yourself suffer more. there is no shame in pain relief.

Don't be upset with yourself if you get tired quicker than you used to before the pain, if you have a before. Pain is exhausting all by itself, it's like a leak in the gas tank, you won't go as far.

Being mad at yourself just takes more energy and it worsens your mental health. try to replace those judging thoughts with understanding ones. treat yourself when you can, even if it's a little thing like making your meal look a little more fancy.

[itstheghostofmypast]

🌻Imperfections🌻

Draco Malfoy x (f)Reader (Hufflepuff)

Summary: Perfection is what defined those who were above the rest- yet, she could not be part of the perfection that defined him. Defined his society and very presence- defined her own family but not her. She was the imperfection within his world of perfection, the bright sun in his cool, pale blue sky. For even if she was the warm sun, he was nothing more than the silver moon- both destined to live in the same sky but never together.

Genre: Fluff, Angst

AU: NO VOLDEMORT - Plus Cedric is vibing, I'm sorry he's too precious.

Warnings: suicidal thoughts

Part- 4/?

Masterlist / Previous

28th September

I truly fail to understand how a parent cannot love a child. Is blood not to be thicker than water? A being stronger than a name or title, perhaps these were all metaphoric beliefs passed down by a delusional fool, for my family has, and always will, prove to me that my birth is a sigil of shame on the insignia of our family. A birth that only exists for the family archives, in a file locked away behind the vault.  

It is only worsened by the letter I had received today- letters actually, though one hurt me more than the other. Mother really is a work of art. I feel like the only bright side of today was meeting Draco. A bit weird- a few screws too tight but he's alright.

Scoffing at the conclusion, he flipped the page, "Like she's any better."

29th September

I have a feeling that I'm going insane. I've done so much, and tried so hard, but that same nightmare keeps haunting me. The moment my head hits the pillow it starts to manifest around me. One minute I'm up in the skies and the next I'm falling and falling and falling.

1st October

 I think I've got it, maybe I've been dreaming of falling off the astronomy tower, maybe because I sit so close to the edge. Draco told me to move too- could be it. Sometimes, perhaps, more often than just some, I do wonder if I were to tip-off. What if the only way to end this curse would be to do

Frowning at the statement he flipped over the page, to find a new entry. Why did she stop, what was the cure? Wait, so there was a way to end the curse- but then again, he didn't know what the curse was in the first place. She just assumed it was the fact that she was a Puff- but technically that's not a curse. Well, it is in its way- but not the hex kind. Maybe if he dug into it a bit- no wait, what was he thinking, not only had he made it clear to her how the two were from two different worlds, but she most probably could not even stand listening to his name, let alone have a whole conversation with him- especially one that revolved around such an unpleasant topic. Sighing he flipped onto the next entry.

3rd October

Draco confuses me, at times I feel like we are friends, but only moments later I am reminded about my status, being put back in place. Like that day he was staring at me in class, I could feel it, and when our eyes met...it was like it was just us, no one around us, nothing stopping us- or perhaps I am but a foolish girl, my own heart has begun to play tricks on me. Or maybe I finally saw someone of the same air not judge me? Not belittle me or not look at me with pity. Then he was upset during practice like I was nothing more than a stranger to him, well, I do feel like he was not upset, but jealous, Zabini had come a bit too close for comfort, and if he had not pulled away the fool, I may have let my intrusive thoughts win, much to everyone’s displeasure- especially Cedric.

Why in the good name of Heaven must she mention that fool? Scoffing he scowled at the name, bloody bastard took most of her attention and time- creep needs to be put- wait, did she just? His eyes scanned through the paragraph once more, again, and again, so it was true then. Zabini was right, this sickening feeling of being choked into ecstasy was not a one-sided curse he was suffering, it was her too- well, probably not anymore, considering he had just been humiliated for the last time. He’d be lying if he were to say he felt any joy in doing so, once again, this was done for two reasons; to preserve his reputation and to keep her out of harm’s way. Only this little tactic had begun to take a toll on him, whether he would ever admit it out loud or not, she had slowly seeped into his being, the essence of his soul- his mind (much like now) had been racing with thoughts of her, his fingers would twitch at the subtle thought of her, or if he’d see her in the hallways, during the time of ‘abstaining from the puff’ as Zabini called it. He was itching to feel her warmth, to feel her soft palm against his cold, clammy ones, using her warmth to put an end to the blizzard that had frozen most of him. These thoughts were nothing more than thoughts though, no good came from acting on them, which is why he held back- in fact, he was surprised that he was able to hold back tonight when she was only a breath away before confessing, his brain had malfunctioned, fixated not on the argument but her lips, noting the slight quiver of her lip, wanting to feel them against his, that would explain how he hand ended up confessing, instead of saying something else, something that would have hurt her less. Perhaps, at the end of it all, he was just a hormonal teenage boy, wearing a cloak of pretence- a mere boy, with no self-control, or maturity; so, was he then, imperfect?

4th October

It disgusts me, no, it haunts me, these feelings, these things swirling inside me. I cannot get rid of them; I cannot get rid of him. I feel as if my own heart has it against me, pulling me towards what I can never have, people who will never love me. I fought with Cedric today, it was awful, I felt awful, especially if I consider our history, how he has been nothing more than readily available to pick me up whenever I fell. A part of me enjoys it, embracing it as some kind of love, such as finding a lost duck or an injured animal, one you only help bring back to its feet and then let go of it. Then I wonder if I am no different than a feral animal. Is that what I am to him? Is that what I am to my parents? Does Draco think of me in such a manner as well? Or perhaps I am a mere jester, he is keeping sound for his own amusement. I think of this, yet, I spent hours begging the same fool I fought with in the morning, begging him to give me the handbook for captains. What's funny is he knew, he knew why I wanted it, and while giving it to me he gave me that look. The last time he looked at me like that was when I almost- I mean I was about to do it. Can't anymore though, the grill is installed pretty well. Once again, it was sickening, watching him care for me, being upset over my actions. I had assumed Draco would have the same look when I handed him the book, no, he didn't. It was different, it made me feel different, like a prickling sensation, one that had my imprudent, immature heart struggling against my ribs, wanting to jump into his breast pocket, to be closer to his own.

Slamming the diary shut he sat up, his own hands covering his face, palms pressing against his warm buzzing cheeks. This may have not been a good idea, but she was so hard to read and the fact that she felt this way about him, his parents were never this excited to see him and then this random puff pixie fluttered into his heart. Sighing he slid off the bed, feet pressing against the cold floor, his body too warm for comfort, the enormous room felt like it was closing in on him. Grabbing his robes, he marched out, taking in deep breaths, he was going to do it. He was going to find the cure, he was going to fix this curse, perhaps only then could he be free to have her- even if she was a Hufflepuff. While on his journey up a flight of stairs, he realized how his muscle memory had led him to the astronomy tower once more, but the bubbling cluster of endorphins left no room for annoyance. That’s what surprised him even more, for months, no almost years, he had been wrapped in the claws of every bitter feeling out there, and here he was, just thinking about her, he was willing to throw to waste the efforts of ignoring her for the past few months, impulsively jumping into a puddle of feelings, an unknown territory.

With a boom the door burst open, feet planting firmly on the floor as his eyes scanned the room, nearly missing the figure standing a bit too close to the edge. Closing the door behind him he walked in slowly, trying not to scare the person- her off, a flinch would have been enough for her to topple off. “Hey- get off from there.” He spat, wincing at his tone, really Draco Malfoy, use that tone with someone who is already at the edge, literally and metaphorically.

Flinching at the tone, her head whipped in his direction, what was he doing her? Bloodshot eyes meeting his, watching his expression morph into one that represented terror that is seen in the eyes of a lost child.

“Y/N”

“What…are you doing here?” she whispered, not moving an inch, standing still at her spot.

“I just wanted some fresh air and- get off, get off from there this instance, I- you-move!” stumbling over his words he moved closer to her, only to freeze when she turned back to look up at the sky, taking in a deep breath, closing her eyes, trying to savour the peace she had lost long ago.

“I’m so tired…I’m going to fix this once and for all, so leave.”

“WAIT!”

Sighing at his tone, she opened her eyes, staring ahead. “I’ve never liked the night, it’s dark, I’ve always been afraid of the dark. It’s so quiet you can hear the thoughts of your thoughts, do you know, the lake over there, you can’t go there at night. They have creature patrolling around it, and even if you do make it to the water, they have night watchers in the water. I tried it you know.” With an empty chuckle she pointed ahead, not that he was looking at it, he was far more bothered for her safety, slowly inching closer to her, “But I’ve yearned for it, the darkness, I realised long ago, that this was the only way, but those bloody fools pulled me to the surface before I could fully embrace the cold.”

“Y/N, I’m sorry, I am terribly sorry, I was wrong, it was wrong and selfish of me.” Whispering he stood a few steps away, “But I promise I’ll help you find the cure and then we can-“

“THIS IS THE CURE YOU FOOL!” turning around in rage, she almost lost her footing, somewhat glad she wouldn’t be facing her end like that, confrontation was never her strong suit, not was looking at the face of her problems, who knew the person who loved to fly across the skies was willing to fall down from grace within the same space.

Never in his life had he moved quicker, perhaps not even in the field, not while playing against Potter, not while running away from his fears, but for her, at that very moment, he realised he would face death itself, fight it with his bare fists, just to keep it away from her. For once he was glad his mind let his body run on autopilot, no argument, no debate or pondering about the pros or cons, but a quick flip of a switch had led him to grip her wrist, jerking her towards him, her body colliding on top of his. The persistent ringing in his ears slowly faded away, trying to rearrange his thoughts he slowly blinked up at the ceiling, his arms tightening around the shivering figure pressed into him, a hand pressed against the back of her head, forcing her to let it all out, pressing her face into his shoulder. He was unsure of wear he had picked up on this, never really one to receive comfort in such a physical manner, let alone provide it to someone else, but once again, she wasn’t just someone else. His other hand gently stroked her back, and slowly it began to piece together, the grills at her window, the disappointment of Cedric, this wasn’t just a one-time occurrence, how could he have missed the signs? He was reading her diary, but was so caught up in his own little emotions like a little school girl that he had not been able to take in the bigger picture, what she had assumed was the solution was not beneficial for her, but for others around her, her family. What kind of twisted lunatic would come up with such a solution? He understood the whole notion of being selfless, but this was not an act of selflessness, it was mere stupidity, why was she to suffer for the lack of tolerance and abundant ignorance her family possessed? Why was she being punished for being herself? Who were they to punish her for something she had no control over? At this point he wondered if the curse was her being a Hufflepuff or being born in a family of bigots.

“Draco?”

“Hmmm?”

“Can you- I mean, can I- umm…”

“I’m still very upset with you.”

“I know but I-

“What.”

Lifting her head up she stared at him, eyes puffy and a nose as red as a cherry, cute- until she placed her hands on either side of his head, watching a faint blush spread across his face. “I know you like me, but skipping to third base isn’t my style.” With that she pressed herself against him ever so slightly, causing him to shift uncomfortably, slowly pushing her off until she way laying beside him, staring at the same spot on the ceiling with him.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re the first person I’ve met who says that but doesn’t let me di-

“Shut up.” Turning his head to glare out her he growled, “I swear upon my own life if you ever try to pull something like that again or even think of it, I’ll” pausing for a moment, trying to think of a threat, “…I’ll…do something.”

“I’m sure you will.” Following his movement she met his eyes, “thank you.” Their words slowly turning into hushed whispers, subconsciously moving closer to one another.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“I umm…kind of found your diary.”

“…”

“I’m so sorry, I- I couldn’t help myself from reading it.”

Sighing she looked away, choosing to look back up at the ceiling once more, trying to hide her flushed face, clearing her throat, “It’s…okay.”

“In my defense, your expression of writing is beautiful.”

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“You’re phrasing and choice of words is immaculate.”

“Okay. We really don’t have to talk about it.”

“I have similar feelings towards you but I was unable to decipher them, but you, no the way you expressed it all-

“And we’re done for the night, thank you very much, I’d like you to” instantly sitting up she dusted off her robes, “return it to me tomorrow, like a good boy.” Eyes darting to his laying figure, noticing the smile that had graced his lips, not one of the small one’s she had seen before, no this was different. It was one of those boyish smiles, wide and cocky, you’d read about in teen romance novels, those sappy things you’d keep under your bed, one that had the girl’s heart leaping with joy, much like hers did at the sight.

“Or we could,” standing up, much taller than her he peered down at her curious gaze, “burn it together. Write something else, something new, something better.” His hand slowly reached for her face, fingers grazing over her warm cheek, trying to keep the urge of kissing her at bay, “What do you think?”

“I’d like that.” Her words but a whisper, too focused on watching him slowly lower to her level, hovering a mere breath above her face, the puffs of their breath mingling together, “Can I…” his eyes flickered to her lips then back at hers, waiting for her approval, one he’d thought she’d readily give him; he was Draco Malfoy after all and on top of that she did like him- as was proven in many pages of her diary.

“Earn it.”

“Thank- excuse me?” He squawked as she gently pushed him away, licking her lips, teasing him- he was sure of it, as she walked towards the door, turning to give him one last look before leaving, closing the door behind her.

“Earn it, Draco Malfoy, can’t write the climax before settling in with a few establishing chapters.”

Oh, he was in one hell of a ride.

A/N: Well, this took forever. Honestly, I wrote several chapters but nothing clicked, finally wrote something which seems decent enough. I hope you all like it- dw the next one is pure fluff.❤️ If you want to be part of my tag list please fill the form on the Navigation Post❤️ (I've tagged a few people who aren't tagged, so I'm not sure why this happened)

Taglist:

@buckyandgeraltsupremacy

@spphrj

@jensfraise

@dramatic-long-coats

@m00nie-m00

@iellasgrave

@danywonderland

@whiterain1997

@writerwriteswriting

@hearmyharmony

@ruethemazerunner

@missstratford

[ineffabildaddy]

on today's episode of understanding good omens through my own life:

a story about my ineffable inevitable queer teenage experience with an intense, volatile, fiercely affectionate 'friendship' that was definitely not just a friendship in retrospect.

when i was eleven, i started secondary school, and i met a girl who quickly became my best friend (i'm a trans man, and i also understood myself as a girl at the time. i still understand myself as a girl at that time). we became known as a unit because we couldn't get enough of each other, and we did absolutely everything together.

on the first day of our second year, we saw each other for the first time in several weeks because she had been away in her home country that summer. i had been counting down the seconds until she came back. when she was in the process of giving out souvenirs from her trip to all our friends, she waited until she saw i was alone and approached me. she handed me a ziploc bag full of shells and rock fragments.

"i picked these out for you at the beach," she said.

i thanked her and asked her to show me the bags of shells she'd made up for the others.

"i didn't do this for the others. i only did it for you," she responded, and walked away.

i had never felt anything like what i felt in that moment, and i haven't since. i was a lonely kid, especially before that age. what i mean to say is... no one had ever done anything just for me. no one had ever thought of me when i wasn't there; no one had ever taken the time to give me something that they had so carefully picked out; no one had ever stated with such conviction, in what was said or what was unsaid, that what they had done for me was not to be enjoyed by anyone else.

i like to remember this when i try to understand this moment in good omens:

i can't begin to comprehend what aziraphale must have felt in that moment, but remembering that day of my own life is the closest thing i've got.

mere months after that day, we started to argue. we had a huge falling out. i told her that no one on earth was capable of hurting me quite like she was (thirteen year-old me, in her own twisted way, thought that was a compliment). she told me in no uncertain terms that she couldn't stand me. we stopped talking.

a few months after that, we reconciled and we became closer than ever, but that tension, that unrest, was always lying under the surface, just waiting to gnash its teeth - and sometimes it did. these were also the years in which we were discovering our queer identities, and it took us a long time to really understand each other's journeys in that regard.

at sixteen, we both left our school and moved to a different institution till we graduated at eighteen. though we were at the same sixth form college, we just had different lives and didn't hang out anymore, though we remained on good terms. now, we text every once in a while, and we always say we'll meet up, but we never do. in october of last year, i bumped into her for the first time in maybe four years while coming home from a pavement gig. she was sitting on the doorstep of her parents' place with a roll-up cigarette. it was like no time had passed.

looking back, i can say with full confidence that i was in love with her. i do not know how else to understand our relationship. she drove me up the wall the way she did because i had never felt anything like what i felt for her for anyone else - and i haven't to this day.

even now, every time she is even mentioned in conversation, i dream about her the night following. and i still have those shells, hidden away in a wooden box i've never shown anyone; it's not too far from the shoebox that contains every note she ever passed me, every doodle she ever drew for me, every card she ever wrote me. in other words, i was permanently altered by our relationship, and her absence from my life has never diminished that. the same can naturally be said of crowley and aziraphale, to a much, much greater extent. i relive my memories of us because they help me understand many things about myself and others, and i've recently found that good omens has encouraged this.

this ended up longer than i intended but i hope you got something out of it.<3

[marinahavik]

Questions for the MagiKey Users! AU of @quartztwst

Section 1 - Your OC Answers!

1. How does it feel to be a MagiKey user?

Yumi: It's a pretty complicated task, after all, saving people, fighting villains, while you also have a busy civilian life ends up being a headache.

2. How popular are you in MagiKey rankings?

Yumi: I'm not at the top, but I'm in a good ranking

3. Which MagiKey would you rather have than your own

Yumi: What key would I like to have if I hadn't gotten mine? I never thought much about it but the key and obsidian ( @danika-redgrave124 ) abilities are super cool

4. Why did you become a MagiKey user?

Yumi: It was an accident, but there was no going back, and it's actually a fun job, although things can get a bit chaotic.

5. How long have you been in MagiKey

Yumi: I'm still a newbie, I'm a MagiKey user, I've been using it for at least a little over 6 months

Section 2 - You explain!

6. What is their motivation to keep being a magical user?

she continues, because even though she does little compared to other MagiKey users, she is still helping others in some way

7. How are they usually in a battle?

Yumi may seem a bit impulsive, but she always has a plan in mind. In battle, Yumi has two different styles of fighting: spells and melee. Yumi mainly uses the Cherry Grove spell to move around the battlefield, appearing and disappearing from the enemies' sight, catching them by surprise, punching them or using her staff to hit them. The Cherry Labyrinth is used as a last resort, as it requires a lot of energy, while the Spring Princess's Cradle is a healing spell that Yumi uses on civilians and other MagiKey users who have been injured during the fight.

8. How are their daily lives?

Yumi's daily life is quite common, she studies, takes courses, and also needs to act as a mediator in her brothers' fights, being the youngest of seven brothers is not an easy task

9. What is their opinion on other MagiKey users in general?

Yumi divides MagiKey users into three groups: friends, acquaintances, and pests. Although the latter is reserved for the Deep Blue Sea, Yumi gets along with most of the MagiKey users, but she and the Deep Blue Sea hate each other. Because of their constant fights, new rules have been added to the rulebook. The two must stay at least three meters away from each other, and whenever they are in the same place, there must be at least one teacher.

Section 3 - Deeper Level (might get emo)

10. What are your OC's struggles as a MagiKey user?

Although it doesn't seem like it, she is a bit insecure about her abilities, not considering herself as resourceful as other MagiKey users.

11. What is their favorite color?

pink, red, black, white and gold

opinions about some MagiKey users (It won't have all of them because otherwise it would be too long, maybe I'll make a part two)

Qix Trix ( @/quartztwst )

I think she's cool, she has a kind of mysterious aura, you know, I think her magical girl costume is amazing, and she apparently also has the personality change when she transforms, like me

Fragaria ( @/quartztwst )

He's adorable, his positive attitude is kind of cute, he's nice to talk to and his uniform is super cute

It reminds me of a mix of Little Red Riding Hood and that cartoon Strawberry Shortcake

Layla @laylakongg

It has a kind of dark vibe, but it's cool anyway, its powers seem interesting

Shuu @oya-oya-okay

She is very cute, orange suits her very well, I think she is super fun, and her squirrel shape is adorable

AJ @karamatsuboy-aj

I think he's cool, a very nice person

Yuu Ni @thatsadguymochi

Even though she's more of a support magical girl than an offensive magical girl, that injection can still cause damage, it's really cool.

Hittako @hittisbuzzing

interesting powers, has a theater kid vibe

Akshara @twistedtalestory

She is a great teacher, she helps me have more control over my own strength, and she gives great advice

Yuya @cheerleaderman

your uniform is super cool it looks like an astronaut suit

Shin @liyuviq

His uniform is really nice and that giant magnifying glass is amazing, I wonder if he uses the magnifying glass to hit enemies like I normally do using my staff

Eubeni @bunniehunn

your uniform is so cute, it looks like one of those moths that has fur that looks really soft

obsidian @danika-redgrave124

His uniform is very stylish and his powers are very cool, he was the one who taught me how to use my staff as aram too

markings : @amatsuchan-eiliniel @angelwishess @elenauaurs @oya-oya-okay

[bienmoreau]

Now elaborate on why that is a Jeremy song (please🙏🏻)

Okay wow. This has been gathering dust for months I'm so sorry! the song in question is HERE putting this under a read more cause I have things to say!

I'm a son to my mother A man to my father Same blood in the water Different skies that we hide

feel this one is fairly self-explanatory, we know things are very strained between him and his parents. But his mother paid/s for his very expensive therapy, would never raise a hand to them, but also keeps tabs on him and we see how difficult the family is with him. how there is some huge rift between them and hold his own distance from his stepdads family. and ofc we have the line 'I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't call me by my last name'. its about the duality of being a son and a man, child and adult, being kept in check, being managed but also supported vs being allowed to grow up and have autonomy and freedom in his own life, be who he is, mistakes and all. "son to my mother // a man to my father" this family is clearly troubled and not happy or healthy but whatever the scandal was it didn't only happen to him, whatever is going on with this lot its not just his shit. "same blood in the water // different skies that we hide"

My friends are sisters and brothers They guard me with honor But my skin is the armor So they can't see inside

We see and are told how much he loves his friends and the team. we know that that's where he feels safe and at home. these people are his real family and they are fiercely protective and loyal to him. but even with them, he's hiding. he always has his mask on. his guard up. even in his own pov we barely see a single chink in it.

Oh you, you don't know who I am I fight the demons the best I can Oh you, you don't know who I am And maybe, you'll never understand All that I am

he's doing his best, (literally always trying to be good) and for mast people that's as far as they look, a good act, an easy performance to take at face value and the least inconvenient version of him to see. the golden boy, the day spirit winning captain sunshine. but his friends and we the readers can all see how false it is. its effort, this is how he's learnt to survive in his life. he's resigned himself to living this way, being this caricature of himself for other peoples comfort and benefit, on other peoples terms. but that must be isolating as hell. if only a select few ever see beyond the persona and actually understand who he is and why he is the way he is. not see that he can be more than the public face hes safe to show. the loneliness in this, the instability, the 2nd guessing of when or what might cause the rug to be pulled in relationships that he thinks are safe.

I hung my stains from the preacher Suit and tie for the reaper If I mask my demeanor Is it all just a lie?

and in continuation of this, how much do you get to change yourself or play a role before it starts eroding your sense of self? is it a lie if you grow from your mistakes? are we allowed to improve? to be forgiven? to move on and be better or are we always and inescapably tied to the sins of our past, whatever they may be? if he plays the good guy and is a good sport and a dedicated positive presence is he tricking people? is he lying to them, to his fans, to his friends? is he allowed to be both things and to play different roles in different places in his life and all of them be true? or at least be part of the truth? if he stopped playing along would he still belong there? Oh, I've had some dark, dark days But the face I wear exists in the light Exists in the light

we know there's something dark in his past, we know hes been through something bad that others barely know how to acknowledge, maybe because they don't know the truth of it or because its so bad even for them or to protect him from it. but hes trying to live past it, hes trying to come good, make his life good and the people around him happy. earn his place in the light. i wrote something in my own journal years ago that feels similar to this, "maybe if we pretend we're happy for long enough one day we actually will be".

hes striving for the future he hopes to achieve but hes gotta get through this to get there. and he is actively choosing positivity and connection and hard work to try and get there which i love, but that doesn't mean this behaviour isn't just a very socially acceptable coping mechanism and distraction.

[alloftheimaginesblog]

a little bit lost without you {e.m}

plot: you see eddie for the first time after your break up.

character: eddie munson x plus size reader

part of my eddie munson ‘pretty eyes’ series

Of course you knew the day would come where you'd run into Eddie and you'd have to speak to him again and honestly, you were a little surprise that it hadn't already happened yet. In the months since your break-up you'd practiced over and over speeches that you'd say to him, vent out every last frustration so that you could move on with your life but when you did eventually run into him... all of that went out the window and all you could do was stand and gape at him like a fish out of water.

He looked the same with the same curled hair, the same big brown eyes, the same rings on his fingers, the same denim vest with the same patches sewn onto it... Still had your pink hair tie on his wrist, even after all this time.

"Hey, pretty eyes," he said after a few moments of pregnant pause.

Shit.

Maybe you weren't as over him as you thought you were. You'd convinced yourself you were over him but now seeing him in front of you... your heart ached. It was him calling you 'pretty eyes'. You missed that nickname, it was the sweetest nickname anyone had ever given you.

"Hey, Eds..." You said, voice a little hoarse.

You hadn't really expected to run into him in the mall, Eddie had always spoken about his hatred of the mall for all the stupid teenagers who would hang around here but maybe you didn't know him that well anymore.

You shifted uncomfortably. You didn't really know what to say. All that time you'd spent rehearsing your speech and you could remember none of it, "Uh, how are-"

"How's thing-"

"Sorry." The two of you both said at the same time after speaking over the other.

Eddie rubbed his neck as he gave a small chuckle, "How's things?"

Do you want the truth? Do you want to hear how awful I've felt without you? Do you want to know about all the sleepless nights, the crying, the regret? Do you really want to know?

"Yeah, I've been alright," you said, overly happy as you plastered a grin on your face, "What about you?" Eddie's smile faltered upon hearing how good you've been doing. He didn't know whether you were telling him the truth or not but he took what you were saying for face value.

He shrugged, "Yeah, yeah... not bad." It was a bit ass lie. Eddie had spent his months wallowing. He had fucked your relationship and he hated himself for it. It had ended because he was in a rut, refusing help and refusing to help himself. You had tried to help but he pushed you away and you gave him an ultimatum, be better or be single. Eddie hated himself for making the wrong choice, "You look great. I mean you always do but... yeah." You looked down at your outfit, jeans and a jumper nothing that great but Eddie had always loved the way you looked. He had always loved your body, despite its size, despite its curves, despite the fat rolls and stretch marks. Eddie was one of the reasons you had grown to love yourself; you saw how much he loved you and you started doing the same. He always treated you with such love and care, never making you feel ugly or unwanted... He was good.

It was like you were watching yourself from above, an our of body experience, is that what they call it? You heard yourself saying, "Well, it was nice seeing you." Saw yourself giving Eddie one last pathetic smile before starting to walk away. Why were you just leaving? There were so many things you wanted to say, so many things you needed to say.

Eddie wasn't letting you go so easily though.

"I got a job!" He called, a little louder than necessary as a few people turned to look at him to see who was shouting about a job.

You stopped.

"Eddie, you can't keep living like this! You need to get out, do more than just sit and get high! You need to get a job, make your own money, save up for a place of your own!"

"I'm fine the way I am, thanks though."

That was one of the fights that ended your relationship. He refused to help himself, refused to get a job and fund his habits... You had supported him through money you'd gotten from your own job and you couldn't do it anymore. You just couldn't.

You stayed frozen, facing the other way, so Eddie continued talking, "That's why I'm here, you know I hate the mall. It's in the music shop, the one beside The Gap... It's a couple of days after school and the weekends. I've been using the money to help my Uncle, started saving up and even bought myself a proper bed frame like you suggested... I've been trying." It was true. He had been trying, he'd actively been trying to better himself.

For a week after the break up, he had been expecting you to come back. He had convinced himself that it was all just a stupid fight and you didn't mean what you said, that your ultimatum was just you being dramatic... Until he woke up one day and realised you really weren't planning on coming back. He replayed that fight over and over in his head, regretting every response and scoff that he did. Your requests weren't so stupid as he thought. He looked around his room at the mess he'd let himself get into; no money, no job, no friends, no girlfriend. That's when he decided to change.

You turned to him, face softened but eyes sad, "I'm happy for you, Eds," you said quietly, "it'll be good for you."

"It is," he nodded. He could sense that you were pulling away again so he took a breath, "I'm not doing good at all actually, (y/n). I'm having a hard time-"

"Eddie..."

"I'm lost without you. I'm trying to be better, I've been trying so hard I promise. I-I fucked up, (y/n) and..." He took a deep breath and exhaled, letting his shoulders sag, "I miss you."

Your heart panged. You closed your eyes for a few seconds, remembering the good times. For most of your relationship, things were great. He could always make you laugh, made you feel so loved. He was the one that protected you from Carver and his cronies after they mocked you for your weight. Eddie loved all of you, curves and fat rolls and all. He always made you feel equal, never less than.

"I... I don't know what to say, Eds," you whispered, eyes flooding with tears, "I've been trying to move on, move past you and this- you... it's confusing."

Eddie nodded, wringing his hands together before stuffing them in his pockets, "Can I take you for lunch?" He asked, "My treat."

You pursed your lips, debating it over in your head, "Is that a good idea?" You asked, "I mean... I dunno. I don't know." Your head was reeling with the thoughts and worries you had.

He stepped a little closer, not too close but just a little closer, "Hey, it's okay," he gave you a small smile, "we don't have to. I just... I miss you and I thought it might be nice but it's okay. Seeing you, knowing that you're doing okay-"

"I'm not okay though." You hadn't meant to spill the beans but everything was overwhelming and he'd been so honest and you just snapped, "I've not been okay at all." Eddie really fought hard to not smile at that but you corners of his mouth did tilt upwards, "Okay..." you exhaled, "let's go for lunch."

He grinned, "Wanna go to your favourite?"

You nodded, "Yeah, that sounds good."

He gestured towards the south entrance and told you his van was parked out there, he'd drive and the two of you walked towards the exit. Your hands fidgeted with your sleeves and if you were being honest you might as well tell him, "I'm a little bit lost without you too, Eds."

Maybe there was hope after all.

[pink-slay]

Sometimes I don't know what to say. Audiences make life bearable and terrible. I keep thinking about how comic sans helps me read and how everyone thinks its ugly, but on old computers, it looked different, better to some. I keep thinking about my tattoo, healing skin proves much harder than I wish it did.

I try to study chemistry I opted to take this semester, but I struggle. I know my mind is sharp enough to do many things, but working through this pain isn't so simple. What do you do when narcotics don't let you sleep. They literally have narco in the name, meaning sleep, the same stem of the word in narcolepsy. I hate that I call them stems instead of roots because of my middle school, and I hate that I hate studying because of those damned weekly vocab quizzes.

My mind is full of incoherent ramblings, ones that don't mesh well with one another. I try to learn as I remember that I take a class on learning, and then my learning gets muddled with the learning about learning, and I find myself in the same place every night: looking at hard science I have dreamt of doing my whole life, in utter agony, unable to make it mean anything, unable to make me mean anything.

My body hurts beyond belief, but not beyond mine. I live my life forgetting that other people aren't living with pain like this everywhere I go. I miss the days when it was smoother. There weren't many of them, but this fall, for a second, it felt like I could breathe. I was exhilarated and anxious and coping with an unprecedented rift with my mother, an abyss between us I didn't think could grow wider.

But it did,

However, I too grew. A lot. I've grown a lot since I failed that one comma rules test in middle school, since I fell in that parking lot for the third time, since I've left Illinois. My mind has been shaped by the classes and the horrors and the people.

My peers always expected me to go to a prestigious school and do crazy things, not often explicitly said, but I knew. They thought I wanted what they wanted. However, all I ever wanted was kindness. I wanted to go somewhere I didn't have to constantly prove myself to the people I called my friends. If you told me I had moved across the country and went to a public university with no crazy amount of recognition, I might've cried tears of joy

because I would've been so happy I finally made it out,

out of the Hell I knew.

Life seems to bombard me with torment beyond what I thought was possible, but the beauty is that

I live on borrowed time

I could've never dreamt of any of this. My life is beyond my wildest dreams.

Like I say to my friend often, regardless of what happens next, this will have been. Not everything means something, but this does. This pain is no punishment; despite how I often feel, it has no meaning. However, beauty does.

I lack sleep in ways my body will never recover from. However, all I need is to make a notes sheet. It will be ugly, maybe. It will be excruciating, but it will be mine. I'll live to see tomorrow, and I'll parse out the minutiae as they hit me like the wind in my eyes.

Until, then...

[pebble-pictures]

WIP

That's a Homeric AU, alright! This is what living in my brain looks like. Would you believe I haven't actually listened to Epic yet? Idk why I'm putting I off. Maybe I'm terrified of disappointment.

Anyway! AU notes beneath the cut!

"Rage — Fable, sing the rage of Pthia’s daughter Ruby,

murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses,

hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls,

great fighters’ souls, but made their shards carrion,

feasts for the dogs and birds,

and the will of the heavens was moving toward its end.

Begin, Fable, when the two first broke and clashed,

Diamond lord of men and brilliant Ruby. . . ."

-Rose plays a similar role to Odysseus! The morally grey trickster monarch who just wants to be with her spouse and son in the end. Seen as a coward and a bad friend, but the intentions were good. A brilliant strategist and completely hubristic idiot simultaneously. I give her the Pink Diamond palette whenever she isn't disguised. The Rose palette goes to Nobody!

-Pearl as the Athena-parallel goddess of wisdom, arts, and warfare. The pearls will be the patron gods of their respective Diamond monarchs, but Pearl is the closest to her monarch. She follows her everywhere until something big separates them due to a choice Rose makes, thus aiding Rose's son instead in growing up and his mission to learn more about a heroic mother he never knew.

-Lapis of Sparta and Troy, the demigod prisoner whose face sailed a thousand ships. Kidnapped from her home and loved ones, then blamed for the fallout.

-The rage of Ruby, heir to the throne of Pthia, greatest of the Greeks, and her gentle yet coldly terrifying equestrian companion Sapphire, exiled princess of Omas. Technically the same stone irl, but there's a great status disparity. Their ranks in this AU are swapped, though, to better fit the backstory of our Myrmidon boys!

-Padparadscha, disgraced Trojan princess, whose predictions are always ignored and ridiculed. Until it's too late.

-Jasper of Troy. Captor of Lapis Lazuli. Favorite of the detached Pink Pearl, goddess of beauty and lust. A pawn who thinks she's in control. Always inferior to her eldest sister.

-Hessonite of Troy. Favorite of the vain Yellow Pearl. Goddess of prophecy, archery, medicine, music, plague, the sun, and being an annoying little overachiever. Hess commands Troy's armies. Eldest of the royal children. She was canonically the governor of the Earth colony, so she technically counts for my efforts to make all the Trojans pink court gems under Queen White Diamond. Yelp is the only exception, cause I wasn't making Aubergine or Lonely into Apollo. It fit her too well.

-Steven goes on a journey to learn about and live up to a heroic parent he's never met. Prince of Ithaca. Spends his early life constantly having to fight adults who want to kill him, and having to defend his home and single parent from said adults.

-Greg. "I've never had that many exes show up at once since—" has hundreds fighting for a hand that's technically already taken. Known for his artistic pursuits, like Penelope for her weaving. A lot more clever than he first appears. A damn good dad.

- Amethyst is undecided. Maybe an Ajax? A goofier Diomedes? Absolutely up for suggestions.

-Garnet as the tall, blunt, crazy strong child of Ruby who joins the war in her early years. Neoptolemus/Pyrrhus, who I'm now realizing isn't as universal as the others, so I'm saying it explicitly.

-Aquamarine as the (justifiably) murderous sister of Helen/Lapis, Clytemnestra! Eyeball as the lover who helps her kill her spouse! Freckles and Curls as their brothers, the twins Castor and Pollux! I'm cooking.

And the Lapis twins ESPECIALLY work for the Gemini! One was callous and spiteful, one was kind and followed his brother. However, because a lot of people in those times/place thought you could have multiple fathers per set of twins (or per baby if you ask some of Alexander's contemporaries about him), one twin was a fully immortal demigod. Not full-blooded Spartan royalty. Freckles isn't a pure Lapis, she has pyrite flecks!

And the Gemini later both became water gods! Idk who will fill Orestes' slot. Probably Blue Zircon, since Orestes was the impetus of the founding of the Athenian legal system.

-Yellow Diamond, Queen of Men. Favorite of Blue Pearl, goddess of the seas, storms, earthquakes, and horses. Angry and selfish, hated but feared by her gems. Later murdered by her family. Only using Lapis' kidnapping as an excuse for war and plunder.

-Blue Diamond, queen of Sparta. Also favored by Bloop. Desperate to take Lapis back from Troy. Constantly grieving her rapidly dropping family, but still terrifying.

-White Diamond, queen of Troy. Starts detached, cold, and neglectful. Loses everything, becoming a humbled and grieving old mother and grandmother.

-Gimme ideas for Peridot! Was gonna make her Meneleus, but it'd be weird making her Blue's sister.

-Bismuth = Hephaestus

- Rose Buds = The Fates

- Aubergine = Artemis? Hera? Idk, man, I just REALLY wanna include the Hera/Artemis fistfight.

-Lonely Pearl = Hermes

-Pyrope = Hera, probably, actually. It fits her Vibe. Or Zeus. Or Demantoid as Zeus?

-Navy = Ares. Full stop.

[intheholler]

Hi, sorry if this is a weird message but I just wanted to say how much I appreciate your blog.

I've never been to the appalachia region but I was born in Mississippi and only lived there for like 3 years before we moved. My mom was a travel nurse so we moved every year or two and I really loved living like that and being able to live in tons of different places but part of me is really upset that I never really belonged to a specific place.

When I was younger, I was thankful for not growing up in the south. I always heard other people talk about it, how it was nothing but inbred hillbillies and how everyone talked in a weird drawl and I was glad I never picked up the accent.

But now I'm so, so upset about it. I have a very slight accent sometimes and say y'all and ain't a lot but it's definitely not recognizable as a southern accent.

I want to sound like that, but it feels wrong to try and talk with that accent now, because my family doesn't sound like that and I don't live in the south anymore. Even though I was born there, it still feels like I'm not from there, you know? Like I would be stealing something that's not mine.

It just sucks. Especially when I hear people constantly talk shit about the south and how everyone there is stupid and ugly and racist and evil and it's like, ''Oh. Maybe if I lived there a few more years they would hate me like that too."

A lot of time I see people talking about how much it sucks to grow up in a certain culture, but I never see people talk about how much it sucks to grow up without a specific culture(s).

The worst thing is when people ask where I'm from or where I grew up, and I don't know what I'm supposed to say.

So thank you for your blog. I know the south and appalachia are different, with different cultures and climates and people, but it still makes me feel like I can experience something I never got to.

hi there. this is not weird at ALL.

its a topic very near to my heart really. thanks so much for sharing your story not only because it's yours and i want to know it, but because it resonates with me SO hard, and i don't really talk to anyone who was constantly on the move as a kid and questions their identity because of it.

long post below, as is usually the case with me and this subject.

first i wanna say: i agree that the deep south and appalachia are certainly unique from one another, but to me, they share more similarities than they do differences. your story only cements that in my mind.

we have similar politics, are embarrassed by similar stereotypes, have shameful collective histories. we have similar flavors of self-work and unlearning to do. even the accents overlap.

we also know the same struggle of trying to be louder than our region, how it feels to have our individual voices swallowed up by people who don't want to hear it because they've already decided what they think about us as if we are some monolith.

what i mean is you definitely belong in this community, and i'm so glad you are here!

now for the emotional bits: i hate making these sorts of asks about me, but i sometimes feel at a loss as how else to communicate my empathy in this specific situation.

i just hope my experience can extend a sense of solidarity and understanding to how you're feeling, as mine mirrors your own very closely. i can seriously like feel the pain radiating off of this ask and i just want you to feel seen and heard.

"The worst thing is when people ask where I'm from or where I grew up, and I don't know what I'm supposed to say."

this kicked me in the stomach, because same. it's why being "from appalachia" is so integral to my identity. i'm not from a town or even a state. all i have is the region.

i've talked about this before on here, but my dad was a contractor, and we moved every year or two as well. the longest i stayed in one town was three years, and it happened only once.

i agree that moving around a lot was good in some ways, but, like you, it left me without a sense of belonging.

looking back as an adult, i realize how badly all of that moving fucked me up. i don't have a hometown in the traditional sense. i'm not "from" anywhere.

a lot of my childhood belongings i no longer have because everything seemed to get lost in the moves. i feel like i am scattered across a region, and i am nowhere.

its so bad that, as silly as it is, i get irrationally upset at something as innocent as when i am with someone who has lived in a place most of their life, and they can easily give directions there because they know the place so well. i can't do that with anywhere and so i feel bitter.

i myself moved around consistently in appalachia/the south, though, so i still grew up in the area, as generally as one could. so i also spent most of my late childhood and preteen yearsgetting rid of the accent. i didn't want to sound "stupid" or be lumped in with the racists and the stereotypes of the region.

i thought it made me better than other kids who spoke with the accent, because back then, i hadn't started the self-work i have since undergone and ripped all that hateful internalized bullshit up.

i regret it every day now that i'm learning to love where i'm from--appalachia and the south as a region. i regret ever buying into what i was told about myself and getting rid of all markers of it.

i get it, anon. i really do and i love you and i'm sorry.

THIS IS ALL TO SAY VERY VERY LOUDLY:

you. are. from. there.

you were born in the south. you was raised by a presumably southern family. even if you wasn't, they had to take pieces of mississippi with them. culture is not a static thing--it goes where you go.

you can't steal what's already yours. the accent is yours to use. it feels awkward in your mouth when you try to get it back but that's just because it needs to get comfortable in there again. it doesn't mean you're faking or stealing. it means you are reconnecting, and reunions can sometimes be a little awkward.

don't hold yourself up to rigid standards or fall victim to any gatekeeping, outward or inward. only you get to define who you are, and it seems like you know who that is supposed to be.

i hope you can start to feel a little more at home in your identity. i know what a special hell it is. thank you so so much for being here <3333

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Beauty and the Freak part 20

Warnings: degrading talk, person treated like an object, abuse & toxic parents, mentions of past torture & trauma

"I've long since learned not to trust those around me, but... I believe you. You're different, from the rest. No masks of deception, nothing but your true self showing. I know I can trust you."

Annabelle's shoulders sagged with relief, relief that she didn't cause him another panic attack.

"I... I don't think I can stay here any longer," she rasped weakly. "I've been trying to work with my parents for so long, somehow get through to them because I still love them -- but they just don't listen to me!" A scowl made its way onto her face as she took her hand off Silas's arm, starting to pace anxiously.

"Even my aunt and uncle noticed how toxic they were when they visited. They even offered to adopt me if my parents didn't want me, because the way they were treating me made them think they hated me. Of course, my parents were furious that the subject was even brought up, and... well, they were never invited back. But I still know their address by heart. Maybe we could go there to take a break from all the drama, and figure out all the legal stuff later. I'm sure my aunt and uncle could help me with that."

A few scared tears rolled down her face. "I've considered the idea of running away many times before, but... I've always been too terrified of the thought to actually commit to it. Practically my whole life I've been taught that anywhere but this house is dangerous territory."

"Until the day you purchased me at the party, I'd lived under similar circumstances," Silas interjected.

Annabelle glanced at him in surprise. "How?"

Silas let out a long, shuddering breath, grimacing in phantom pain.

"For me, it was that anywhere away from my owner was bad. Dangerous. Would result in pain. I was so brainwashed I barely wanted to move to any other room than where my owner was at all times. It was fear that kept me there."

He winced. "My masters used pain and harsh punishment to control me, even when I'd done nothing wrong to deserve it, but the consequences were always tripled if I tried to escape or get away. Eventually I learned to endure it and accept my position as lesser than them. That I would never taste freedom." His head craned up, and he stared at the ceiling.

"Eventually I stopped believing leaving was an option. It stopped crossing my mind, became a less frequent urge every miserable day. Similar to you right now. You've lived like this for so long that the idea of something new and foreign frightens you. Like how leaving my prison frightened me."

His gaze flicked back to Annabelle, expression sad, yet understanding, full of clarity. "The day you bought me was the first day I'd gone outside in years. It was as thrilling as it was terrifying, not knowing what to expect from you. But I ended up in a much better place because of it. So I suppose, in some way, you have to walk through the fear to find the happiness on the other side.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. "If you want to run, run. It could make things worse, yes... but it could also make them better. That's how life works. I think? Eh, my wisdom's running out. You get the idea."

Annabelle let out a startled laugh, wiping her tears with the sleeve of her shirt.

"You have a point. I... I want to run away, to go to my aunt and uncle's house and not have to worry about my toxic parents anymore. But... what if I'm caught? Or my relatives won't take me in like they said they would? What if they forgot their offer, or don't want to make good on it anymore?"

"The 'what ifs' drove me insane when I was in captivity, " Silas laughed dryly. "Funny how you struggle the same as I did. I guess we're more alike than I thought." He offered Annie a lopsided smile that tugged at the scars on his face.

"So... what's the plan? Stay here, or go on an adventure? Personally, I am quite interested to see the outside world after so long kept in a cage, and then in this mansion. I've always wondered if the stars are really as bright as people say they are, and if there really are birds that fly in the sky. It's been too long since I've seen anything to remember it. I took it for granted back then."

Annabelle chewed her lip, debating her options, but went rigid when she saw Silas suddenly stiffen, the curiosity on his face instantly dissolving into intense focus and lethal concentration -- the exact look he'd had on when he took out her parents' guards with ease. The weapon part of him that never let its guard down, that was always on high alert.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

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[thedegu]

For no particular reason I gave taken pictures of all of my d20s, and I am posting them with rankings under the cut

All the names listed for these dice are just what I've given them. I don't remember what company has made any of these, so don't ask lmao. They are listed with the character associated with them if applicable. From worst to best, we have:

Chunk 1 D. To be fair to this die, it is meant to keep track of HP in MTG, not to be rolled. That being said, she has a lot of manufacturing defects, to the point I'd never roll her because, well, there is no way she's balanced. However that does not excuse the really shotty paintjob and overall low craftsmanship, she lives inside the bag of holding unless I'm playing mtg and want to keep track of hp with her-- which I usually don't because I both have a better tracking dice in her sister as well as an app and a paper tracker.

Chunk 2, D, Look, I will roll you in a pinch, but blame your brother that I try not to. even though your craftsmanship is much higher wality and you're opaque so I cant see any possible air bubbles inside of you, I just don't trust you like that. I know you came in clutch with that one nat 20 for Madea's save against her father's effect, but look at your brother. Would you trust your manufacturing if you knew that's where you were made, too? I will use you to keep track of HP during commander nights, though, I promise.

Lesbian <3. D, these were hand made dice I bought at a pride fair and I wish I could give them a higher score but they roll like hand-made dice :pensive: like its notable how many times river rolled a 17 with this girl so she's been gently placed in the bag of holding until further notice. she's also super hard to read and you can hardly see the flag in any of the dice in the set outside of the d6. i wannnntttt tooooo loooovvvveeeee youuuuuu

Asphalt, C, bought this D20 on a whim as a single dice. I don't think I've ever rolled it. I've always just reached out for any other dice at the time, including its sister, Funfetti. I guess I should start reaching for this one instead because, given how much Funfetti has been defiant, maybe her sibling will be more competitive.

Berry Blue(jeans), C my first ever dice for DMing but he came in that welcome to dnd bookset with lost mines of phandelver. It has perfectly useable dice but has little nostalgia, even for being my first dm set. does have the knock against it that *technically* my dad bought it for me. But I don't hold it against him too bad; he just doesn't have much pizazz ya feel?

Black n blood, C, I dont rmemver why i bought this, I think it was for a barbaiain character I never really got to play but either way, I don't think I've ever really used this set, it feels basic but it does have more pizzaz then the dice above the stark matte black with the blood red numbers has some flair but I've never really felt the need to roll this set when I have my blood bone set that fills the same niche and are one of my favorites

snow stone| Rossien, C, I don't have too much to say about this die beyond its surprisingly hard to read and, rolls meh.

Sea Dragon, C, is one of my oldest sets of dice and only gets a B because of that. It was the second set of dice I ever bought, but they have ended up in dice jail more than once, brining down their score. They're also super slippery and hard to pick up because of that.

MAGIC! B, i dont remember buying this dice nor ever using them, but boy are they pretty <3 they are in my current rotation of dice

girliepop, B, while i love his color and texture girliepop is just so beat to shit that I hesitate to use it anymore. She's one of my older sets but the one who has aged least gracefully. Im missing a few dice from the set, and the d20 itself is pretty beat to shit from different moves and interactions with pets I wish I did you better girliepop but you're still cute

Funfetti, A, oh, Funfetti, you are the dice that inspired this list. How you always roll exactly one under a verbally set DC so well and so reliably. If I want to miss that DC by a hair, I know who to pick.

Metal Steam | Xavia, A. soild rolls feels good to roll and is easy to read. I don't have much to say besides that

Blood Bone, S, this dice is sooo nice to roll, with its matte surface and good contrast between the numbers and the face. probably my favorite dice to roll, if not use. they're also really good at death saves while mid at most other things wich feels fitting imo

Ace Dice! (ace dice ace dice ace dice), S, a gift from my sibling and my only metal dice, is only on the bottom of S-tier because she's really hard to read and difficult to roll. I love playing and fidgeting with you, but I'd actually rather roll just about any other dice in my collection. You're one of my favorite to handle, and I love showing you to people because you're so much fun to hold and play with, but I wish there was more contrast between the numbers and the faces.

forest green | Ida, S, my first ever set of dice I bought for myself. She's had many characters under her belt, Xavia, Ida, Xildi, Koli, to name a few, but she's so dependable and a GREAT storyteller. if I have an important roll to make, I almost always pick this dice to roll

Purple Magic| ale, S, a gift from @halfandhalfling, from inside a bar of soap. This dice has been through a lot with me and Ale. I almost exclusively use this dice to roll for ale if I'm not using Foundary, it's had some major clutch moments as well as some devastating failures (girliepop cannot make a save for their life) but it is one hell of a storyteller.

Dino | Tyblin, S, a gift from @ijltln the whole set has little dinosaur figures in them and I love them so much, it frustrates me that I couldn't get a good picture of the d20 because it also has my favorite dino in it.

Phinox Fire | Madea, S, a gift from @theboombardbox, this is a liquid-core dice, and it's so much fun to roll. She does not have too many stories connected in her storytelling but she's just so damn pretty that I don't care.

Jaguar's eye | acamapichtli, S, there is going to be a theme for my s-tier as this was a gift from @halfandhalfling. They are the only set of gem dice I own but god, they're so much fun to roll and were clutch during the ancient history arc. They are also my newest set of dice!

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(dis)Honorable mentions

Foundary dice roller: C, I want to like you more than I do, but you've burned me one too many times. Your tools are making my life easier by doing the math, which is reduced by the constant, absolutely abismial rolls. Me and my entire group going whole sessions unable to roll above a 10 on you, is just -- you'd rate yourself this way too if you were me, especially after that beach encounter You know what you did boundary, and you need to do a lot to get that faith back

Roll20 dice roller: D, you can almost see the pattern in the dice rolls. This website's RNG feels way too predictable and almost weighted. it never feels good to roll on Roll20

Google Dice: C Whenever I don't trust Foundary and am too lazy to go get my physical dice, I use you. You roll pretty well and what feels fair. Your interface is easy to use and fun to watch, but you are brought down from an A to a C because, sadly, you are Google.

Random dice roller app i downloaded 10 years ago: A, similar interface to the google one but just on my phone, I should just use this when Foundary is being a bitch tbh, but I always forget I have the app. You might be super old and are probably filled with viruses but you get the job done and I'm thankful for that