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musamora · 1 year ago

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— 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖞 𝖔𝖋 𝖉𝖊𝖛𝖔𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓.

this is a sequel! read the first part here.

pairing: fyodor dostoevsky x fem!reader

content warnings: child abuse, childhood trauma, discussions of class disparity, embezzlement, alcohol, panic attacks, implied/referenced attempted drugging, implied/referenced loss of parents

author's note: i'm back! first, if you want to get updates surrounding this series, follow me here on twitter. and if you want to listen to some music while you read, might i suggest looking at some of my spotify playlists? enjoy!

would you like to see more? fill out the taglist or comment under this post.

It's funny, isn't it — to find similarities in two lives that seem to contrast on the surface, only to find matching melodies written throughout their pages. You know what they say. Don't judge a book by its cover.

An infiltration mission concludes with a realization. They smile at one another, knowing that they were never truly alone.

Unlike the everyday citizens of the bustling city of Yokohama, forced to chip away at their lives in their dismal office jobs, the affluent elite escaped into the idyllic countryside of its borders, seeking refuge from the watchful gazes of their employees and underlings while indulging in their superfluous, leisurely pursuits. Nestled amid the lush, green forests, an opulent estate stood, its pristine white concrete contrasting with the muted vegetation. Majestic frosted glass doors glistened in the warm embrace of the midday sun, beckoning visitors along a sprawling cobblestone pathway that stretched across the well-manicured lawn, where sleek limousines inched their way toward the entrance. Delicate planter boxes adorned with vibrant blooms scatter petals onto guests, adding an enchanting touch of natural elegance to the festive gathering.

Each one of these blue bloods was dressed in their finest brunch clothes — ladies swathed in flowy calf-length dresses that bounced with each step, gentlemen coated in strapping two-piece suits as their waxed loafers clopped behind them. Rumors whistled betwixt the lips of each cluster, tittle-tattling about the latest paltry fling or dalliance of the week. People glided in and out of each room, sipping on fine champagnes and rich wines, giving into debauched pleasures without thought of consequence. They slipped into conversations with ease, not bothering to remember names but feigning knowledge of other's affairs all the same.

A man entered through the threshold, eyes flickering from person to person. No one paid him any mind, unknowingly allowing the serpent with a silver tongue to slip inside, masquerading as a witless bachelor amongst a sea of dozens. The unforeseen mask of death entered the party without a second thought, his intentions concealed behind a manufactured smile. It only shifted when he looked towards his companion, a woman who stared with dazed, wistful eyes as she froze upon stone steps.

"Моя милая."

(Name) barely stirred from her thoughts, a distant hum on her lips as he guided her inside. They floated like specters across the shining floors, becoming the prime subject of whispers as they gave the room a once-over. Fyodor could not help the way his eyes drifted towards the form of his companion, who remained unsuspecting to his gaze while at his side, arm-in-arm, as she tuned into the conversations around them. She had slipped herself into an alluring, satin sable dress that was curled around her calves, swaying with each step, and was sinched to create a silhouette of empyrean grace and charm — a divine treasure escorted by her devout attendant, not that he would allow her to know that.

He paid special concern to the tension lined underneath the textiles of her dress, kneading at the taut muscles as he settled a reassuring hand against the small of her back, watching with keen eyes as she melted with each stir of his fingers — she was both in her element and yet not at the same time. But he had to admit; she was a sight for sore eyes amongst the vibrant, ostentatious heirs and heiresses that continued to babble on and on. It was hard to imagine her comfortable in a setting like this, though he was well aware she attended these types of gatherings when she was raised as a socialite in Moscow. Not that she particularly wanted to.

They locked eyes, and she found herself unable to contain the hitch of her breath at the sight of his tempting, devilish smirk as he teased the curled cherubic ringlets of her styled hair between two fingers. He leaned closer, his warm breath prickling the shell of her ear, a tremor rattling her spine as she remained a stiffened statue, the only indication of life being the heat that radiated off her skin. He reveled in the subtle details of her face as if he were admiring a Renaissance painting — the way her pupils bloomed as she subconsciously toyed with her lips.

"Не забудьте пройти мимо за́ла," he whispered in hushed breaths, pulling away before she leaned too far into him, withdrawing himself.

She whirred out a deafened whistle, imperceivably stretching her limbs as she answered with a silent nod, fleeing from his carnivorous grasp as she willfully threw herself into the throng of equally ravenous guests, who were prepared to gorge on her body as if she were an unsuspecting, innocent lamb — the main course for the event. But she was already equipped with the mental tools to deal with such stifles.

Another mission. They had snuck into the estate of the illustrious Amaterasu family, which maintained a myriad of associates with the officials of both Japan and Yokohama's governments respectfully. To her, it was no shock to uncover that these nouveau riche elites had achieved their financial status through devious and shrewd methods. They were associated with several embezzlement schemes that funneled donations from public works projects into their personal bank accounts, which unashamedly reflected in the luster of their décor. It was almost impressive — they were close to rivaling the Port Mafia with their connections. In the last couple of weeks, the Rats had steadily scrounged up intel about the household, pinpointing the brunch event as a prime opportunity, manufacturing invitations to slip in and string them up with a noose created by their own secrets — and (Name), with her background, was the best choice for the job.

She glided into conversations with a practiced ease, moving across the entry hall with fluid grace, her laughter both enchanting and unattainable as she remained an undetected outsider. (Name) nodded at their queries, careful not to allow her own name to escape her as she dodged their prying questions. No matter the setting, whether in Moscow or Japan, socialites were always the nosiest people in the room. Her twisted smile quivered, finding an air of amusement in their meager attempts to squeeze out the truth. She had plenty of experience avoiding this type of attention as the black sheep of her family, accustomed to much more animosity than prodding from meager-minded gossipmongers. And through each word that left her lips, she only emboldened herself as an entrancing enigma — she hoped it would draw forth the curiosity of one particular member of the party.

Her heels clicked with each stride as she scaled the grand staircase, ghosting past oodles of guests sampling their bubbling beverages, leaning toward one other in a vain attempt to hide their unabashed whispers. The blinding spotlight wasn't new to her, but embracing it was a feeling she would need to get used to. There was such a powerful sentiment in captivating the attention of dozens, and instead of retreating from the brilliant light into the comfort of the shadows, standing proud and tall.

Her eyes drifted to the steps, recalling the marble stairwell she climbed as a girl. Each element of this house was a strange picture of perfection, like it remained completely unlived in. It unnerved her — there were no dents or scratches that could depict the elements of a family home. Even within the suffocation of her childhood manor, the outside stranger knew it was lived in. The walls steamed with stories of generations past, tales of triumph and tragedy. Her own story lingered in the mold that set in those foundations. She frowned. It was so much easier for these families to hide their greed and vanity behind the blank canvas of their homes, but it signified one thing. They were also so much easier to manipulate.

"Excuse me!"

Perfect timing.

The swift footsteps of a tiny, guileless woman approached with a mission in mind. She had crimped charcoal hair that was pinned near the back of her neck and was swaddled in a dress that could trap heat. Her winding, animated grin grabbed the attention of every man she passed — at least to the average eye. (Name) watched each turned head as they eyed her glitzy, loud gown, practically licking their lips at the shameless declaration of wealth. She also caught the imperceptible downturn through the corners of the young woman's overdrawn lipstick, a small smile appearing on her own face as she recognized her.

The infamous sole child and heiress to the Amaterasu fortune — Amaterasu Kana. Even if she had not been debriefed before the mission, (Name) would've had to have been living under a rock not to recognize her. She was frequently featured on the front pages of Yokohama newspapers, photographed shaking the hands of bureaucrats and cutting the ribbons of upstart foundations. Though (Name) knew that most of the money that was donated to those charity events suspiciously disappeared into the pockets of its organizers.

(Name) bowed her head, purposefully concealing her expression. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Amaterasu."

"The pleasure is all mine." Goosebumps crawled across her arms despite the sleeves that worked to warm her body — Kana had the intonation of a shrill songbird, and (Name) had to withhold a wince as if she was the sole audience for a children's recorder concert, except without the endearment of childish passion. And much like a child, the small heiress rang on like an unrelenting church bell, prodding (Name)'s mind with a complete lack of shame as she bombarded her with a breakneck amount of questions. She would make an impressive detective if it weren't for her brazenness. Wealthy socialites always did this, but she was one of the worst (Name) had experienced by far.

Out of the corner of her eyes, (Name) spotted two of the heiress' bodyguards, dressed in black from head to toe, mumbling into their earpieces. If she had to guess, they were most likely searching into her background as their mistress attempted to distract her — not that they would be able to find anything. Fyodor guaranteed that their backgrounds had been wiped across the continent, besides their obvious national origins, erasing and stealing records until nothing remained.

"I must say, dear — you look lovely. Like a sparkling jewel," Kana interjected, tugging at the skirt of (Name)'s dress. "And this fabric is divine. You must recommend me your tailor."

"You are quite lovely as well." (Name) beamed at the woman, a rhapsodic thrill tremoring through her nerves at the envious lilt in Kana's tone. She lifted at the ruffles of her skirt with her gloved hand, a disappointed pout exaggerated by the furrow of her brows. "I'm afraid the dress was a present. I am unaware of its original designer."

It was a half-truth; the dress was a gift. However, the designer was not a famous one who completed commissions across the country. (Name) had been unaware that a familiar casino manager designed clothes until he approached her with a timid smile and an offer — becoming his experimental model in exchange for the products. Sigma already had a tasteful eye for fashion, but she had only then realized that he had created his own outfits himself, hiding his talent behind a wall of mediocrity and humility.

CLING!

A hushed commotion halted their bleak conversation, murmurs rushing through the agitated room as both of the women peered their heads around other partygoers. Another woman had apparently tripped over her own two feet while she descended the stairs, tumbling into a man beside her and accidentally splashing champagne on her white dress, the rest smashed with glass shards as it hit the ground. She blushed, apologizing profusely as the man helped her to her feet, only for him to respond with a judgemental sneer as he turned back to his discussion, leaving the poor woman stuttering as tears welled in her eyes. (Name) frowned as the girl limped away, her foot twisted at an odd angle, practically feeling her pain reflecting from memories many years ago.

"Quite a hideous little thing, now, isn't she?" an insidious, slithering voice whispered into her ear, making her skin crawl.

She couldn't allow a sliver of that internal empathy to appear on her face, lucky that no one caught the shallow breaths she took in as she compelled herself to remain stationary, resisting the urge to walk over and assist the girl. The elites would eat her alive if she showed even a hint of compassion — be as lifeless and perfect as a statue. (Name) hummed at Kana's insulting sneer in mock agreement, eyeing the woman as she was forced to link arms with her.

"Come now." Kana pulled on her arm, squeezing it with a bruise-inducing grip. "I must introduce you to some of my colleagues. There are some fine-looking gentlemen amongst them."

(Name) nodded with a hum but lost her breath and forgot her place as she paused at the border of the second-floor balcony, gazing over the opulent guests until she spotted the familiar face of her companion conversing with a group of well-groomed gentlemen. No one besides her knew that the man had no ancestral experience with affluence and riches, his charm allowing him to blend in with ease, enticing the people that surrounded him with faux allure as he feigned interest in their daily struggles. She wanted to roll her eyes — it took years for her to absorb a facade of stoicism, but he was practically the master of that craft.

However, there was one part of this mission that bothered her.

In many cases, she would've been accompanied by one of her subordinates, acting solely as a precautionary aid — and likely a human shield — in case the mission went awry. However, instead of a member of the countless contenders that she had considered and submitted to Fyodor to review for the task, she was met with the looming silhouette of the Demon himself sitting inside their rented limousine, a deliberate gleam in the narrowed cavern of his eyes. She had paused but didn't bother to ask about the altered plan. He would never tell her, hiding the truth behind a variety of well-thought-out excuses.

At least she wasn't paired up with Ivan again. A shiver ran down her spine. The man was obsessed with Fyodor and in turn, was equally as obsessed with her.

Nevermind that. In truth, she was delighted that Fyodor had chosen to accompany her today. But a part of her couldn't help but notice certain small aspects of his attire, particularly in the way his suit ever-so-slightly opened to expose the pale, blank canvas of his neck, unprotected from prying eyes by the lack of his signature ushanka. Her gaze traveled further down, ogling at the way the clothes were tailored against his lean body, unused to the sight of him outside of his normal button-ups and coat. And without a second beat, he glanced up at her, vibrant irises boring into her soul, a huff of amused air blowing out of his lips before he held her in a somnolent stupor.

That stupid, handsome bastard. She couldn't help but smile.

"Are you interested in that man down there?" Kana broke through the trance, forcing the pair of partners-in-crime to look away.

(Name) merely hummed, not too bothered that she was caught staring. "I apologize. I must've zoned out."

Kana blatantly ignored her questionable explanation, looking through the crowd until she spotted Fyodor. "He is quite appealing to the eye." A smirk curled up on her lips, one that made (Name)'s stomach roll. She eyed the heiress with a dissecting glare, arms tense as her jaw clenched. "Couldn't say I recognize him. Perhaps I should introduce myself once we return."

"Shall we?" Kana batted her eyelashes up at (Name), remaining blissfully unaware of the way the other woman's fists clenched at her sides.

She grinned through gritted teeth, releasing a tense cloud of electrified air. "I'd be delighted."

A modern lounge room stood within the heart of the mansion, exuding a further air of extravagance. It blended styles of both contemporary design and classic luxury, adorned with sleek block-like furniture and plush geometric textiles. Large, panoramic windows stretched from floor to ceiling, providing an unyielding view of the lush outdoor gardens and the vast stagnant pool to each observer.

Guests shuffled in and out of the room, holding their fragile cocktails that were stirred and crafted by an expert mixologist — and (Name) knew immediately that she had made it to the true center of wealth. These weren't only people who flaunted their riches; they held a manner of sophistication and generational duty with each stiffened motion of their bodies. Conversations intentionally touched on in-depth topics, opening the door to global investments and brandishing several philanthropic endeavors. Fortunes were discussed amidst sips of aged wine, and business deals passed between shaken hands and tipsy laughter. Her father would've been delighted to know his daughter was able to achieve a level of finite poise and refinement, much to her chagrin. She had never cared about such things, but old mannerisms seemed to die hard.

One spotless, shining grand piano settled in the corner of the room, attached to a dignified middle-aged pianist who played countless classical compositions, flipping through his repertoire with skilled agility — but she could recognize the lust for money that radiated in every crescendo, his shifting gaze eyeing the fat cats as they came and went. Softened melodies emanated from ivory keys, an ignored background to conversations. (Name) zeroed in on the sound, her hands cramping at a familiar tune, massaging her aching palms as he rendered each stiffened note. She sighed, shaking herself out of her reminiscence as she refocused her attention on her one-sided, lackluster conversation with the Amaterasu heiress that clung to her side.

"Each one of my governesses claims that I'm a reborn genius. From Einstein to Newton, their compliments never cease to make me blush."

(Name) bristled her shoulders, adverting herself away from Kana's boastful grin. "I can certainly understand why. You are absolutely impossible to underestimate."

Kana's cheeks reddened with demure delight, hiding part of her face with a wave of her hand as the backhanded meaning of the insult fell on deafened ears. "You are far too kind, dear."

(Name) disregarded the murmurs of the bashful woman as they glided into the center of the crowd. Kana attracted most of the initial attention from partygoers, much to (Name)'s relief and luck — she was a wealth magnet. It opened up the best opportunity for her to analyze each guest, combing through them to capture the perfect moment. She almost felt bad for the man she chose to push as she wormed out of the rabble, constructing a domino effect as he knocked over several others.

She didn't feel too bad, considering he was attempting to slip a familiar substance into the drink of a woman who remained obliviously chatting beside him.

Through a series of unfortunate missteps and collisions that she couldn't have calculated better in any other circumstance — a misplaced foot here, an inadvertent push there — a chain reaction was set off at a moment's notice. Several of the other guests lost place of their footing, glasses of fine champagnes and pungent wines flying in beautiful arches into the air, perilously headed towards the pristine ivory furniture. Shrieks of dismay cried out as many were splashed in the following seconds, soaked in sticky alcohol as they griped and groaned.

And in that unforgiving spotlight, gawked at by all, was Amaterasu Kana herself, bathed in a mixture of red and beige. She shook like an irate pomeranian puppy, snarling at anyone who attempted to console her as she screamed in outrage, stomping her heals against broken glass as attendants swarmed her, trying to ease their mistress through their attempts to rectify the pastel fabrics of her dress, but it was entirely in vain. It was absolutely ruined. (Name) smirked, releasing a mischievous chuckle as she slipped down a lone, umbrageous hallway while a high-pitched shriek wore at the foundations of the house.

She shuffled down the hall, approaching an intimidatingly large door. It wasn't a surprise that it seemed to be locked as she fiddled with the handle, but that wasn't a problem. She reached into her hair, pulling out a slender, metal hairpin from amongst her styled tresses. With a smile on her face, she funneled years of experience in breaking into her stepmother's study, her younger self carefully prying apart the rusting lock to snatch a few rare novellas into her current situation. She summoned a deep breath, bending the pin with one end shaped as a hook, the other remaining to act as a tension wrench. It slipped into the keyhole, and she applied an expert amount of pressure, listening with her ear pressed against the wood as she engaged with the tumblers inside. Her delicate movements felt like it took hours, careful not to allow the stressor of time to affect her judgment, and she let out a huff once she heard a familiar click, the mechanism surrendering as the entrance was left ajar.

The office was quite frigid compared to the warmth of the rest of the manor and seemed to rot like a bleeding heart in the foundations of its furniture. She muffled a cough, the air thick with the scent of aged paper, tall bookshelves lining the walls with volumes that encompassed decades of knowledge. The desk held a myriad of scars from its countless years of use, her hands brushing the dust on its worn top as her eyes scrounged through the scattered documents. And that was when she spotted it — a couple of bank numbers and a list of recent transactions between the family and those so-called charities.

Money may be enticing in itself, but to the rich, blackmail is worth its weight in gold.

She scoured the room, a flickering light catching her eye from its place high in an upper corner — a surveillance camera. But she wasn't the least bit worried. The entire feed was currently being filtered into the headquarters of the Rats, monitored by someone at every hour, and completely disconnected from the major security unit of the estate. She snatched the papers, carefully folding them and slipping them inside a pocket enclosed by a zipper hidden underneath the folds of her dress — bless Sigma and his never-ending ingenuity.

Her cunning hands fiddled with the window latch, cracking it open with tactful consideration. She bundled the skirt of her outfit into her arm as she clamored out onto a dormer, shutting it with a click and a snap behind her. Adrenaline empowered her muscles, an experienced skip in her steps once she removed her heels to race across panels, ducking underneath windows before climbing up to the roof of an outstretched hallway, relieved that the office was positioned away from the prying eyes of outside stragglers — most likely on purpose. She relished in the brush of comforting misty spring air as it caressed her exposed skin and fluttered betwixt the fabric of her dress, a stark contrast to the unforgiving winters of her homeland, using her energy to balance from one point to another carefully. And with a thud, she slipped through a sunroof into a claustrophobic entryway, landing like a cat.

She frowned, scanning the space. Fyodor had only told her where they were supposed to meet, but he never specified exactly what type of room it was. She braced a hand against an ornate wooden door, prying it open with a huff.

Her mouth gaped as she entered upon a verdant landscape, bathed in the mellow midday sun. Its grandeur was unmatched by any other element of the estate, an oasis of life and vibrancy. The glass walls, kissed by the sun's golden rays, glistened with a radiant luster — an invitation to all who adventured it. Its sheer size was awe-inspiring, a lush tapestry of luminance. Sunlight filtered in between cracks in the canopy, creating patterns of blossoming vitality as she gazed at rows of assorted plants, ranging from towering trees to delicate orchids. She was partially saddened to see that no one chose to traverse through its stone pathways, breathing in a deep breath as she closed her eyes, listening to the deafened beauty of nature, even if it was encapsulated in such a finite space.

Her feet pattered against the foliate corridors created through flora, pausing to look upon the radiance of a noble, granite gazebo. It wasn't the structure itself that caught her eye but the object inside. Underneath the dappled shade of its roof was a breathtaking, anachronistic piano, standing as a testament to time. The instrument, with its darkened, polished wood and ornately carved legs, remained as a silent guardian of past melodies. Its keys, weathered with age, held a timeless allure. Its wooden lid, left open ajar, revealed an ancient interior, an intricate trove of resonant strings and felt hammers tuned to perfection.

Her aching hands loosened as her dread transformed into nostalgic longing, eyes sparkling as she found herself mindlessly drifting to perch on the piano bench, arms floating above the keys with euphoric anticipation. The greenhouse went silent with her first keystroke, hearkening attention toward the woman at its heart, who caressed the instrument in the delicate folds of her fingers. With every passing sound, she melded into a statuesque mold, back straightened, and muscles strained as she gritted her teeth, a familiar melody rousing the granite columns. Each crescendo is intentional; each note is intentional. Her face faltered as her hand tumbled with a cramp, the noise coming out sharp.

SMACK!

A metal ruler smacked against her throbbing wrists, which were now smaller and thinner.

"Again," a sharp, cacophonous voice pressured from behind, forcing the tiny girl to straighten like a stick out of dread. A decrepit woman dressed from collar to ankle in billowed clothes as black as midnight — the widowed Akilina Kozakov, her governess — towered over (Name) with a striking gaze, lips pursed tight into a perpetual snarl. The child formerly adored music; faint memories of ancient melodies and creaking lullabies whispered into her ears as a babe as she was held in the arms of her late mother. But that was only until she turned five and was pushed into taking lessons.

She had previously revered the piano with wonder, tuning into the barrage of pianists that entered her home, dollar signs illuminated in their eyes as they sat to play for guests during gatherings. Through the shadows, she would remain hidden behind the wooden banisters as she hummed along to the tune with a shallow smile, tapping the softened skin of her fingers onto the floor. But they only remained bruised and calloused — she would've never imagined something that could sound so freeing could restrain her in her place on the ground.

Play perfectly, not passionately — that was the Yeliseyev motto.

She suppressed the exuberance of mellifluous spirit in her mind, the action becoming easier with each passing lesson — the passion seemed to dissolve from between her fingers whenever her hands floated above the keys. With every scream and slap, she felt the love she had for the euphonious instrument dissipate, muscles locked in a tense position, the only emotion surviving being never-ending dread. Like a grizzled falcon, her governess eyed her subtle motions, repetitively smacking the ruler against her palm to the tempo.

(Name)’s hunger-ridden body trembled as she approached the keys once more, picking up from the previous section that she had messed up, swallowing her saliva as she forced herself to play. She blinked back tears amidst shallow breaths, rocking with nausea as the room spun around her, shivering as illustrations of her ancestors stared at her from above, bounding closer and closer. Her eyes dug into her hands — too light, too heavy, too fast, too slow, too loud, too soft, too—!

SMACK!

Her knuckles pulsated with immense pain, and she choked down a cry. No one would permit her sobs, so she remained still.

"Ms. Yeliseyeva!"

"I'm so sorry, teacher. I—" Ms. Kozakov silenced her with the slap of the ruler against the lid of the piano, running the straightened edge amongst the dozens of scratches in its wooden top. (Name) withered into herself as a daisy shuddered by a blizzard, sniffling into clothes that overwhelmed her body, the hems surpassing her arms and legs as they rolled down more with each motion.

"Be quiet."

The woman crossed her arms with a humph, her sleeves swaying like bat wings. "Your older brothers were brilliant pianists when they were your age, even while multitasking their other studies and the affairs of the estate."

(Name) wobbled in the ginormous piano seat, breathing between gritted teeth as she bit back a sob. The comparisons had been a tiresome charade, paralleling her to brothers she would never relate to. She was nothing like them, who were born with a silver spoon nestled inside their mouths, the handle cradled by tender hands. They were beloved. Each of her brothers received praise and affection for their efforts, while she was expected to be their equal with none of the benefits. It wasn't a challenge to turn them into perfect, charming young heirs — it is easy to be perfect when you are loved beyond reason, but it is so difficult to be perfect when your flaws are pointed out with every struggle and strife.

(Name) did not miss the repulsed sneer on her governess’s face, knowing that it was hardly a fraction of the disgust the woman felt towards her. No one enjoyed acknowledging the aristocratic lineage of (Name)'s paternal line, but it was rarely ignored in conversation — sometimes, she wished it was. (Name) often found herself preoccupied with daydreams, basking in thoughts of daily grandeur — a life spent far from the eyes of the bustling city and into the lush forests of the Russian countryside, cradled in unrelenting adoration as she nuzzled into the warm embrace of her mother. Perhaps they would've planted a garden, the flowers bursting into full bloom with unmatched vibrancy as they occupied their days relishing life's simple pleasures. They didn't need anyone else as long as they had one another. But that was only a fantasy, only to remain in her mind as she tossed and turned at night.

"You are only expected to be perfect." Ms. Kozakov broke from her thoughts with a sharp kick to her shin, her pointed heels breaking the skin. "Perfect is the least you can be, and yet you are not."

(Name) bobbed her head only to feel another familiar smack against her spine. "Sit like a lady, Ms. Yeliseyeva. Not a penniless pauper. Play from that measure again."

So she took a deep breath, preparing herself to leap back into the fray.

Every key she flattened underneath her fingertips unlocked another fragmented mirror of her memories and, with them, the sorrow and anguish she had tried to bury beneath vivacious smiles and whispered assurances. The melody, originally composed to be smooth as a lake's shining surface, gradually grew more intense, reflecting the resurgence of her emotions. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, hands moving with a sense of purpose like a mouse scurrying into its hole, racing away from the shadows of her nostalgia. Perfection — those aristocrats always expected perfection from her. She was primarily too focused on the composition of her measures to relish in an end product. To the members of the Moscow elite, it did not matter if a song itself was beautiful as long as the instrumentalist was a pretty little possession for them to pocket. Pain intertwined with each chord as she tremoured through the bars. The gazebo echoed with rushes of raw despair and fleeting flashes of hope before it silenced in one sweeping motion, as if her past haunted the buzzing air into submission, weakening the plants as they remained stationary at their roots. Exhaustion overwhelmed her; the woman wiping her eyes and removing her gloves, only to find her palms pooled with sweat in every crevice, trembling with each breath.

And it was only in the wake of her calamitous concert that she noticed the pair of blinding tyrian eyes that stared at her from a distance, partially hidden behind a bundle of flourishing greenery.

"You play."

If she did not know any better, she would say his voice had escaped him in almost complete silence, a contrast to his constant assuredness and self-confidence. It wasn't a question. He knew that she played — she had mentioned it in passing conversations many years prior. But he hadn't realized that she truly played. She smiled at him, a melancholic smile that held a world of sorrows.

"I do."

His eyes softened their everlasting, piercing gaze as he stepped underneath the shade of the gazebo, eyeing the stains of tear streaks that sparkled as they cascaded her puffed cheeks, welling into pools of anguish. He withheld the urge to wipe them away, brushing back the ghosts that clouded her flourishing spirit, experiencing a sense of empathy that his words could never manage to capture properly. But he also couldn't help but notice the sputter in her fingers as they morbidly danced across the keys, elegance and grace summed in a single keystroke — imperfectly seraphic. He sighed, an amused quirk on his lips as her finger prodded one of the higher notes.

FLICK.

Small, calloused fingers flipped between bins of dusted and peeling record sleeves, a strangely inscrutable, world-weary expression drawn onto the face of such a young man.

"What're you looking for today, Федя?" a gentle voice broke into the muted atmosphere of his foraging. The adolescent, scrawny form of a teenage Fyodor didn't bother to turn around, regarding (Name) with a pointed look as she stood on her tip-toes, perusing into the bin from above his shoulder. They were currently nestled inside an old record store, which was run by a sweet, older gentleman who doted on both of them without restraint or care, slipping them small candies and allowing them free-range of his collections — they had proven to be remarkably responsible for their ages.

The devilish pair had crept away from their weekly church service while families and their associates indulged in lunch, knowing neither would receive even a crumb. They burrowed into the thin fabric of their coats, traveling arm-in-arm through back alleys and sidewalks as they scaled the Yakimanka district. It had become a frequent rendezvous point for them whenever they had the time to escape, sorting the containers of the store's collection as they hummed to the classics, reveling in a brief absence of thought or toil as they repeated the same task over and over.

"I need to find a Bach piece," he muttered, slipping the aforementioned record out from between the others. (Name) stared at the grime-coated cover, grimacing, but chose not to speak on it any further as they continued to browse. The orphanage had some of their more talented children partake in a youth orchestra directly funded by the church — and Fyodor, with his quick skills and sharp mind, picked up on several stringed instruments throughout his transition period from his childhood home. She had only learned about his melodious gift when they had run into each other at a charity banquet — or rather, she had spotted him there. If she hadn't been too embarrassed to approach the stage and draw attention to herself, one judgemental scowl from her father would've been enough to hold her back. He was formerly dressed in the finest the clergy could afford, which was surprisingly a lot, but somehow still remained so out of place. She had basically gawked at him the entire night and prayed he never noticed.

She was unable to pinpoint the exact reason she watched him for so long, entranced. Perhaps it was because of the way he played — so perfect, yet somehow strained. The entire orchestra seemed to be tuned to prime excellence, at least in the eyes of an outsider or an ordinary socialite, untrained in the art of true music. But the weariness was evident, each member slaving over the notes on the staff, mastered chords blaring between half-wrapped bruised and blistered fingers.

She abandoned those macabre thoughts, her hands exploring a section of more recent records, grand Tchaikovsky compositions, and brilliant Chopin arrangements reflecting the overcast sun on each rivet of their silvery surfaces. One sparkled in the faded beams of midday, the vivid palette of the sleeve clashing with the doleful paint of the store's walls. (Name) tugged the ravenette by the edge of his jacket without a word, guiding him along into the cozy lounge area stationed in the back, which rouged from the light of an ancient, crafted glass lamp — and underneath that was an arenaceous record player. She plopped down onto the floor, striking the boy with a knowing smile as she patted the spot beside her, slipping the disk out of the sleeve and delicately settling it on top of the platter. Fyodor sat carefully beside her, ensuring he didn't stumble due to his weak constitution, watching as (Name) settled the tone arm on top of the record, their expressions completely contrasting as it spun to life.

"It's a 1942 Steinway," a soft-toned adult voice shattered his reminiscence, her face cleared of tears as she caressed the lacquered surface of the piano with maternal care. "I haven't seen one of these since a spring exhibition at the Naoumov's family estate. We didn't even have one."

He smirked, crossing his arms as his eyes trailed across the piano's reflective ebony veneer, having an equal appreciation for the splendorous ivories. "You know your instrument, милая."

She huffed, an amused quirk to her brow. "Of course I do." Wavering fingers tampered with the black keys, creating a dissonant chord. "The piano is such a lovely instrument. So versatile, despite being so stationary."

"My father preferred—" she started before cutting herself off with a frown, chewing on her bottom lip. "Never mind what he preferred. It doesn't matter."

Serenity enveloped the greenhouse, a calm hush settling over both of them. (Name) spun her head with a dazed hum as leather footfalls echoed closer, clasping Fyodor's outstretched hand as he helped her to her feet, ushering her outside through an unlatched window panel, noting her entranced stare at the gazebo as it grew smaller and smaller.

(Name) strutted through the expansive, narrow halls of the underground facility, a skip in her step as she practically danced in her swath of comfortable pajamas — the rest of the Rats had fled from the base to return to their civilian lives and homes, letting her release the precipice of her jubilation and energies. The mission had been a smashing success, with the Amaterasu family begging on their hands and knees for the evidence of the transactions to be erased. Fyodor drained their accounts as they bumbled sob stories on the other line, watching with amusement as all of their "hard-earned money" filtered down the drain and into the Rats' den. It was their fault, anyway.

But never mind that. Even through the exhaustion they both had faced in the events of the day, Fyodor had invited (Name) away from their routine twilight tea, emploring her to meet him in a spare room in the base's lower levels. She rubbed her arms with a shiver as the air became colder with each step, eyes sparkling as a door, identical to every other one, beckoned her with silent promises of mystery and allure.

With the tap of her signature knock, she twisted the knob, opening the door wide after a moment of silence. Her eyes squinted, adjusting the blurred shapes that stood stagnant in the dismal candlelight, filling her body with the smoky scent of jasmine. But once she could finally make everything out, a gasp involuntarily tumbled from her lips.

In the dead center of the room, surrounded by mirrors that enclosed the space as it reflected over and over, was a proud and tall but incredibly familiar grand piano. She remained standing in the doorway, lips pulled into indescribable awe, before being broken from her trance as wooden legs scraped against the tiled floors. Her gaze adverted to the other corner, where Fyodor was sitting on his chair, resting his signature cello between his feet as his eyes traveled across her face, reading her like a book.

That stupid, handsome bastard.

She shut the door behind her with a click, swiftly inspecting the instrument as she lifted the lid in disbelief. Every key and every string was identical to the piano from the gazebo. WIth her foot, she tapped at the pedals underneath it, raising her eyes from the floor to the man in front of her, one question remaining on her mind.

"...why?"

She knew from experience that there was no point in inquiring about the how or what of the piano's alarmingly sudden presence. He would never answer, and she was honestly too mindblown with the idea of such a large object being carefully snuck inside — without her knowledge, to add — to consider the process. She hoped that, at the very least, he would reply to that one question, even if it was in his own roundabout sort of way.

"It's about time we have our duet, don't you think, любимая?"

He chuckled at the obvious excitement in her eyes as she ignored his loose-ended answer, her body practically beaming as she plopped onto the piano bench with a sweet giggle. Her fingers experimentally thrummed to the end of the keys, masterfully creating a simple scale without looking down. He followed in her stead, gliding his bow across the cello strings, already aware that they had been perfectly tuned. And then he looked up.

"Rachmaninoff's Sonata in G Minor."

The same record from the little shop in Moscow. She smiled. He had remembered all this time.

"Andante."

Her hands raised, as did his bow.

"Ты некомпетентное дерьмо—!"

His adolescent body couldn't even muster a flinch as one of the orchestra attendants struck down onto the neck of a woodwind player with a thin metal rod — the comedic shriek of a piccolo almost sounded humourous, if not for the pained groan that followed from the instrumentalist's lips, wincing as a bruise bloomed on their skin. The tension was thick enough to slice through with a knife. For weeks, they had been the subject of the relentless regime marshaled by their conductor, a man who reigned a reputation for being, as the elite delicately referred to it, "strict." Their sugarcoating was a laughable understatement. He was a tall, imposing man whose brow was eternally furrowed, wielding his authority over the children like a dictator. His baton raised once more, prepared to unleash a storm of fury upon the trembling orchestra. There was no room for error, no grace for a missed note or a falter in tempo.

They had to be perfect.

The opening bars of Bach's St. Matthew's Passion flooded the room in a cacophony; the once expressive piece transformed into a living nightmare. The conductor's harsh movements pushed the orchestra to the brink, racing across the measures without care to the straining children, their fingers cramped as they attempted in vain to keep up. His eyes filled with a venomous mixture of disdain and rage, singling out individuals and humiliating them with a single glance.

"Громче, Достоевский!"

The nape of his neck bruised shades of violet and vermillion, mistakes met with a torrent of spinning insults, some of the more sensitive members sobbing silently in their seats. That despotic conductor would wave his baton, signaling for an attendant to strike at the offending musician with their metal rods, partially stained crimson from broken skin. It dragged on for hours, the music background to the relentless assault on their spirits. Most were only struggling to make money to take home to their families, not having a choice if they wanted to eat the next day — child-labor laws didn't extend to musical groups associated with the church. The children knew they were being taken advantage of, but they didn't have a choice.

Fyodor hid the prologue to his insidious thoughts through a carefully crafted glare, willing the conductor to drop dead from his eyes alone — he could easily kill him with a single touch, but not yet. It wasn't the right moment, people would see. But the man would pay in due time for his sins, corrupting such youthful passion, funneling it into a lifeless musical machine.

The conductor lifted his baton once more, the orchestra members tensing as they straightened their backs to play. Perfect. That was all they needed to be. Absolutely perfect. The beaconing image of the results of the elites' generosity, who watched each child with eyes of feigned sympathy. Only one gaze ever stood out amongst the rest.

"Федя?"

The timid whisper of that childhood nickname cut into his memories, lifting his eyes from staring at his trembling hands towards his effervescent sweetheart, forcing him away from the pain with a small, empathetic smile — that same benevolent smile. Their wounds were identical in multiple ways, and she'd never let him forget that. He wasn't alone anymore; neither of them were — they would play together, unburdened by the narrow judgment of people who no longer mattered. She tapped her foot to an unheard rhythm, brow perked up with child-like wonderment.

"Ready?"

In their years together, they had found harmony in a profound and transcendent symphony, the intertwining melodies of two hearts creating a masterpiece of shared experiences — from clinging to one another on a weak window dormer, one a daughter beatified with the warmth of life and the other a son burdened with the frost of death, only loved by parents that had long departed from the surface of the living world, to cross the continent, hand-in-hand as they faced each new day with no fear, knowing they could surpass every challenge if they remained side-by-side. They had become a complex but wonderfully synchronized composition. And in this refrain, as they entered the next section, there was no need for a conductor at the reigns, easily harmonizing with empathy only shared between the two, seeking to comprehend their hopes, dreams, and fears through the other's lens. Melodies of lifelong laughter rang clear and true, circling a lightness into their lives that could be found nowhere else.

In their grand composition, harmony did not mean an absence of discord — that is not the way life is, but instead a divine interplay of differences and similarities. Like contrasting, dissonant notes, they retroactively complemented one another, enhancing their strengths while compensating for their weaknesses. It was no static composition but a work of living, breathing art, evolving and blossoming with each passing day. Notes were fed by the warmth and care that filled each rest and the tenderness that arose as they allowed each other to shine in the solos.

In their duet, they had found the transformative power that allowed two kindred souls to intertwine, and whenever they played in truly perfect accord, appearance no longer mattered, instead producing a deeply fulfilling lifelong bond that neither of them could've possibly imagined.

The Demon smiled at his divine treasure, forever devoted as she awaited his que. "For you, моя милая. Always."

(моя) милая = (my) dear не забудьте пройти мимо за́ла. = don't forget to pass by the reception room. федя = fedya любимая = darling ты некомпетентное дерьмо—! = you incompetent shit—! громче, достоевский! = louder, dostoevsky!

TAGLIST: @hypocritic-trash-baby @imhandicapableofmath @seisitive @hauntedsol @ruru-kiss @ishqani @kotysluny @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @aqigglewigglewoo

#☆.musings #f!reader #series: [the sun and the stars]#bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #fyodor bsd #fyodor dostoevsky x reader #fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor x reader

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a-manicured-lawn · 1 year ago

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“Ravioli!”

“Vidow!”

“RAVIOLI!”

“VIDOW!”

Shadow and Legend had been taking turns howling at each other for the past five minutes, each attempting to declare their love for their partners in the only way they knew.

Namely, brute force and attempting to be louder than the other.

The rest of the Chain had quickly vacated the room as the shade and hylian’s argument began to heat up, leaving the fighters and their respective partners the only ones in Legend’s house.

“With Ravioli, I can make as many pasta puns as I like! There’s no good puns for ‘Vidow’” Legend fumed.

“You’re both too saccharine,” Shadow sneered. “Where’s the spice? Where’s the banter?”

Legend snapped. “Oh, I’ll show you spice!” he roared, tackling the shade to the ground and dodging the flying fists now aimed at him from below.

Meanwhile, on the couch, Vio and Ravio watched with bemusement and potions at the ready for when their partners were through with their brawl.

“Ravioli?” Vio asked, lifting his wineglass in invitation.

“Vidow!” Ravio responded cheerfully, clinking his glass against Vio’s.

VIDOW.

#ravioli vs vidow war #ravioli #vidow #two cakes indeed #lawn's planter box

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dorkydiaz · 2 years ago

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BUT YOU DREAM SOME EPIPHANY [1.6k | coma dream | pre-relationship/platonic] {ao3}

a/n: all i have to say for myself is that i wrote the foundation of this in a fugue state on the bus home from work the other day (not when i was stuck for 4 hours) and it is in general not the coma dream fic that anybody wants it to be i don't think lol. so no screaming at me for it cause i did warn you, well there is one moment that e expect screaming about. and the title is from epiphany by taylor swift but only cause it had the word dream and epiphany in it which is related. spoilers for 6x10 and 11 i guess? i no longer never say never for spec fic, but this is highly unlikely. enjoy!

There are moments in life when things slow down. when you can know what’s going to happen as you watch in slow motion. Sometimes it’s happening to you. and sometimes to others. The nature of being a firefighter is you see those moments a lot. Both versions. and Buck had his fair share of them. That's what takes him by surprise, because one moment he’s in his turnouts under pouring skies, and the next he’s in a kitchen. And it’s warm, there are flowers on the table, curtains with dainty flowers on them. But something feels off. He's wearing a thick green sweater and a button up and some khakis. No shoes since he’s in the house. He misses his jeans and sweatshirts. He tentatively takes a step, peering out the window. Outside there is a literal white picket fence with a manicured lawn and a few planter boxes filled with blooming flowers. He looks further up to the sidewalk. Maddie had taken him here once.

— His mother is in the kitchen with him now, she looks the same. Unloading bags of groceries, setting aside a few things that looked like they could be ingredients for a meal. There’s another man, sitting at the table, he has dirty blonde hair that slightly curls at the edges, bright blue eyes, and a sharp jawline.

“You know, you should think about selling that car yours before the wedding, Evan. Trade it in for something more sensible.”

“Mom-“ the other man says.

And a strike of recognition sparks as he looks at the man again. He’s looking at Daniel— he bears a striking resemblance to himself. Honestly could be twins if he didn’t have those few years on Buck.

“It really is a shame Ali couldn’t make it this trip, we were so looking forward to getting some details ironed out,” his Mother continues on– still the bubbly optimist Buck thinks sarcastically.

So he’s marrying Ali in this upside down world.

“Yeah, she’s uh sorry she couldn’t make it— you know how her schedule is,” he chokes out remembering Ali's travels involved in her work. —

His fingers twitch, itching to find out what Eddie's doing in this one. And maybe run to him. He misses everyone.

Something tells him to open his phone and navigate to Facebook of all places and enter “Eddie Diaz” in the search bar. The profile is pretty much devoid of activity. There’s a profile picture, something unsettling about it but Buck can’t put his finger on it. He scrolls through his friends and reluctantly clicks Helena's name.

The page is a shrine to her grandson. He scrolls, the feed highlighting one comment from Eddie on a recent picture. Eddie Diaz He’s gotten so big. Tell him happy birthday for me.

It’s like a stab to his stomach. Gotten so big, as if he hadn’t seen him row in front of his eyes. Tell him, like he wasn’t there. The realization hits him and it settles in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't there. Eddie wasn't there with Chris.

He swipes over to his own profile, the most recent post a picture of him and Ali— her hair in a half updo cradling the side of his face, a delicate ring on her finger. There are comments and likes from hundreds of people— none of whom he recognizes.

Apparently they live in Denver of all places. Where he is a teacher, for what seems to be young kids. That’s something that warms his heart. At least he wasn’t an insurance adjuster or something absolutely soul sucking. Also teaching comes with clipboards.

— Maddie walks in the door, still in her scrubs. And he hadn’t realized he had been so worried about her until he scanned every inch of her for anything— finding nothing he wraps her in a tight hug holding back tears. At least one of them escaped something in this life.

“Sorry I missed dinner, shift was nuts!” She sighs, dramatically flopping onto the couch.

And he can’t stop looking at her.

“Mom and Dad already in bed?”

He just nods, pouring her a glass of wine.

“Danny being the goody two shoes he is and cleaning the kitchen?”

He laughs and nods again.

“Okay so, tell me the story again. I need to know every detail of how my little brother got someone to marry him before I could be in a stable relationship for more than a month or two.” she takes a long sip, “I mean I’m hopeful with Eddie but he’s also dealing with a lot.”

Buck nearly chokes on his beer, because she couldn’t mean– there was no way. But something in his heart twinges, telling him that this universe was cruel and unusual. And that thought should be entertained as the truth.

And because he’s supposes he’s a masochist, he replies, “Well, I think that warrants you telling me more about him than me, a story I will probably tell over and over again until I die.”

Maddie shoots him a glare.

“Yeah Maddie, will we be meeting this Eddie anytime soon?” Daniel asks with a glint in his smile.

“If he lasts until the engagement party,”she points a finger at Buck, “I will bring him. We could do a whole road trip and meet his family down in Texas too.”

“Wow, quite the test of the relationship.”

If he has to “meet” Eddie at his engagement party Buck might throw up. —

“Buck, you have to find home,” Daniel says.

“I- what? I guess Ali and I-“ he sputters trying to come up with something to say.

“No, Buck. You don’t see it?”

“No, I–”

“You’re telling me all of this makes sense to you? That I'm alive? That you’re engaged to Ali? That Maddie and Eddie are a couple? That he left Chris?”

“How did-?”

“Buck-“

“I am the only person he told about how–” he takes a beat as something pulls in his chest, “This isn’t real.”

Daniel shakes his head.

“I need to- Oh God I gotta- Fuck. How do I-“ he looks toward the door, and leaps for it. The handle doesn’t budge, “How do I get out of here?” he practically begs Daniel.

“I don’t know, I’m just a projection of you. What you think I may have been.”

“But you–”

“Just the messenger. You thought of that.”

–- He looks down and his clothes have changed, a clean starched button up and slacks. The house is lit in soft warm light, sparkling decorations laid out on the table, poised and ready. Several plastic champagne glasses waiting to be filled rest on the dining room table.

He finds his way back to the kitchen where he finds Maddie, she’s sitting at the table carefully arranging some paper flowers into a bouquet.

“Can’t believe you actually caved and let Mom have the party here.”

“It was either this or the Wedding and there is no way that’s happening, so we made a compromise,” he replies concocting the believable line from thin air.

She hums.

“I guess that ruins your big road trip with Eddie though?”

“Yeah, he’ll be here soon. His shift ran a little over.”

Oh, so this was happening.

His stomach churns. He knows this is all a concoction of his subconscious mind, but the mere idea that he doesn’t know Eddie. It was the weirdest combination of a dream and a nightmare, and it all felt so real.

He’s pulled from the reverie by the doorbell sounding throughout his ears. And a familiar warm honey voice drifts throughout the house and there’s a tug at his heart.

Maddie perks up at the sound the same as Buck.

He can’t bear to follow her out the kitchen door.

“Hey there, my Buckette.”

He seriously wants to throw up. This was the worst timeline even if it was a fabrication.

“C’mon help me out with a project in the kitchen.”

Buck braces himself, and he watches in slow motion as they walk in, hand in hand.

He finally takes Eddie in, he mostly looks the same, still with kind eyes but missing a spark and warmth. Wearing a soft henley and jeans, he looks out of place from the rest of the house that’s clearly decked out for a cocktail party.

Their eyes meet and it’s the only thing that’s made even the slightest bit of sense the entire time he’s been here. He still wants to throw up though.

“Eddie, this is my brother, the groom himself.”

“Hey, so you are the famous Evan then,” Eddie replies, holding out his hand.

The name sounds strange from his lips. Stilted and sharp, with a cold unfamiliarity, coming from a place of unknowing rather than place of care.

Buck hates it.

He doesn’t know how to speak anymore. So he reaches and takes Eddie’s hand.

And it’s like a bolt of lightning coursing through him, wrapping around his hand and weaving up his arm– and there’s air in his lungs and his eyes snap open.

The warmth around his hand is still there, and it’s tighter. He grabs back with as much strength as he has. And he finds those eyes again. And they are warm and kind, with that light shining and burning behind them.

He can’t speak. Can’t scream. So he just lets the tears pool and fall.

“Hey, you’re okay,” his voice is fragile in a way that Buck has never heard before. And it sounds like he’s saying it for himself more than for Buck.

Moments later they are no longer alone, but their gaze is fixed across the room.

Find your home. Oh.

#911 #911 fic #evan buckley #buddie #aj writes stuff #usermoonlight #userbuckleyhans #tuserksn #tusercourty #userceecee #useroliii #useryb #userweres

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ahundredtimesover · 2 years ago

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Belong (4.5: Rewind) | MYG

Pairing: Yoongi x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: exes-to-lovers-to-exes-to-lovers; actress!OC x basketball coach!Yoongi; summer romance; “long” distance relationship; parallel timelines; angst, fluff, smut

Chapter (Series) Warnings: foul/explicit language; alcohol consumption & passing out, family drama, sport injury; dreams & moving away; allusion to depression; basketball and acting talk; 2014 and 2022 Yoongi; shy and nonchalant cocky whipped Yoongi; almost drowning, sexual content (18+)

Chapter Word count: 6k

Series Masterlist

Status: Complete

Series summary: Being an actor has always been your dream. Pursuing it meant many things - leaving the town where you grew up, distancing yourself from your family that had fallen apart, and saying goodbye to the man who made you feel what home was like. When you decide to finally return after being away for so long, you meet Min Yoongi again, and you’re reminded of the summer romance from 8 years ago with the college basketball superstar whose broken dream pushed you away. As you find yourself spending time with him, you’re left to wonder if love changes, if it gives second chances, or if it’s just another illusion that will hurt the both of you the second time around.

Listen to: Nervous by Gavin James || Playlist 🎶

3 years ago

Yoongi’s childhood home is a one-floor house with a spacious kitchen and a nice lawn. His dad had built it for their mother as a way to keep her happy. It has a lot of the things she likes, like a big common space for everyone to gather around during meals, a vertical garden outside, and some planter boxes hanging by the windows. Half of the furniture is from the antique shop, which his dad had refurbished to fit the style of the place.

Yoongi was too young when they first moved in, but he remembers many things about it, like evenings watching talk shows and the news while they all ate and cleaned up as a family, mornings of his parents talking about different topics that got Yoongi interested in watching documentaries, and afternoons with his brother shooting hoops in their small backyard.

He also remembers the weekends you’d stayed over when he was injured, the first time you saw him break down, and the last time you walked out the door. There are memories of him ignoring his dad, arguing with his brother, and that evening when he took down the basketball ring and threw it in the trash.

He spent a whole year living here after the injury. Yoongi saw how his old man remained positive despite the pain over seeing his son struggle, how he worked hard to pay the medical bills, how he tried to make the house feel like the home he lost, even if Yoongi wasn’t sure that was possible, only because you were no longer in it, and there’s really no one to blame but him.

Things got relatively better though. After he fully recovered physically and got to save enough by helping the stores in the area digitize and selling some of his prized NBA jerseys, he moved out and rented a tiny studio apartment. He continued to help his dad at the shop, expanding its services for more income stream while also doing freelance work online. It was mentally tiring, but it helped his mind be preoccupied with things. Perhaps that’s what got him talking to his friends again; it’s what got him to go out and find other ways of moving on from all the pain that he chose to carry by himself.

It’s a Friday when Yoongi visits his old house with some groceries he bought. He got a huge payout in one of the projects he worked on and he’s been slowly paying off his dad by buying the essentials and medication, as his old man insists that there’s no debt to be paid; it’s his job to look out for his son, after all.

“Hey, dad,” Yoongi greets as he walks into the kitchen.

“Hey, son,” his dad replies, scooping them bowls of stew for dinner, a routine they’ve both developed after Yoongi moved out.

They proceed to eat, with him staring blankly down the hallway like he sometimes still does. It hasn’t been a good couple of weeks and he’s just been waiting for the next big project that would help him keep his mind off things again.

“So an old friend was in town this week and we went to this local bar,” his dad says. “It’s nice. They have live music every Thursday. A-reum was the one playing last night.”

At the mention of her name, Yoongi stills for a bit, only to hum in response.

“I asked her how she’s doing and why she hasn’t passed by the shop in a while. Imagine my surprise when she said that you two have broken up. Two months ago. And I was the clueless father who didn’t know that his son was going through another heartbreak,” his dad continues. “What happened, son? You both seemed happy. You looked happy.”

“Shit happens,” Yoongi shrugs, not keen to talk about how much of a jerk he really is. It’s enough that he knows exactly what caused him to fall out of his feelings for her; he doesn’t really want to share that with anyone else.

His dad looks at him with a hardened gaze. It isn’t that he didn’t know about the breakup; it’s more about his son’s reaction to it, how he’s looking indifferent to it as if it’s not possibly hurting him right now. It’s choosing again to go through all this by himself. Even more, it’s the fact that A-reum seemed good for him. Yoongi was smiling again, laughing again; it wasn’t the same as before but it was better than the closed-off, broken version of him.

“What happens?” The older man presses. “A fight that you didn’t want to fix? Remembering something from your old life and then shutting her out? Or was it because she wanted to chase her dreams and you let her leave you?”

If this was 2 years ago, Yoongi would’ve answered back. He would’ve argued that it wasn’t his old man’s place to accuse him like that, even if he has all the reasons to, given Yoongi’s track record. But instead, he just looks down, eyes sullen as he thinks of the night he told her that he no longer felt the same, and that it was better if they continued with their lives separately.

“That’s kind of out of line,” he replies, respectfully.

His dad sighs, suddenly feeling guilty about making assumptions, especially when he knows how hard his son struggled, and how he worked just as hard to be better.

“I’m sorry, son, I just—”

“It’s okay, dad. They’re not baseless accusations,” Yoongi interjects. They’re what happened with you, after all.

“I just… don’t want you to keep pushing away people who love you, who want to be there for you,” his old man says. “It’s an exhausting thing to do at such a young age. You’ve got so much life to live. You can’t be scared forever.”

“I know. It was my fault. There’s still a lot I still can’t let go of,” Yoongi explains, even if there are more reasons behind it. “But I don’t really want to talk about it. It’s hard, sure, but I can manage. You don’t have to worry. I promised I’d reach out if it gets too much.”

“Okay, then,” his dad concedes. It’s progress from before, if he’s being honest, and this is always better than having his son crying on his own and completely shutting everyone out. “How was your day then?”

Dinner continues without the tension from earlier. Both men even get a laugh in. Perhaps Yoongi’s just much better at compartmentalizing now, or maybe he’s picked up a few acting tips from you. But either way, it keeps his dad from asking more. Breaking up with his girlfriend because she reminds him so much of you isn’t exactly in the list of Yoongi’s proudest moments; he’d carry this thought in his grave if he has to.

His old man heads to the couch while Yoongi insists on cleaning up. He washes the dishes, throws out the trash, and organizes all the groceries he’s bought. By the time he joins his dad, he could already hear the snores from next to him. Yoongi lets him be, knowing it’s been a tiring week, and proceeds to watch the show that’s on TV.

It takes a while for him to register that it’s you on the talk show, along with your co-stars from a recently-concluded series where you starred in a supporting role. His dad watched the show religiously; he was probably waiting for this segment before he fell asleep.

The cast consists of mostly veteran actors and you’re the youngest of them all, and so most of the questions addressed to you are about your feelings acting alongside people you look up to and if you felt any fear going into this project.

“Any time I star on a show is terrifying, only because I’m afraid to fail,” you answer. “It means so much to me to be given this chance and I have to tell myself that I can’t waste this opportunity. I only will if I let the fear take over, and that’s like betraying all my hard work, you know? I have to remind myself that I’m meant to take up this space. My agency, my friends, my colleagues - they all helped me get here. Giving in to the fear feels like I’m letting them down, too, and they don’t deserve that.”

The host seems in awe with your answers, so do your co-stars who pat you on the back and remark that you’ve always been very mature, that you’re a hard worker as much as you’re talented, and that they didn’t feel like you were new to the industry with how bold you were.

You cover your face in amusement while they all look fondly at you. You have that smile on, the one where you’re a little embarrassed over being praised, but Yoongi can sense that you’re also a little emotional over hearing what your colleagues think of you.

It’s the first time he’s watching you get interviewed and he’s a little emotional as well, seeing you get flustered but look proud. He listened to you talk about all these things - what shows you want to act in, which actors you want to work with, the attitude you want to bring into every project. You once told him that you admired him for being brave for dreaming, but he never got to tell you the same. He thinks you’re much braver than he ever would be. You loved him fiercely and certainly, after all, and he’d been the scared one who couldn’t do the same.

He stands by his decision that letting you go meant he loved you too much to keep you suffering with him, but sometimes he can’t help but think that maybe he’d been greedy, that his love had been selfish, that his selflessness made him decide for the both of you, and that ultimately pulled you both apart. Seeing you in the same room with people you admire eases that thought a little bit, but it’s your words that hit him harder.

What’s hard work if he doesn’t get to reap the benefits? Perhaps it’s one reason why the injury hurts more than just physically; it’s hard to explain how something so devastating can rip one’s soul, especially when he’d spent years molding his life around basketball only for him to lose his space in its world.

It continues to pain him; he aches for the death of his dream. But it’s the people around him who suffered greatly because he’d given in to the fear of living life without the sport he’d loved greatly. You hurt the most because of it; his family and friends continue to see him without the light in his eyes anymore. He’d hate to think that everyone who’d supported him from when he was able, to when he was broken would think that they haven’t been enough. He’d only wanted to shield them all from how dark it was in his mind so only he gets to shoulder it; perhaps selflessness can actually be selfish, too.

His thoughts are disrupted when your name is called again. The host asks what advice you could give to young aspirants who are just starting or have yet to put one foot on the door of this industry.

“I’m just like them,” you chuckle, a little shy. “I’m still finding my way.”

“But you’ve at least done something,” the host says. “Hearing it from someone close to their age or someone they can relate with may resonate more with them than from the veterans who’ve been doing this for years.”

Your co-stars agree and encourage you to talk, so you take the mic and address the viewers.

“To the young ones in school training to become an actor, or doing this for fun, or exploring the possibility of doing this for a living, I’m telling you now, it’s not always gonna be easy nor glamorous,” you start. “It’s gonna hurt sometimes, you’ll face rejection; you might even feel like it may not be worth it. Remember that it’s all part of the ride. It’s pretty amazing most of the time, especially when you love and respect your craft. Just keep working hard and turn to the people who’ll dream your dream with you.”

Yoongi notices the way your smile fades a little, even more when you say the next words, as if they’re hurting you and giving you peace at the same time.

“But if it gets too much, remember that it’s okay to give up, too. That doesn’t make you weak nor a failure nor a coward,” you continue. “Giving something up decisively takes courage. And you worked hard. The people who love you will love you no matter what.”

A lone tear falls down Yoongi’s cheek. If he was being delusional, he’d think you meant to say the words to him. Maybe the guys still talk to you; perhaps they told you about how he’d stopped playing basketball altogether, how he doesn’t like watching or talking about it anymore, and how he’d given up any bit of dream related to it. And maybe that hurt you, too, and that’s why you’re saying this, perhaps hoping in some way, it will get to him.

He turns off the TV and walks to his room. It hits him when he looks around, the love he once displayed for the sport no longer there. The empty walls that used to be full of posters, the rusty shelf that used to house his trophies, the closet that was once filled with jerseys that he’d sold. He didn’t give it up decisively. He gave it up fearfully and helplessly, because as he looks at this place that’s devoid of what once was his dream, all he feels is pain and guilt.

He misses the sport terribly, and being without it has hurt him more than anything.

Yoongi gets the posters he’d kept under his bed. Some of them have tears in them, most are crumpled. But he meticulously tapes and flattens them before posting them on his walls again, feeling his room come alive once more. He retrieves all his trophies from the big trash bag in the corner, taking each one out and placing them on the shelves.

From inside his closet, he unfolds the 2 remaining jerseys he didn’t have the heart to sell - the MJ one that his mother left for him, and the Allen Iverson one that you got him for your anniversary. He hangs them inside, his fingers tracing the Sixers logo of the one from you, and he allows himself to remember how playing made him feel so happy and free. But more than anything, he lets himself remember the excitement he’d get whenever he watched the sport, whenever he’d talk about or analyze it, whenever he’d think about it, and then a smile graces his face.

Not playing professionally may be an unrealized dream now. He’s in his late 20s with only a college career to be proud of. He’s accepted some time ago that his knee won’t be the same anymore, but he doesn’t need that to enjoy the sport. He still loves it whether he shoots the ball or watches someone else do it.

As he looks around his room, he feels that bit of excitement once again, and all it took was an interview he didn’t intend to watch of the woman whose love he’ll always hold onto for him to realize that he doesn’t want to give all this up. It’ll always pull him back in. If he can’t let it go decisively, then he won’t do it at all, not when it’s what could get him back on his feet again, even if it’s what tore him apart in the first place.

He pulls out his phone and texts his brother.

[To: Geumjae] Are you free in the morning? Can you go to the park with me to shoot around?

[To: Geumjae] I miss it. I think I’m ready

[From: Geumjae] Of course. I’ll drive out and see you tomorrow.

[From: Geumjae] I’m happy for you. Love you.

Being back in his university’s basketball court makes Yoongi feel nostalgic. He spent 4 amazing years making this place his home. He’d had most of his best moments here, like the 3 championships he won with his team. It feels a little weird to be in here all those years later, no longer in the maroon and white jersey that he used to sport but in business casual clothes, as the team’s coach officially welcomes him to the team.

Right after he snapped out of a 3-year long pity party, he played for the first time with his brother. He definitely missed the feel of the ball in his hand and the sound of the net swooshing when he shoots. He still got it, his brother had said, and it felt good to hear it. He wouldn’t deny that he can still shoot pretty well, but he was also practical enough to know that he couldn’t sustain it. His knee still feels stiff at times - a normal occurrence as the doctor had told him - and he’d get tired more easily, but the joy came back. The fear didn’t.

After that, Yoongi went back to watching basketball again, from the NBA to the national and university leagues. He discovered the online space for sports analyses, and he got sucked into its world. He’d comment on articles constantly and make his own, and he’s glad he did because it’s what ultimately landed him this job. One of his former coaches saw what he’d been saying and was impressed; Yoongi’s basketball IQ and unique way of looking at the game haven’t changed, the older man said.

That was 5 months ago and so much has changed since then but he’s proud of how he got back on his feet. There’s a different type of drive now, as he watches the team scrimmage as part of their training. Seeing their passion and hunger for success is inspiring, and the thought of bringing home another crown for the school with them excites him. It’s a new aspiration, and he’ll work hard to make them experience what he experienced as a young player with all his hopes and his dreams. Maybe they could achieve what he couldn’t because if it wasn’t him, then it could at least be someone he helped mold.

One other change has been you, insofar as Yoongi finally watching your concluded series for the first time. His dad insisted, saying he’d watch again with his son since it’s a really good show, and not just because he adores you greatly. But Yoongi wanted his peace and chose to watch it on his own.

He felt proud seeing you on screen. You’re made for it. Your charm and energy shine through and you express emotions so genuinely. He’d ignored his brother’s teasing that he might fall for you again, with Yoongi not wanting to acknowledge the possible truth to that.

But you’re an actual celebrity now and he’s just him. He doesn’t know how your love life has been other than the rumors of you dating some actor or model, which your agency always denied. You’d said once that most of those are just PR stunts anyway and shouldn’t be believed, so Yoongi didn’t bother spending so much time thinking if you were with someone. If any, he just hoped it’s someone who trusts and respects you, and he’d be content with knowing that you’re happy, even if in the deepest cracks of his heart, he wished it was still him.

You haven’t really left his mind, if he’s being honest. His relationship with A-reum was proof of that, so is the fact that it was your interview that got him out of his self-destructive hole to restart.

But it’s tonight out of all nights, when he pulls out the lone decent-looking jacket he has that he plans to wear to the meeting with the university faculty and sports director - which also happens to be something you got him years ago - that he thinks that maybe there’s a reason why he can’t completely move on from you. He tried and he honestly continues to, but it’s not easy when much of the happiness he remembers has you in it. You show up in his dreams sometimes, too, as if the universe is reminding him that he’s okay now, that he’s at least close to the man he once was and not just a shell of it anymore, and that maybe, you’d want to grab some coffee and see where things go.

It’s what prompts him to look up the details for your upcoming movie premiere so he could go. You worked on it the same time you were filming your series, and even if your name is one of the smallest ones on the poster as a supporting character, he already knows this is incredibly important to you. It’s your first movie, it seems, and he wants to be there to wish you luck and let you know he’s proud of you, and that if this is where your shared heartbreak led you, then he knows there’s no way he’d regret letting you go those years ago.

The woman staring back at you is someone you almost don’t recognize. Other than the glamorous champagne-colored dress that you’re wearing, there’s a smile that you haven’t seen in a long while, too. In over 3 years, to be exact. A heartbreak does that, you suppose. Your biggest supporting role in a series that wrapped up a few months ago felt too surreal for you, and you’d gone through the promotions for that feeling anxious; you barely had time nor energy to appreciate yourself nor the experience.

You do now. After the praises for your performance then and the ones from your colleagues for this, you feel that you at least deserve to smile, that you can truly claim for yourself that you’re on the way to big things, even if you know you’re far from it. You’re the most junior out of the entire cast, after all, and you’re more like a supporting role to the supporting role. You’re in the credits, at least, and you got to act alongside some of the people you look up to once more.

It’s premiere night and that calls for a big event. Jimin, your newly-hired personal assistant slash stylist, knocks on your door to say that the car is ready. You exit your room and drive from your humble apartment to the venue, feeling giddy and nervous.

“Looks like there are lots of fans tonight,” Jimin says from the passenger seat, getting news from his phone. “There’s a long line inside and outside. I heard it’s a packed cinema, too.”

“Well, it’s Song Hye-kyo. What do you expect?” You giggle. “When she’s your lead, there’s bound to be a score of fans. But that’s good for me, right? They’re there for her. I’ll just be fading into the background and no one will even notice.”

“Why would you want that?” Jimin looks at you curiously.

“You know why.”

Your unsure smile informs him of the reason and he understands. It’s gonna be tricky but you decided to not hide anymore starting tonight. You want that freedom, and you want it soon.

“But also, I’m still not used to it,” you continue. “It’s my first movie and I’m just a small part of it but it’s all still new to me. I don’t want people’s attention if it’s me looking overwhelmed, you know?”

“You’re gonna be fine, ___,” Jimin assures you. “You at least still look pretty when you look like that.”

“Hmm, that’s oddly encouraging,” you chuckle, seeing the scores of fans in the lobby before your driver heads straight to the VIP parking.

Jimin opens the door for you and leads you through the entrance. “Blow them away with your beauty, okay? I’ll see you shortly.”

You’re led towards a waiting room for the lesser-known actors, which you don’t mind. The big-name ones have their own and you’ll probably only speak with them during the afterparty later. Right now, you’re talking with your co-stars while getting a retouch of your makeup, and it helps ease your worries a bit. All you need to do is walk out to the red carpet with them and hope that the people at least cheer for you. You can worry about how you fared in the movie later on.

It’s an hour later when it starts. You walk towards the doors that exit to where the hosts and crowd are, already hearing their cheers as you wait. There’s 6 of you and cheers erupt when your names are called. You all walk out and wave at them, definitely overwhelmed by the camera flashes and shrieks of the people but you remain calm and professional, smiling the entire time and greeting them calmly. It’s more than you expected and you’re just happy to be experiencing this for the first time. It’s a moment you definitely won’t forget, and you’re glad you can at least share this with someone right after.

Your group is briefly interviewed before you’re led out to the other side to go back to the waiting room; you’ll all go to the cinema in an hour after all the actors have been introduced and interviewed. You take a detour, though, knowing you can’t really wait any longer. All the fans are inside the hall, waiting for the big stars to come out so the hallway leading to one of the building exits is empty. It’s accessible to the public but you already know that no person in their right mind would be here, so it’s the perfect spot.

You enter and wait only a few minutes before you hear your name being called. Turning around, you see him, and you feel even more excited.

“You looked gorgeous out there,” Min-kyu greets as he hugs you right away.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you giggle in his ears. “Thank you. Did I stutter?”

“Nope, you sounded great, too,” he chuckles, taking your hand. “I’m really proud of you. I’m happy I get to be here, and that we could decide on this together. I can’t have people linking you with someone else again when I’m right here.”

“You mean when I’m right here,” you tease, seeing as he’s the one always being rumored to be with some model. You place his hands on your waist as you continue. “It won’t be so hard anymore after tonight.”

“Okay. Well then, I don’t want to keep you,” he responds. “Someone might see us. But I’ll sneak in next to you in the cinema, alright?”

“Got it,” you smile giddily. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

You kiss him goodbye and assure him that you’ll see him shortly.

It’s the sound of a door closing that alarms you, breaking you out of your little bubble with the man you’ve been cozying up with for the past 7 months. It’s perhaps your longest relationship, if you could even categorize the previous ones as such. Andrew was a 3-month long fling, Ki-yong was a half-year on-off whatever, and Min-kyu has been the only one so far that you haven’t had any issues with. You’re unsure for how long it’s gonna last, but one reason why you don’t want to keep hiding anymore is because he gets linked to any woman he so much as says hi to. If whoever walked in your little PDA just now decides to do something about it before you do, then the timing wouldn’t be too far apart.

“Do you think someone saw us just now?” You ask.

“If anyone did, we’re too far for them to take any photos,” he reasons. “If they saw anything, there wouldn’t be any proof. But that won’t matter much after tonight, yeah?”

“I guess so,” you smile. “But they’re gone, so let’s go.”

You head out separately after fixing yourself, the giddy feeling from his kiss evaporating once you’re back in your world, knowing you’ll reunite with him again later. It’s a good distraction more than anything, as your mind wanders for a millisecond how it would be like if someone else were here with you, celebrating your first movie together. But that’s not your life anymore. This is. You’d like to think it’s a hundred times better than the one you left behind.

Yoongi stares at the door he’d just walked out of after seeing you in another man’s arms, something he didn’t intend to witness.

He’d seen you walk down the red carpet then proceed to the left, and he’d been too far out to catch up to you. It’s a Song Hye-kyo movie so he knows that everyone’s gonna be waiting for her, and it’s probably why the path towards one of the hallways is empty. He doesn’t know what he was thinking following you, and looking back now, he’s unsure why he thought coming to your movie premiere without you knowing was even a good idea. But after feeling stupidly hopeful that something could come out of him showing up after letting you go, he decided to come, to drive from Daegu, dress up nicely, and be swift enough to go after you before security takes him away.

He does see you. With your arms around a man who makes you laugh and clearly makes you happy. He looks like that actor who’s being rumored with a bunch of different women, but it seems like he’s locked on you. Yoongi could only hope he isn’t cheating on you or anything; that would be worse than what he’s feeling right now, and he’s feeling pretty terrible. And stupid.

Even more as he looks at the bouquet of daisies he’s holding, something that he planned to give to you to celebrate your first movie premiere. It’s probably the plainest flower out there and there are definitely more that would suit you, like dahlias and marigolds and roses - all breathtakingly beautiful and deserving of being at the center of everything just like you are.

But he’d noticed those years ago how your eyes always turned to daisies whenever you entered a flower shop. Anyone would miss it, but Yoongi’s attention is on you a lot of the time, and he’s seen your gaze linger on it, especially as they’re placed as supporting decor to a grand arrangement. He thinks it’s perhaps your way of wishing for a simple life behind all this glamor, and that somewhere in your heart, you desire someone who could give you something just as simple, perhaps someone like him.

It’s why he decided to pass by the fanciest flower shop he could find earlier and get this, so he could tell you that you could achieve whatever it is you dream of, no matter how big or small, how grand or simple. And that no matter how high you go, he’ll always be rooting for you in every way he can.

It doesn’t seem right to still be giving this to you, he thinks, but then again, it’s not like he expected to get back together just because he decided to show up unannounced on what is a big day for you. He won’t deny that he didn’t think about it, though, but he really just wanted to catch up, maybe tell you that you helped him get back on his feet. And that he’s incredibly proud of you, and that he believes you’ll just get better and bigger from here.

But as the scene of you looking happy with another man who could probably give you much more than he ever could replays in his mind, Yoongi is reminded that it’s not his place anymore, that he does not have a place in your life anymore. He made that call when he broke things off, and he doesn’t have the right to ask you for anything else after that. Even if it’s just your time.

So he walks out of the hall and into his car where he stays for a good half hour, trying to figure out what to do. He eventually decides to still give it, without the burden on you knowing it’s from him.

And that’s what he does, as he waits at your agency building lobby the next morning for the reception to clear the flowers. He’d spent the night at a hostel and was close to just throwing it and forgetting this whole thing even happened, but he braved through it until he’s unable to back out now.

“No card?” The man asks.

Yoongi looks at the piece of cardboard that he took out right before he gave the bouquet.

I’m so proud of you, ___. So much time has passed and I’m doing better. I can see that you are, too. I was in the city and thought, for old time’s sake - would you like to grab some coffee?

He slips it in his pocket and answers, “no card. But could you write ___’s name on the envelope?”

The man hums in agreement. “And who do I say this is from?”

“I’d like to remain anonymous.”

The man looks at him warily before he nods and writes your name as the only indicator that it’s for you. No other message and no trace of the sender.

“Okay, all good.”

“Thank you,” Yoongi says, walking out the building to head to his car and drive back to Daegu.

He decides to eat at a nearby convenience store, and that’s when he sees the news that confirms everything he saw last night.

Rumors no more: Actors Kim Min-kyu and ___/___ confirm 7-month relationship.

Yoongi reads the headlines over and over again, the scene from last night haunting him once more. He doesn’t know why he thought that still giving you the flowers, even anonymously, was a good idea, even more now that you’ve been dating this man for longer than he imagined.

You’ve been that happy for 7 months now. It doesn’t seem right to still insert himself like that.

He rushes towards the agency again to try to retrieve the bouquet and take it all back. He’s at the end of the street, a sprint away from the building but then he stops at the sight of you exiting. With the flowers in your arms.

There’s that crinkled smile of yours that he’s missed so much. You’re looking at the daisies with such softness, like you’re truly appreciating it, and Yoongi’s heart melts at the sight. You may not know it’s from him and perhaps that’s the best part, but it’s the thought that you seem to really like it, especially when a blond-haired man stands next to you and hands you a bouquet of roses, which you smell and smile at before returning it to him. You cradle the daisies, shrugging when you try to retrieve a card that isn’t there, and Yoongi’s relieved that of all the stupid things he’s done the past 12 hours, leaving the card out was the smartest thing he did.

A car arrives and you enter, leaving Yoongi still at the end of the street to watch you drive away, perhaps out of his life for good, at least until your next premiere where he’ll probably give you the flowers again.

He hopes that with them, you get to feel the care he has for you that never withered, that on your lowest days, you think of the admirer who believes that your love for daisies is something that matters.

Your car disappears from his sight. He resigns to this next new life without you - the one where you’re happy where you are and he’s trying to be. He’ll admire you from afar until he gets to move on from you completely.

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delopsia · 2 years ago

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Flowers In November (1/4) Rhett x Reader

Word Count: 12,705 ♡‧₊˚ AO3 Cross-Post ♡⊹˚₊ Flowers In November Masterlist₊˚⊹♡ Warnings: Fem!Reader. Briefly mentioned abusive relationships (not involving reader), improper disposal of a horse's corpse, l-bombs, oral sex, physical and verbal altercations, blood, unprotected sex, inappropriate use of a firearm, lying to a police officer, multiple mentions of food and cooking. Part 2 ♡⊹˚₊

Flowers.

No matter where you go, whether it be the big, bustling concrete city or the vast, unforgiving pastures of your hometown, there have always been flowers—poking out from cracks in the sidewalk, dancing like fairies in unkempt lawns and waving daintily from their pots and planters.

But you think this is the first time you've ever seen something quite like this.

When you'd gone to bed last night, the backyard had been green grass for as far as the eye could see. All was normal, not a singular sign to be found that you would wake up to this.

"I've never seen so many flowers in my life," your mother muses from where she stands in front of the sliding door, "and yet, not a single purple flower to be found."

At first glance, you'd thought they were Autumn leaves, freshly fallen from the old Oaks along the tree line, but those trees shed their leaves weeks ago. Overnight, flowers have decorated every inch of your yard just days before December's start. Coming in all possible variations of red, orange, and yellow.

"Would you mind filling a basket of them for me?" She asks, already reaching for the wicker basket she's just put away, "I reckon we could make a beautiful Autumn wreath out of these."

"Sure," picking flowers sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than packing belongings into cardboard boxes and loading them onto a Uhaul.

You don't think you've actually seen her make a wreath out of live flowers before, but again, you can't argue with such a deal. Not when your shoulders ache from days of hauling everything your family owns from place to place.

It would have been so much easier to hire a moving company.

"Do you want the basket to be completely filled?" You question, just to be sure.

"Please," folding up an old flyer for the local raffle. If you'd guessed three-hundred forty instead of three-hundred ninety, maybe she'd have the leather necklace printed on that paper, "keep an eye out for some purple ones, too."

Can't be too hard, can it?

Sliding your headphones up over your ears, you step outside, basket in tow. For as beautiful as it looks, it sure doesn't feel like it.

Frighteningly chilly wind nips at your neck as you walk across the yard, seeking the perfect spot to settle down in. The more you think about it, the more you realize that this is really, truly, weird.

This many flowers, three days before December starts?

Even the pasture in the front yard is full of them; from the looks of it, so are the lots all around you. An endless sea of flowers with absolutely no business showing up as abruptly as this.

You wonder if they'll come back like this in the spring.

A part of you wishes that you could be here just in case that day comes, wake up to a magical sea of brightly colored flowers marking winter's end. But that won't be happening. Not if the brightly colored for sale sign at the end of the driveway has anything to do with it.

Right by the treeline, you find the old tree stump, still stained from all those times you painted it when you were a kid. It's uncomfortable sitting on, but it's better than sitting directly in the flowers themselves.

Drowning your thoughts with the music from your headphones, you get to work. Picking flowers with the longest stems and placing them neatly in your basket.

This isn't how you pictured your gap semester from college going.

The plan was to come back home and take it easy for a few months, pick up a job waitressing at the local mom-and-pop diner, something simple until you could get over your rapidly worsening burnout. But your mom has her heart set on selling your childhood home and moving closer to the city, and that's a process that has had you working for months.

You never truly realize how many things need to be fixed in a house until someone comes in to appraise it. Replace this, replace that, so you'll finally get an offer worth accepting.

But it doesn't work. You've practically renovated this entire house, and not a soul has made an offer. You don't want to see the house sell, but Lord, is it frustrating, working your ass off, only for it to add up to a whole bunch of nothing.

At the end of the day, many people want to avoid buying a property with a not-so-pleasant history. A handful of times, your mother has mentioned that all this land belonged to a single family. Their daughter, the sole inheritor, disappeared in a storm. Your folks bought this place shortly after the final member of the family passed.

"How's it going?"

The sudden appearance of your mother has you jumping out of your skin, your heart rising into your throat.

"Baskets nearly full," you chirp, sliding your headphones down until they rest around your neck, "not seeing any purple, though."

She hums, reaching down to sift through what you've collected. To be honest, you hardly remember picking half of these. How long have you been out here?

"Well, I hate to interrupt you," she muses, still rummaging through the basket, "but dinner's ready."

Alright, so you've been out here for a little while.

It starts to rain the moment you step inside the house. It feels as if the clouds had been waiting for you to get out of dodge, the storm appearing just as quickly as the flowers had. The wind howls as it whips around the corners of the house, angry and threatening to break through even the tiniest of entryways.

Storms around this part of Wyoming are common. Usually, they don't last any longer than twenty minutes, but it only worsens. The wind only grows louder, buckets upon buckets of rain coming down in thick, white sheets that seem to wrap around the house, blanketing the outside world from view.

You're washing dishes, gazing out the window just in front of the sink, when you notice something bouncing around in the lawn.

"Is that an animal?" Thinking aloud, you lean closer to the glass, squinting. No, animals don't move like that.

Shit.

Swearing, you reach for the towel, dying your hands as you rush toward the door, "I forgot the flowers outside!"

That's what it is. Your mom's favorite wicket basket is bouncing around the lawn, back and forth, being whipped around by the wind like a ball.

Without much thought, you pull the sliding door open, and immediately the cold wind starts to painfully nip at your skin with its frigid teeth. It's only worse as you step outside; the tiny raindrops feel like needles as they batter you, but you can't let that old basket be blown away.

You can hardly see, stumbling blindly as you chase the silhouette of that tumbling basket, but the wind is making a game out of keeping it from you. Whenever you think you've got it, the wind picks up, ripping it away.

But the wind slows a bit, and in a last-ditch effort, you jump on the basket the moment you've seen your chance. Your foot catches on a patch of mud, and your back hits the ground with a painful thump.

But you've got the basket. It's mostly empty now, but you've got it.

All your collected flowers are probably miles down the road by now, blowing into who knows where. So much for making a wreath with them. Swearing under your breath, you push yourself back up, fumbling for purchase on the muddy ground, some kind of leverage to help you onto your feet.

"Huh?"

There, right in front of you, lies a dainty purple flower. Remarkably short, its petals fluttering in the wind. No wonder you hadn't found any.

It should be easy to pluck from the ground, but it's not.

No, the damn thing will not so much as budge from its spot in the ground. You change hands, supposing that one is weaker than the other, but it barely moves. Come on; this can't be that hard. Using both hands, you take hold of the flower's tiny stem and pull.

Just like that, the flower plucks from the ground, leaving a dark hole in its former resting place. Strange.

With the flower safely tucked into the basket, alongside the ones that have survived the wind's torment, you try to get up.

But that hole...it's starting to...grow larger?

You think it's just your mind playing tricks on you, but no, it's—that hole is getting bigger. Beneath you, your legs become nothing but jelly, near useless, as you slip around on the muddy ground, fumbling for footing.

One foot catches traction; you've almost got it, you've almost—

the ground disappears out from under your feet,

and you

fall.

You don't know how long you fall for.

Everything around you is pitch black, a blanket of darkness wrapped around you so tightly that you can barely tell if your eyes are open or closed. The sour bubbling in your bones is the only indication you have that you're moving at all. You've become weightless, fluttering through the air like a discarded feather.

All of a sudden, a strong gust of wind hits you from behind. Now, it feels like you're moving back up, like someone's just flipped this hole upside down.

Where in the world are you? Are you halfway down to the center of the Earth, or are you somewhere else entirely?

A twinge of light appears in the distance.

It's faint, but it's there, and it's growing larger. You can't quite tell if you're moving toward it or if it's moving toward you. But it grows bigger and bigger, rapidly hurtling towards you until all you can see is a blinding light as it engulfs you.

All you see is a dark sky, but then, like a quarter, the world around you flips, and all you see is green as you come crashing down into it with a painful thunk. The impact is strong enough to knock the air from your lungs. It feels like someone's picked you up and thrown you against the ground.

Miraculously, your basket still contains its flowers, the tattered handle clenched in your weak hand. Your only sign that you just popped out of a...

...hole that has seemingly disappeared.

No, no, no, none of this is right. Where are you?

Instead of being once again surrounded by your childhood stomping grounds, all you can see is endless pasture hills. It's dark, still raining, but you can see enough to know that you've never been here before.

The ground squelches below your muddy shoes as you slowly stand. White-hot fire shoots up your right ankle as soon as you put weight on it. It doesn't look broken, but it's hard to tell when every bone in your trembling body aches.

There's movement up on the hill.

A woman. You can't see much of her, but her blonde hair is easy to spot as it flows in the wind, waving like a flag behind her. It seems she's seen you, too, because she's coming toward you.

"Hello?" You call out, shielding your eyes from the rain, "ma'am?"

She yells something back to you. Intelligible, borderline a shriek. No, that doesn't sound like the voice of someone coming to help.

"No, no, no!" She wails, "you don't belong here! You don't belong here!"

You have no time to question it. All you have time for is to turn and run.

Every step hurts. Your feet struggle to maintain traction as you race across the slick ground, left foot sputtering out from beneath you with every stride.

You don't know where you're going. You can't see anything. It's all pitch black and silvery raindrops and green grass, and you can't figure out how close this woman is getting to you. Her voice grows louder and louder with each passing step, chanting incoherently; how you don't belong here; this isn't right.

Lightning strikes the ground, lighting up the world around you.

There's a fence in front of you, the silver gate already halfway open. However, there's a black dot just beyond that. You haven't the slightest clue what it is, but you'll take anything over the woman that's rapidly gaining on you.

Come on, come on, come on, you're almost there.

Something heavy hits you from behind, and for the umpteenth time, you hit the ground with a painful thunk.

"You!" Her voice is so loud that your ears feel like they're going to bleed. Silver glints in the dark as you squirm, legs kicking out as you try to get back up. But she's faster than you, climbing up on top of you as that sharp silver glistens. Your nails find purchase on her scalp, clawing at a raised scar. It doesn't faze her. "You don't belong here!"

Black flickers across your vision, and just as quickly as she'd climbed on top of you, she's knocked off, landing flat on her back. She's still yelling, chanting the same thing over and over, but her voice is drowned out by a deeper one that booms through the dark like thunder.

Your throbbing ankle crumples out from under you as you try to stand, leaving you frantically scooting backward. Away from that girl. Away from whoever was crazy enough to go after her. No, no, no, you've just backed into the fence.

...and the fence steps out from behind you?

It's a horse. Black in color, concealed near perfectly by the blanket of the night. She steps out from behind you, feet dancing dangerously close to your face as she does so, and then she turns and...

It's enough of a sight to make you momentarily power through the pain biting at your nerves. Rising to your feet, you stumble for the open gate, each step feeling like it'll be your last.

That horse has three heads.

The man's calling after you, something that sounds like a rushed 'hey!' but you pay it no heed. Your heart hammers against your chest so loud that it drowns out everything else, beating in perfect synchrony with your racing feet. But that three-headed horse is coming after you, barely visible as she runs you down.

Something thin passes overtop of your head and cinches tight around your waist. The next thing you register is the sharp pull of rope, so strong that it stops you in your tracks.

"Hold on, hold on!" That deep voice shouts; it doesn't sound threatening, but it doesn't stop you from fighting the lasso cast upon you, squirming, pulling at the loop.

Maybe it's the rapid in and out of breath; perhaps it's the fear permanently etched into your expression, but something makes him get down from that monster of a horse. Dropping the rope in favor of kneeling and raising his open palms to the sky.

"'m not gonna hurt you," he breathes, speaking slowly, "a'ight?"

You don't know if you believe that, but as a scream echoes through the night, you realize that you don't have much choice here.

"Who..." your voice dies in your throat, "who are you?"

He's quiet like he's considering, and then, "'m Rhett."

Rhett.

You don't think you've ever met a Rhett before, surely haven't met a Rhett who smiled when you uttered your name.

Whatever moment you've just built up is shattered by the rapidly approaching yelling, the shrill voice of a woman who isn't happy about your presence. Rhett peers over his shoulder, then, turning back to you, "do you trust me?"

"Define trust," you blurt, shaking free of the lasso.

With remarkable speed, he stands and mounts that three-headed mare. "Either you play your cards with a woman wielding a handmade knife," holding out his hand, "or you let me help you."

Well, when he puts it like that.

His hand engulfs yours as you take it. There's some effort required, but he's strong and quickly pulls you up onto the horse with him. It's uncomfortable being crammed up here when this saddle was clearly not meant for two.

"Hold on to me," he tells you, peeking back at you, "don't let go until I tell you to."

Mayhaps it's because you're dripping wet, but as you wrap your arms around his waist, you learn that he's remarkably warm. And as the horse starts to move, he reaches down to tuck his arm alongside yours as if they'll slip away at any given moment. You're lucky that this isn't your first time on a horse.

As the fence line disappears from view, you begin to lose track of where you're going. Everything looks the same; everywhere you look, it's the same. It's starting to feel strangely similar to the lots for sale around your home.

There's no way that this is actually happening right now. This must be some wild, fucked up fever dream you're having. There's no way this horse has three heads, and there's not a damn logical reason behind that hole you just fell through.

Yeah. This is all just a vivid dream.

Rain begins to pick up, wind beats against you like it did before you fell into the hole. It feels a little too familiar as you cling to this strange cowboy, trembling under your wet clothes. But at least he's warm.

It's a while before a dark, rustic little cabin comes into view, looking strangely similar to the abandoned one across the street from your home. It bears the same log walls, cement filling in the gaps left between, but this one has a bite-sized front porch with a little white swing that sways in the wind.

The horse stops just in front of the porch steps, and it's only now that you realize you've just about frozen to Rhett. Muscles and bones stiff with imaginary ice, struggling to detach yourself from him.

As soon as you've let go of him, he's hopping off the horse, spinning around with outstretched arms, "God, you're fuckin' cold," he hisses from the moment he touches your numb hand, "you're lucky you still have these things attached."

Beneath you, your legs feel like sticks, completely numb as you let him guide you up the stairs. The door is partially ajar, easily kicked open with his boot, but the house is warm. Hot, even, feels like the heat that first washes over your face when opening an oven.

A little kitchen sits just to the left of the entryway, but the only thing you can focus on is the crackling fireplace directly in front of you. Rhett walks you right to it and places a thick blanket around your shoulders as you sit on the floor next to the dancing flames.

With two thick fingers, he pinches the sopping wet clothing from your shoulder, chewing on his lip as he visibly thinks. Then, he ventures off through a door on your right.

The fire is hot, and you think you can feel the coldness melting from your skin, but it's hard to warm yourself when you're practically wearing a block of ice.

"These are probably too big for ya," he remarks, remerging from what you assume to be his bedroom, "but it's better than nothing."

There are folded clothes in his arms, what looks like a shirt, a pair of flannel lounge pants, and some plain socks. He sets them on the footstool just behind you, careful not to ruin his near-perfect folding of them. The way he speaks to you makes you feel like you're a pair of old friends, like this isn't the first time you've met.

"If you want to get that mud off," pointing off toward the room he just came from, "there's a shower just around the corner; help yourself to whatever you need in there."

Then, without much else, he heads for the door and mutters something that sounds like an "I'll be back in a minute" before the door shuts behind him.

It takes you approximately half a second to decide that you'll take him up on that offer.

You were right; this is his bedroom. Looks just how you'd imagine any man's bedroom to be, plain navy blue comforter, bedside table devoid of anything but a lamp, a phone stand, and what looks like an obscenely large belt buckle.

Fluffy white towels are on the bathroom sink, neatly arranged into a stack of largest to smallest. You don't think you've ever met a cowboy that was so meticulous with arranging clothes and towels.

Thunder rolls as you step under the water, the lights briefly dimming, but they don't go out. The sound of the shower barely conceals the howling of the wind, angry, daring you to venture out and face its frigid wrath once more.

You think you spend a good fifteen minutes scrubbing the mud out from every crevice of your body. Just as you believe you are finished, you find another patch, caked to your skin like glue, refusing to budge. God, it's even in your eyelashes and behind your ears. A part of you wonders if this three-in-one wash has anything to do with how hard this is to remove.

In the light, you can see that your ankle has swelled up. Not too much to be of concern, but it's a visible difference from the other one, puffy around the joint and sore to the touch. Must have injured it during one of your many falls tonight.

Come to find out, he's given you an option of two shirts, a plain black tee, and a soft, long sleeve pajama flannel that matches the pants he's given you. The shirt you choose engulfs you, the pants a little loose in some places, but they're warm, dry, and not caked with rainwater and mud.

As you lift your dirty clothes up, something hard hits the ground.

Your phone.

Huh. How long has that been in there?

It's got no service; the battery is only at half charge, but aside from that, it hasn't been affected by your escapades in the rain. The time though...how is it eleven thirty at night? It was barely seven just earlier.

Rhett's moseying about the kitchen with a basket of laundry. Perking at the sight of you. "Y'almost look like a different person," he muses, holding the basket out for you to place your soaked clothes. You feel like a different person, to be honest.

"Now, if you don't mind me askin'," making off toward the laundry room, just past the kitchen, "how did a lady like you wind up in our west pasture?"

Well...

"I'm still figuring that out...?" Because you're still processing it all yourself. Surely this is just a horrible dream; maybe you banged your head and hallucinated all of this.

Rhett's head pokes out the laundry room door, eyebrows furrowed, but he doesn't say anything. That look was enough of a statement.

Calling your mother's phone doesn't work. It doesn't ring, only displays your call screen, and does nothing more. The frustration must be evident on your face because Rhett fishes his phone from his pocket, "y'can try mine," he offers, holding it out for you to take, "service is patchy out here."

But you receive the same outcome, except his phone won't even accept the number as valid. The longer you struggle, the closer together Rhett's eyebrows knit, tongue poking around in his bottom lip. On your third try, he comes over, peering over your shoulder.

"You're still missing some digits," he says after a moment.

"No?" Lifting your phone for him to see, "I have all ten."

You don't understand why he's looking at you like that, absolutely perplexed by what you've just said. He squints at your screen, reaching out to tap and expand one of your contacts. Ten digits. But then he opens his contacts, and you see...fifteen.

What the hell?

Hesitantly, your mouth starts to move, "I can tell you how I wound up there," your voice wavering, "but I don't think you're going to believe me."

But Rhett is all ears.

And so, you tell him from the strangeness of the flowers that chose to appear toward the end of November to the flower that opened up a hole to your unceremonious arrival to his west pasture. As you tell it, you realize that you've lost your flower basket somewhere in that field; the one thing you have to back up your statement.

Somewhere during your retelling, you wind up on the couch, sitting across from one another as you recount your tale. Rhett doesn't say a lot, nodding his head every once in a while, like this happens every Tuesday.

"That may explain the strange noise from earlier," he recalls, gaze fixated on the fire as the flames twirl and lick the air.

Lifting your head up from where it was resting against the couch, "there was a noise?"

Again, his head nods, slow, "my brother sent me a video of it, hold—shit."

He recoils with a pained groan, squeezing his eyes shut as he reaches behind himself, rubbing his right shoulder blade. Is that...

The image of that silver blade flickers through the darkness of your mind.

"Did she stab you?" It's more of a statement than a question; it's hard to mistake the red stain on his jacket for much else.

"Maybe," speaking through his teeth.

Still, he doesn't fight you as you reach over, urging him to turn so that you can see it better. It's easily missable, but there's a thin cut through his jacket, maybe four or so inches long, slicing through two layers of clothing and deep into the meat of his shoulder. Most of the bleeding is concealed by a bit of mud caked onto his shirt, you suppose, from a fall.

"This needs to be cleaned," how long has he been quietly putting up with this? "It's going to get infected."

"Nah, it's alright," poorly concealing his wince as he stands up, "not like I can reach it, anyhow."

"Well, I was gonna offer to do it for you," it shoots out of your mouth before you've even had the chance to process what your reply was going to be.

Your words make Rhett stops in his tracks, arms limp at his sides. Quiet, dead silent, actually, to the point that you're just about to retract your words when he looks back at you, "...okay."

He disappears into his bedroom, and through the wall, you can hear him shuffling around in there, searching, sifting through cabinets and drawers. But eventually, he comes back with a wet cloth and a white plastic box, the little red plus sign so faded that it's barely visible. Looks vintage.

It's heavy in your lap, full of all the supplies you could ever need. Bandages, creams, sprays, tweezers, safety pins, a strange assortment of oddly shaped bandaids. Everything you can think of is in here.

Rhett's jacket hitting the floor regains your attention just in time for you to get an eyeful as he removes his shirt.

Good Lord.

Those muscles in his back could go on for days, rippling under his pale skin with every movement, a display sent straight from the heavens above. Are you drooling? You think you might be drooling.

Red soaks his right shoulder, blood dried and stuck to the skin there, and it's just about what you'd pictured the moment you laid eyes on the slice through his jacket. But damn, are you glad it's not a cut on his chest. You don't see much of it, but you catch just enough to know that you'd definitely be distracted.

He sits on the floor, back to you, granting you ample access to his injury. The wet cloth does most of the work as you gently wash away the dried blood, careful of his still-open wound.

A strange sound plays through the air, loud, like a rusty gate creaking open, only deeper, unnatural. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. "What is that?"

Rhett lifts his phone from his lap, "that's what the sound was." Did that sound come from...you traveling through the hole?

"That sounds like something straight out of a horror movie," your remark earns you a dry chuckle, a slight, easily missable noise that dances around your ears like the sweetest music.

"I was convinced we had a troll on our land again," Rhett barely winces when you touch the antiseptic wipe to his open wound. Still, you can hear the pain in his tone, words becoming tight, higher in pitch. Falls quiet as you clean it properly, removing the mud and a stray piece of grass that wound up there. "Didn't expect to run into a pretty little thing like yourself out there."

Oh.

You have no reason to smile at that, you really don't, but you find your lips twitching upward.

"I—I'm sorry," evidently, your silence is getting to him, "I didn't mean to..."

"You're fine," you can't help the laugh that leaves you; at least he's not being weird about it, "I'm just too focused on your shoulder to think of words right now."

Intentionally vague, leaving him to fill in the blank incorrectly because right now, you're only focusing on how these muscles feel under your hands. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. At least this wound of his doesn't look like it needs stitches, just a bandage.

"Thank you for doin' this," he says, after a while, "I don't think anyone's ever actually..."

"No?" Holding two bandages beside the cut, internally debating which one is big enough. Hm. Seems the one on the right is the better option. "I take it you don't get hurt very often, then."

"Naw, I wind up with a new injury every week," he drawls thickly, "that there is my bad shoulder anyway."

To add to his words, he lifts both arms above his head, and you can see exactly what he's referring to. His right arm looks normal, but his left one fails to go up all the way, falling short by an inch or so.

"How did you do that?" Inquiring while you open up the packaging. His left arm is slower, too, and takes a little more time to drop back down than its companion.

His shoulders shake with a half-hearted sound, nearly making you put a crease in the bandage, "Thought I could make a livin' bein' a bull rider," the bitterness of the memory so thick that you can taste it in the air, "dislocated it in the finals. Went from first, straight to last."

With the bandage applied, he rolls his neck back and forth, cracking the joints, shoulders doing much of the same. From here, you would have never been able to tell that his left shoulder had anything wrong with it. Those muscles twitch and flex all the same, putting on a simple little show that's got you mesmerized.

Unfortunately, it doesn't last long because he soon gets up. Disappearing with his dirty clothes and the bloody cloth, leaving you to pack the first aid kit back up. He isn't gone long, reemerging into the room, pulling the ends of a black tee down over his gently defined belly.

Selfishly, you wish that he only owned two shirts. The one you're wearing and the one that was just ruined.

"Look, I know this ain't...ideal," he mutters, scratching his neck, "but how 'bout you take my bed for the night."

Your mouth opens, protest heavy on your tongue, "I don't...you don't have to give me your—"

"—and my momma taught me never to let a lady sleep on the couch," his voice firm, but his face soft, "I washed the sheets this mornin' if that makes you feel any better."

This argument was over before it even started.

As you rise to your feet, the ache in your swollen ankle blossoms into something sharp, enough to make you wince. It's barely a reaction, a squinting of the eyes at most, but Rhett's already caught it. Eyes already trained on the way you mind your foot.

"No, no, don't you even say a word," effectively killing your protests before they've had a chance to open your mouth; Rhett heads over to his fridge, "I coulda sworn you were limpin' when I found ya."

"I'm not sure what I did to it," you admit, sheepish. You really don't have any recollection of it happening. It hadn't been hurting when you fell through the hole, but adrenaline is a deceiving mistress.

Which could explain why it hurts even worse than it did while you were showering. Putting pressure on it only makes matters worse; nerves feel like they're burning hotter than a blazing wildfire. Still, you make an effort to walk back towards Rhett's bedroom, hopping along to avoid any more usage of it than necessary.

"You sure you ain't part bunny?" Chuckling at the sight of you, Rhett slowly follows after you, armed with an ice pack.

It could be the pain and exhaustion that makes this bed feel so comfortable; even sitting on the mattress feels like a cozy dream. Rhett kneels in front of you as soon as you're off your feet, taking your foot into his large hands. One on the back of your heel, the other gently manipulating it in his grasp.

"Not broken, at least," he observes aloud, "probably hurt it when you fell, and the adrenaline kept you from feeling it until later."

At least his theory is similar to yours.

He's quick to leave you in peace, passing off the ice pack and letting you know that you can find painkillers in the second drawer of the bedside table. Before you know it, he's made off with a pillow, and even from here, you can see his feet propped up on the edge of the couch. Stacked, one on top of the other.

The sheets are warm and soft against your skin, so freshly cleaned that all you can smell is the fresh linen and vague smokiness of the fire. It's almost as good as your bed at home.

Almost.

You're still figuring out if this is all real, if this is really happening, or if it's just a vivid dream. This bed, this place all feels real; even Rhett feels too real to be a figment of your imagination. But a magic hole? And that...woman?

No, that doesn't make a damn bit of sense. None of this does. If these magic holes were natural, they would have been documented long ago. They'd be common knowledge.

But the drowsiness pulling at your eyelids, weighing them down, feels pretty real.

The next time your eyes open, you feel like you've stepped into a new body.

Eyelashes flutter, momentarily blinded by the bright morning sunshine peeking through the blinds. The air is warm enough so that you aren't burning up under this nest of sheets. You don't want to move, your head full of clouds, your body as light as the comforter nestled on top of you.

Your eyes adjust. This isn't your bedroom. This is...Rhett's.

Sitting up, it all comes flooding back to you in the form of watery memories, vague and fuzzy around the edges. The flowers, the hole, the strange woman, the cowboy, and his three-headed horse. There's a peculiar squishy material under the blankets: the ice pack.

No, no, no, this isnt—

your mom's flower basket sits on the floor next to you. Battered, strands of the material stick out, the handle crushed and deformed, but it's the basket. Flowers and all. There aren't many left, but a handful of orange and yellow have survived, accompanied by some flowers you don't recall picking. Three daffodils and a handful of daisies. Rhett must have added these.

On the very top, though, lies that purple flower.

Pale petals with a darker center, with three red stigmas standing proudly. A fourth one has been crushed, lying bent alongside its companions. The little flower that your mom would have loved.

You wonder if time has passed the same for her. Selfishly, you hope your disappearance has stopped time, wherever she is. You can't imagine how worried she'd be, knowing that her daughter disappeared in a horrible storm, leaving little to no trace of where she'd gone. There has to be a way for you to get back...but how?

Considering the horse...maybe Rhett will know. Thinking back, you don't recall a trace of disbelief as you recounted the night's events to him. If the three-headed horse you saw last night was real, surely this place can't be normal.

This time, your ankle doesn't hurt as badly when you put weight on it, but it stings and is still somewhat swollen. It hurts enough to affect your stride, limping toward the bedroom door.

"Rhett?" You croak, voice echoing about the house. No response.

You can properly take in the room with the sunshine creeping through the windows. It bears the same white horizontal wood paneling as the bedroom did. Two long brown couches on either side of the fireplace and a matching, short sofa in between them. The kitchen is tiny and feels more like a hallway than anything.

Barely any decor, aside from a tall cabinet that stands next to the bedroom door, decorated in trophies, awards, and little knick-knacks of all things Western. The golden bull wearing a cowboy hat is your favorite.

"Rhett?" You try again; maybe he didn't hear you the first time.

Nothing. Must be outside. Your shoes sit in the gap between the fridge and the front door. They've seen better days, but they're dry, slipping over your feet like they always have. The door squeaks as you open it, painfully loud compared to the silence leading up to it. It takes a little effort to shut; the door a hair too big for the frame.

There's an old wooden barn off to your left, not far from the house; everywhere you look, you find nothing but rolling green pasture. In the distance lies the same snowcapped mountains that surround your childhood home, identical. Is this the same location?

"Rhett?"

Again, nothing. But at least a bird chirps in response this time.

A little dirt path leads to the barn, worn down from years of walking the same route until the grass has died and refused to return. Beside the barn sits a GMC Sierra, looking a little worse for wear and desperate for a good scrub. So thoroughly covered in dirt that you have to wipe away some of it to see its actual color.

Blue. Like his eyes.

The barn doors are wide open on either side; it feels like a tunnel, dark inside, with light pouring in from the entrances. Horse stables line the room, maybe twelve in total, with a big back room to your right and what appears to be a feed room to your left. Something's rustling around near the doors on the other side. What that could be, you're not sure you want to know.

Three-headed badger?

A portion of you wants to investigate. Maybe it's Rhett or an adorable barn cat that deserves some head pats, but rationality reminds you that you may not like what you find. The rustling growing louder is what makes up your mind.

Not today.

Turning on your heels, you leave. You've had enough life-altering escapades for the foreseeable future. Lord only knows what else you may run into, given your current luck. But walking away from the barn means walking away from your only viable idea of where Rhett could be. Glancing at the endless fields surrounding the house, there's no telling how hard it would be to find the guy.

A strange sound resonates from behind you, metal on metal. The hair on the back of your neck stands straight.

"Make any sudden move, and I'll put a bullet right between your eyes."

That's not Rhett's voice.

"Turn around."

In your chest, your heart hammers so hard that it feels like it'll throw you off your feet as you slowly turn, raising your palms to the sky. Innocent. Mean no harm.

You find yourself in the middle of Rhett's dirt driveway, staring down the barrel of a gun.

"What are you doing here?" Growling, the man steps closer. Words fail you. Stunned stupid by the gun that bumps into your nose. "You here to take Amy too? Huh?"

Stammering, your feet tangling as you try to step back. Who is this guy? Who's Amy? He won't get the gun out of your face. The barrel pressing into your trembling flesh. You step away. He steps closer.

"Answer me, bitch!" He barks, spit hitting your cheeks.

"I—" gulping, "I was looking for Rhett."

The gun doesn't lower.

"Don't you bullshit me, girl," his words drip with so much venom that it makes him tremble, "I'd know if my brother brought one of his bitches home."

Brother.

Your tongue evaporates. Language forgot. Sweat beading on your forehead. Rhett's brother clenches his jaw, breath whistling through his teeth. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"I—"

"Perry!" Barking so loud that it sounds like it's come down from the heavens above.

The world goes dark.

It takes you a moment to realize that you're looking into the back of a jean jacket with a rip down the right shoulder, exposing the plain white shirt underneath. Even longer for you to catch on to the fast-paced bickering, words hurled back and forth with such malice that they burn your ears.

"How about you quit waving that gun around like it's a fuckin' toy?" Rhett's nose to nose with him, teeth bared.

"This bitch is trespassing on our land and saying she knows you," Perry's stepping back and forth, a caged dog trying to get around him.

Rhett's always a step quicker. "They have a name, Perry," he hisses, "and you'd know that if you were decent enough to ask before you put a gun in their fuckin' face."

The argument is over. Not because of a loss but because Rhett walks away from it. Whatever words Perry has to add to the pot go ignored.

"Y'alright?" He's slow to approach you, allowing you to close the space if you're comfortable. When you do, he reaches out to rub dirt from your nose using his thumb, likely from the gun.

"As alright as I can be, considering the past twenty-four hours," his touch tickles, a welcome sensation to distract from the spasming of your gut.

"Are you really pretending I'm not here right now?" Perry huffs, raising his hands up, gun-free.

Rhett tilts his hat, effectively blocking his brother out, "were you the one callin' my name earlier?"

Nodding, "I can't exactly remember why I was looking for you, though."

You're only just now recognizing that his horse is off to your left, one head idly sniffing at the sparse ground below her feet. It's hard to tell what the other two are doing.

"'ts alright," chuckling, he nods toward the house, "was about to come checkin' on you myself."

If only for a moment, the two of you step back inside. Rhett's fridge is the definition of baren as he rifles through it, but he produces two breakfast rolls, says he made them this morning. They don't taste how you expect them to. At a glance, you figured they must have been some gross concoction of ingredients, but biting into it is like biting into a dream.

"Not as bad as you thought, huh?" Rhett grins around a bite of his, "I saw that look you gave me."

Has it always been this warm in here? "Only because I don't know if the food here is different." Lie.

Glancing up from his phone, "is it?"

You pause. Now that you think about it..." it's better," you conclude, and with that, you finish it.

"Good," his chest rising and falling with a silent laugh, "don't tell my mom I stole her recipe."

Rhett doesn't have the answers you're looking for, but he suspects that his father will know something. Based on the way he phrases it, it sounds like strange things happen all the time here. What kind of place is this? The cowboys where you come from would not be as calm as Rhett is.

"Takes too long to drive," Rhett explains as he walks you to his horse, "Isabel won't mind a second passenger, though."

Isabel.

Despite her unearthly appearance, the horse isn't as scary as you expect her to be. She happily accepts the pets you offer her, leaning into your touch like any other horse. In fact, everything about her is absolutely normal, aside from the head situation and her massive size.

You've ridden horses enough times to know how to get on their backs, but Isabel is so tall that you need Rhett's assistance. It's a miracle that you fit up there last night, all things considered. Once you're up there, though, it's alright. Especially not when you're graced with the opportunity to wrap your arms around Rhett. Snuggled close, your head tucked below the brim of his cowboy hat, perfectly blocking the sun from your eyes.

You learn that there are four pastures. Rhett lives in the north, Perry in the south, and their parents reside in the south pasture. He says nothing about the east one.

There's something shiny moving in the pasture as you ride through it. Too far for you to tell what it is; its location is only given away by the way the sun glints off of it. You struggle to piece it together as you ride directly toward it.

But then it clicks. "What the hell is that?"

While you can't hear it, you feel him laugh, vibrating against your skin, "you ain't got cows where you come from?"

"Of course, we have cows, genius," you retort, "but we don't have cows with shiny gold horns!"

You can't believe what you're looking at. A herd of maybe forty cows, black in color, bearing long, golden horns. At first glance at those horns, you'd thought they were longhorns, but they're much too fuzzy. The animal equivalent of cotton balls.

The words that left your mouth are enough to make Rhett look over his shoulder, eyeing you, "no?"

What kind of world is this?

A good portion of you expects to see miniature elephants next, somewhat disappointed when you don't see them. The only other animal you pass is a singular bison relaxing in the west pasture. Just beyond lies a marvelous, towering mansion. The close you get, the bigger it becomes until you can no longer comprehend if this is a house or a stadium.

"Good lord, Rhett," choking the words out, "are you sure this is a house?"

His hand squeezes one of your arms like he's trying to make sure you're still there, "still decipherin' that myself, actually."

An older woman is sitting on the front porch, a stablehand at her side who wordlessly takes Isabel off to a paddock next to the house. For the longest time, she doesn't speak. Not when she leads you inside, not when she has to pry an adventurous kitten from your pant leg, not even when Rhett asks if she's alright.

The inside of the house is just as ridiculous as the outside. Towering white walls, vaulted ceilings, glistening chandeliers, and sculptures that cost a pretty penny. A variety of kittens scamper about, tiny, too young to be taken away from momma just yet. Paintings of cowboys and horses hang along many of the walls, accompanied by pictures of Perry with a blonde woman and an equally blonde daughter.

But try as you might, you can't find any pictures of Rhett. Even when his mother leads you into the living room, you fail to come up with anything. No embarrassing school pictures, no baby photos, no nothing.

"Rhett," her voice firm, quiet, like she's afraid of being overheard, "what have I told you about bringing women home?"

Rhett begins to speak, but an older man steps into the room before he can get the first syllable out. Dark, graying hair, an equally colored beard, and a hat nearly identical to Rhett's. This must be dear old dad.

"Rhett, can I speak to you alone?" he says, smiling, but it fails to make the statement sound any less cold.

For a moment, Rhett hesitates, gaze flickering between you and his parents, until you nod and motion for him to go ahead. Then, albeit reluctant, he leaves the room without a sound.

Friendly family.

"Listen, honey," his momma begins, "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but..."

Tilting your head to the side. "But...?" Where is she going with this?

She sighs, loud, exasperated, "I know you must like my son. He's a good man. Exactly who I raised him to be."

You have no idea what she's trying to tell you, but you force a smile, pretending that you do. Sure hope Rhett is gone for a while.

"But he's a bit of a casanova; he's darn near slept with every young woman in this town," oh, that was...not what you expected her to say, "I just want you to know that before you go and get your heart broke."

With that said, she scoops up a gray kitten from the floor and leaves the room.

You feel like you've just been slapped.

What the hell just happened?

It's probably a minute or two, but you must sit there for an hour, staring at a picture frame containing a pressed flower as you try to comprehend her words. Does she think you're Rhett's girlfriend? Did Rhett not tell her how you got here? You wish you were here all for a pretty cowboy, but you're not.

Just as quickly as they'd left, Rhett and his father return. You're thankful that Rhett sits next to you again. Even though you don't know him very well, the familiarity is much welcomed after the uncomfortable experience you just had. His dad carries a large book, the binding so old and tattered that it barely holds together.

"So, Rhett tells me that you...came out of a magic hole in my pasture last night?" His father inquires after a minute.

"Picked a flower, a hole opened up, and now I'm here," you get the feeling that you're going to become sick of recounting this.

For the longest time, he stares at you as if you've grown three heads yourself. Gaze hard, but his eyes wide with unspoken recognition. Then, carefully, he begins to flip through the book's pages. You squint, trying to read the pages, but you're too far away.

"Strange things happen on this land all the time," Rhett elaborates, "our family has been documenting it for generations. If it's happened, it's in that book."

Explains the age.

You don't like how long his father looks through it. Flipping through it once, twice, gradually becoming faster with time. Rhett looks at you. You look at him.

You're still looking at each other when his dad says, "Books got nothin'."

Your expression drops. A million and one worries flicker through your psyche. Rhett's jaw tightens, the muscles flexing under the effort. "You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," his dad's voice raises, "what, do you not believe me?"

"Couple of months ago, Perry said a hole just like that appeared on his land and swallowed up half his kelpies," Rhett chides, leaning forward, "now, according to him, you handled it and got them back."

So this has happened before.

Abruptly, his father stands, the book falling to the floor with a resounding thunk, "how many times have I told you to stay out of Perry's bullshit?" He howls, going from zero to one hundred in the blink of an eye.

Not backing down from the fight, Rhett stands and steps off to the side, away from the couches. Leading the argument away from where you're sitting. "You only say that shit when it's convenient to you," hissing, an octave deeper, "but you involve me in his business when you want me to do his work for him."

"Because it is your job as a younger sibling to cover for him while he's grieving!" Words shouted so loud that they echo, bouncing down the towering hallways of the house, shaking the paintings and the house's very foundation.

Rhett scoffs, incredulous, "it's been nine months, pops. Nine months."

As if on cue, they both yelp, stumbling away and rubbing their ears. Rhett's mom stands between them. "That's enough!" She bellows, a completely different woman from before, "Rhett, I think it's time for you to leave."

You wish you had your phone; you could definitely use the twisting of the ear technique in future ventures.

Rhett barely waits for you to catch up to him on your way out of the hose. Winding through hallways, past rooms that you know you've passed but have no memory of, everything looks the same, but it's all different spaces. He holds the door open for you, though.

"Did my mom give you a...talk while I was gone?" He inquires as you step past him out onto the porch.

Nodding your head yes, "she practically told me you were the town whore, if that's what you're asking about."

That seems to be the statement that he's looking for because his eyes roll. "She keeps telling that to every woman I so much as glance at," shutting the door behind himself, albeit a bit too hard, "I haven't slept with anyone since I was twenty-three."

"And how old are you now...?" Please don't be a hundred years old, please don't be a hundred years old, please don't be a hundred years old.

"Twenty-six," tilting his hat downward.

Oh. Well, that's a lot more palatable than what you were afraid of.

"Wow, a whole three years without sex," melodramatic as you can manage, "how have you ever survived?"

"It's easy when you don't get nothin' out of it," you can't tell if that's bitterness or jealousy leaking through his tone, drenching it.

"Get nothing out of it?" You parrot as if it'll help you decipher what he means.

"Nope."

So much for elaborating.

On your ride home, it starts to rain.

It's hard to do much of anything. Even with the weather, Rhett still has work to do, leaving you alone in this strange, unfamiliar house. Without a working phone and hardly anything to distract you from the situation. There's a television above the fireplace, but the remote is nowhere to be found.

Chores are your only escape for a while. Washing the few dishes left in the sink, making the bed, and sweeping the floors until it's pristine, without a single flaw. But even then, it's difficult to silence your thoughts. You think about your mom, your disappearance, all over again. If time passes, the same for her, and if she saw what happened.

Your head is torn between hope and horror. If Rhett told the truth about the hole, you can find a way home. His father doesn't seem keen on helping, though. What if Rhett's wrong? And wait, what happened to that girl last night? And his brother, what's up with him?

Oh, what if there's another variant of you here, and what if she's why Perry was so hostile towards you?

This is getting out of hand.

Your only option to stop your racing mind is to make a game out of organizing the shoe rack that sits by the front door. It's a disaster; shoes piled onto its shelves with little to no care. Once you're done with it, though, it's picture-perfect. Boots, dress shoes, and sandals are carefully arranged into appropriate sections, ranging from tallest to smallest.

Come to find out, the remote was also in that mess.

You don't even realize it's a remote at first. Rather than being built vertically like the remotes where you come from, it's horizontal, like a keyboard. Fitting somewhat strangely into your hand, but it turns the television on just fine.

At least Rhett has a few streaming services, all with familiar logos but different names. Prime Pictures, Hoop, and something named...Kibble. But who would have thought that this world had the same shows and movies? There are so many things to rewatch. Are they going to be the same? Different?

It's too easy for one movie to become two, and soon you lose track of how many you've started.

"Where the hell did you find the remote?"

Words as sudden as a thunderclap send your heart into your throat.

Rhett. Dripping from head to toe with rain water, cheeks covered in a thin sheen of dirt.

"Over in the shoe rack," nodding toward the door, "not sure if I want to know why, either."

He turns, casting a long glance toward his newly organized shoes, then a sheepish grin works across his face, "I uh..." rubbing his chin, "I tend to reorganize the house when I'm drunk."

You laugh. His face blossoms into a bright cherry red. Unable to form many words all of a sudden, he fishes out his phone, telling you to order any pizza you'd like while he takes a shower.

Pizza boxes are circular here.

"The fuck you mean they're square?" Rhett sputters, so shocked by your words that he has to put his slice down.

"They just...are?" You think it's got something to do with cost-effectiveness, but you're unsure. "I'm being serious; we don't have round pizza boxes where I come from."

With how he looks at you, you're not sure he believes you.

"I need to see one to believe it," that sounds like intrigue laced around his tone.

"Well, if we can figure out how to reopen the hole," you say, leaning forward, "then I can show you all the square pizza boxes in the world." And...you know, go home.

"Deal," Rhett grins like a cat, "we need to look around the west pasture and figure out where you came out at, anyway. Mash two potatoes with one fork."

Mash two potatoes with one fork. That's different.

An aggressive slam of the front door wakes you around three in the morning. The sound startles you awake, and as you sleepily call out for Rhett, you get no response. He's not on the couch, his blanket and pillow lying in a messy heap on the floor.

You expect him to be mulling around the house when you wake up around eight. Or to at least be within the vicinity of the place. Nine o'clock is the time you've set to go and visit the west pasture because his father tends to have visitors that will get in the way if you wait until any later.

That time comes and goes with no sign of him.

You shower, hunt down a vase to place your slowly wilting flowers inside, reheat some pizza, and still, nothing. This was his time suggestion; he was the one that insisted that you go early, and now the blue-eyed bastard is late to it.

If he doesn't want to come to you, fine. You'll go to him.

The land around his home is vast and unwelcoming to those unfamiliar. His property is that it's mostly flat. You noticed it yesterday when you were riding on the back of Isabela. It's nearly impossible to lose the house if you keep its silhouette within your view.

"Rhett?" You call out, "Rhett!"

No dice.

He's not in the barn, and his truck isn't here. Asshole must have left. Not like you're stuck here against your will or anything.

Isabela knickers at you as you walk past, a harmonious synchrony of three, her own little choir over in the pasture.

"Hi, Isabela," reaching out to scratch her foreheads, "you wouldn't happen to know where your owner went, would you?" You don't know why you expect a horse to respond to you, even a three-headed one.

She looks behind herself, her ears pricking like she hears something. Is that..?

"What is he doing?" Isabela can't talk, but you're pretty sure she understood every word you said because that's Rhett's truck out in the middle of the field. In hindsight, the fresh tire tracks leading toward the gate should have been enough of a clue.

It's a longer walk than you thought it would be, but still, Rhett fails to see you coming. He's got a shovel, throwing dirt into a bottomless hole in the ground. A tarp lies in the bed of his truck, audibly rustling in the morning breeze. It's covering something, but you can't quite decipher what.

"Did you forget you had something planned for nine o'clock?"

He jumps, swearing expletives under his breath, "Jesus, how long you been fuckin' standin' there?"

"Just got here," biting your bottom lip, "you're two hours late to the plans you made because you wanted to do...this?"

"Somethin' came up last night," grunting, he lifts the shovel again, spilling dirt into the hole.

Very descriptive, Rhett. Very descriptive.

"Something?" Isabela nudges you from behind, politely demanding that you give her more pets.

The shovel hits the ground with a soft sound as he marches to his tailgate. Grabbing the edge of the tarp, he yanks it upward. Revealing two severed legs, but not to a person; no, they belong to a horse. Or, they used to belong to one, anyway.

"I don't..." looking back at the shovel, then back to the house, "I don't understand."

"Perry drove home drunker than shit last night," he elaborates, tucking the tarp back down, "moron went off the side of the road and hit one of the neighbor's horses."

You're still not computing this. "So you're hiding parts of it on your property...?" So bewildered that it simmers in your speech.

"The horse is a retired racehorse worth a couple million, at least." Rhett hisses like his neighbors can hear him from here, "if they find out Perry did it, they'll sue us and take the whole ranch."

Exciting. You hope you won't be here when the law comes knocking. "Well, can we look for the hole after you're done?"

"Probably fixin' to be out here all afternoon," he says as he lifts the shovel with his foot.

"Tomorrow?"

"Probably be busy all that day, too."

Helpful. So helpful that you can feel your blood bubble in your veins, red hot, "so when can we look, huh?" It's not even like you can go by yourself. You don't even know which direction the west pasture is in, never mind how to get there on foot.

"God, fuck, I don't know, Monday?" Throwing his hands up, Rhett drops the shovel for a second time, "look, I know you're wantin' to go home, but I have to run this ranch all by my damn self. I don't have time, woman."

You're speechless. What does he expect you to do? Lay around without a care in the world until he feels like helping? Not like you've been uprooted from your entire life and everything you've ever built!

"Alright, alright," deadpanning, your feet move, turning back for the house. Then, under your breath, "with how you talk to women, you probably had to pay all those girls to sleep with you."

A shadow casts over you. "You wanna say that again?"

"I think you heard me well enough the first time," you smile, tight-lipped.

He takes a step forward. You take a step back. The cold metal of the truck presses against your skin.

"I don't think you know what you're talking about," he says, voice lower than you've ever heard.

"What, you gonna prove me wrong?" You shouldn't be taunting him when you're backed into a corner like this. But for some reason, you still do. "Call one of them up for a testimony?"

The bastard laughs, "oh, honey," his hand coming down to plant itself next to your head, "you don't need no damn testimony when I'm standin' right here in front of ya."

Your eyebrows raise. He can't possibly be suggesting..."I thought you didn't like sex?"

"Not usually, no," his head drops down as he speaks, looking you dead in the eye, "but there ain't nothin' better than watchin' a pretty woman fall apart on my tongue."

You're unsure how you feel about the heat that sparks between your legs as he sinks to his knees, never breaking eye contact with you. Here you are. In the middle of this pasture, with a cowboy on his knees...for you.

One of his hands caresses your hip, thumb teasing the brim of your—no, his sweatpants. You shouldn't be doing this. You just met this guy for crying out loud!

Logic doesn't stop your hips from twitching forward into his touch.

That's all he needs to hook his thick fingers into the waistband, "no panties, hm?"

"I didn't exactly have the luxury to pack," there's more you want to say, but it's hard to when he pulls the material down until it pools around your ankles. Cold air nips at your previously covered skin, only warmed by the hot breath that fans against you.

Rhett's hands trail up the inside of your thighs, callouses tickling the sensitive skin there. It's been so long since the last time that his simple touch alone makes you start to drip. His hands continue to rise until his fingers comfortably dip between your folds, running from your entrance to your clit.

"Cute." Before you can even process what he's just said, Rhett leans forward and—

oh.

His tongue is so unbelievably hot as it presses against you, spreading you open around him. Then, one slow, flat, broad stroke of his tongue dragging from your entrance to your clit, circling it lazily. The motion pushes his hat into your belly, and as he drops back to tease your hole once more, it ultimately falls off. Leaving nothing but messy hair, perfect for you to tangle your fingers into.

And you do just that.

"That's it," he coos, voice vibrating against your swollen clit, "pull on my hair while I eat this perfect little pussy of yours."

One little tug, and he moans directly into you, laving over your clit in sloppy figure eights, and that, that. It has no right to feel as good as it does, making your hips start to writhe.

"So squirmy," big hands settle upon your hips, forcing them to stay still as he works you, rapid, quick little licks that wrench a cry right out of your throat. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this guy knows what he's doing. "Still think I had to pay them, girls?"

You don't recall closing your eyes, but when you find the strength to open them, you see those blue eyes peering back up at you. He smiles at the sight of you, flits his tongue against you a little harder, the tip pointed just at the right angle.

Chest heaving, you tug on his hair a little harder; your legs are starting to shake from it all, "fuck," the tone of your own voice foreign to you, "Rhett."

"God, you make my name sound like it's a fuckin' sin," growling, he pulls you close toward him, giving you no chance of escaping the onslaught of his wicked tongue on your pussy.

The sensation of him sucking on your clit makes you jolt with pleasure, heat pooling between your thighs while he keeps fluttering his tongue over it. You're whimpering out into the open air, helpless as he downright devours you like a starved man, and you're his last meal. It's been so long since the last time you felt the subtle nudge of your gut tightening that it's almost foreign.

"R-Rhett—" struggling to formulate words, "'m close."

"I know," grinning, he doesn't stop what he's doing, loudly slurping at your cunt, "come on, darlin', cum on my tongue for me."

You barely feel it coming on.

All it takes is one more suck against your clit, and you're spiraling toward the edge with no guardrail to catch you. Too much, too fast. You yank on his hair so hard that Rhett moans around your clit, a beautifully pitchy noise that sends your eyes rolling into the back of your head. Like a tidal wave, your orgasm washes over you. Convulsing as he licks you through it, straddling the border of too much and just enough. Lungs burning, head spinning.

Just as quickly as it had bubbled up, it fades away, leaving you a panting, trembling mess, all for him to see.

"Damn," his scruffy cheek is pressed against your hip, lazily smiling up at you like a cat who got the cream, "you're out of this world."

You could hit him.

His chin is so drenched that it's downright glistening in the sunshine, thin lips swollen, so completely, utterly relaxed against you. A totally different man from the one a few minutes ago.

"You know," carefully running your fingers through his hair, combing out the mess you've made of him, "I can't tell who this benefitted more."

He laughs, cheeks starting to turn pink, "consider it a mutual trade-off." The end of his sentence distorts around a sleepy yawn, "'m sorry, I tend to be a real ass when I'm tired."

The way he's peering up at you is awakening something. An uncanny urge to take him back to the house and look after him until he's well-rested and that lively spark has returned to his eyes. But, for the life of you, you can't understand why.

What the hell did you just do.

Taking your silence as a reply, he opens his mouth again, "whaddya say we try and make a quick trip to that pasture?"

Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like a plan.

You're lucky he offers to drive you back up to the house because your legs tremor so much that you can hardly walk straight. Rhett's quick to notice it, winking at you as you stumble past him and toward the front door.

Curse orgasms and their need to fill your bladder with half the water in the Pacific ocean.

By the time you step back outside, a little more stable on your feet, Rhett's already got Isabel ready to go. She's standing next to the small porch steps, and with the added leverage, it's much easier to climb up.

"If you can't figure out how to get you home," he chuckles as you squeeze in behind him, "we're gonna have to find you a horse."

"You gonna go hit one too?" It shoots out of your mouth before you can stop it.

Lucky for you, Rhett laughs some more, "somethin' like that, yeah."

Back to the pasture again, bypassing Rhett's little stash of evidence. Should you be concerned about that horse's owners coming knocking? Probably. Are you?

Not really.

Maybe you would be if you thought about it more, but it's hard to linger on it when fluffy cows appear in the distance. With their long black fur and glistening horns, something straight out of an art piece.

"Are their horns actually gold?" You inquire. It looks damn close to real gold to you.

"Yes, ma'am," Isabela slows as you grow closer to the herd, stopping just shy of them.

One of the cows is feeling friendly, approaching you like an old friend. She's close enough for you to touch, but as you reach out, she looks at you kind of...funny, making your hand freeze midair.

"You can pet her," demonstrating, Rhett reaches out, scratching his nails against her cheek.

You're not too sure about that one. She sure doesn't seem to like it when you brush your nails over her forehead, absolutely fixated on you, as if you've just offended her to the core. Yeah, no, you probably shouldn't...

A careful hand curls around the back of your own. Slow, Rhett guides your hand to pet her forehead, up and down, in the same fashion you would pet a dog you've met. She's so unbelievably soft.

"Are all cows this soft?" You've never felt anything quite like it. Silky, a little velvety, even.

"Nah, not all of 'em," he lets go of your hand, gives her golden horn a little tap, "these right here? Solid gold, not hollow."

Their horns are entirely and utterly mindboggling, perfectly smooth and cool to the touch, not at all like you'd expect a horn to feel. How strange.

"Do you raise them for their gold or their meat?" A part of you isn't ready for the potential answer.

Rhett chews on his bottom lip, "both." He gives the cow one last head pat before Isabela starts to move again, "the gold pays for most of the expenses 'round here."

So gold is still considered valuable here. Interesting.

"But just between you and me," he continues, "lately, I've been lyin' sayin' nobody's in the gold market no more."

You have to cling to him a little tighter now that Isabela is starting to move quicker; with every step, you fear you may fall. "How come?"

"They think they're entitled to it," he reaches down, grazing his fingertips along your arms, where they're looped around his waist, "always askin' me to slaughter my cows before their time so that they can buy stupid shit."

A memory flickers into the forefront of your head. "Is that how your parents could afford that giant house?"

"You catch on quick."

The gate to the west pasture is just up ahead. While it's hard to say, you think this is where you first met Rhett. Barely even a few days ago, and yet, it feels like a distant memory, fuzzy in your head. You can almost feel the way that lasso cinched around you, catching you with such little effort.

After you go through the gate, it takes a lot of work to come up with much of anything. You know you were close to the fence that borders the end of the west pasture, but the land looks so different during the day than it does at night.

"I've got nothing," you frown, "it all looks the same."

Rhett hums. A deep sound that vibrates through your arms and up into your chest, leaving you feeling all tingly after he stops. "Y'know, I think you landed a little further down."

"How would you...?" Unless... "Rhett, were you there when I came out of that hole?"

"Sorta." You can't see his face, but the tips of his ears tint a pretty shade of ruby red, "I watched the hole open and headed off to let my dad know," he peeks over his shoulder at you, "but then I heard Autumn start screamin' and I turned back 'round."

Autumn. So that's what that woman's name was.

Up ahead, there's a patch of dead grass. Perfectly circular, maybe ten feet in diameter, brown in color, a stark contrast to the green surrounding it. Isabela stops short of it and refuses to move any closer, even as Rhett asks her to continue. Seems you'll be going on foot.

You're unsure why you feel nervous about walking closer to the patch of grass. Ideally, if it reopened under your feet, you would wind up back at home, and all of this would be over. So why are you feeling like this?

Rhett audibly sucks in a breath as you step into the circle. Like he's expecting it to swallow you up at any given moment.

No, no, no, there should be something here. A sign, a clue, something, anything. The realization of there being absolutely fucking nothing is suffocating. Brings your heart rate up until it beats in your ears like a drum. You look and look, kicking the ground as if that will force it to open.

Nothing. Nothing happens, and the only things out of the ordinary are the few remaining flowers strewn about the grass.

"If it can open up once, it can open up again," Rhett tells you, holding out his hand to help you back up, "we'll figure this out, one way or another."

You're beginning to wonder if that's truly the case.

Rhett hums the entire way back. Some slow little tune that he doesn't have a name for. It's not much, but it's enough to distract you from the sour taste this trip has left in the back of your mouth. At least for a little while.

Something possesses you to stick around while he untacks Isabela, petting her as he busies himself with unclipping various things you don't know the name for. You're thankful she enjoys all the attention because it's the only thing keeping your hands from shaking.

For the first time, it hits you. The realization that you could be stuck here for the rest of your life. There's a very good possibility that you're never getting home. That you'll never see your mom again, your friends, your old life. They'll never know what happened to you.

"You're gonna spoil that horse," you've almost forgotten that Rhett was in here with you.

"Probably," you wish you could come up with more to say, but you can hardly think up another word.

Rhett has already caught on to your mood. Doesn't say anything else, instead communicating without words. He tells you he's ready to turn Isabela out by placing his hand between your shoulder blades and giving you the slightest nudges to get you going in the right direction. Does it again when he's done with that, wordlessly telling you to head for the house.

As you step inside, you can't help but feel like something is...off, but you don't know what it is.

"Y'alright?" It's now that you realize you've stopped dead on the threshold, leaving Rhett no choice but to idle on the porch. You start to turn, but along the way, your eyes catch a glimpse of the vase sitting on the counter.

"Someone's been in here."

Behind you, Rhett stiffens, gently taking hold of your waist and pulling you back onto the porch. Eyes wide, flickering between you and the wide open door, "what do you mean?"

"When I left," gulping, "my flowers were sitting in that vase on the counter."

It's empty.

All it takes is one long gaze into the house before Rhett reaches for the door, slamming it shut. Your mouth opens, but he's quicker, "we're goin' into town to get a doorknob that actually locks."

Part 2 ♡⊹˚₊

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