#this doesn’t mean copy theme down to the last word! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thef1diary · 8 months ago

Text

While It Lasts | L. Norris - 2

Summary: Lando expected nothing more than relaxation and fun for two weeks during his summer break. What he didn’t anticipate was meeting you, someone who felt like a perfect match in every way. As the days quickly passed, he found himself falling deeply for you, only to be confronted with the heart-wrenching reality that your time together was far more limited than he ever imagined.

Part 1

PLEASE READ: This story contains themes of loss, morality, fear, death, relationship strains, mental health struggles, including significant emotional impact related to the reader’s journey with a chronic illness and some scenes are set in hospitals. Reminder that this is simply a work of fiction, please don’t take it to heart.

wc: 16.5k

You woke up to the faint clattering of dishes in the kitchen. Groggily, you opened your eyes, feeling the stiffness from sleeping awkwardly on the couch. Stretching, you realized Isaac was already up, making breakfast.

“Isaac,” you called out, your voice hoarse from sleep.

He didn’t seem to hear you, the noise of the kitchen drowning out your voice. With a sigh, you decided to hobble over to him, each step a reminder of your twisted ankle and the awkward position you’d slept in.

Reaching the kitchen, you leaned against the doorway for support. “Isaac,” you said a bit louder.

He turned, surprise and concern crossing his face. “You should be resting.”

“I know,” you replied, wincing slightly as you moved closer. “But we need to talk.”

Isaac set down the pan he was holding, his expression turning serious. “Alright, let’s talk.”

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the words you were about to say. “Isaac, I’m sorry for yelling at you yesterday. I know you’re just trying to take care of me.”

He shook his head, his eyes reflecting a mix of frustration and pain. “Every single day for the past four years, I have this fear that you’ll leave me at any moment. Yes, it is selfish, very selfish because I truly don’t know what you’re feeling, what you’re going through. But while you might’ve accepted that you’re dying, I didn’t! I just wanted to make sure you’re taking care of yourself, so you can live another day, so you can see me graduate college, see me – I don’t know – find the love of my life or get married. I’m sorry. You’re my sister, you are the last person I need to act like I’m on eggshells around you.”

Your heart ached at his words, the depth of his fear and love hitting you hard. “Your fear is valid, Isaac. Just because I’ve accepted it, doesn’t mean that I like it. But it won’t change fate, will it? It won’t change the fact that I’ve been dealt a shitty hand at life. All I know is that when I’m taking my last breaths, whenever it is, I don’t want to regret anything. I don’t want to regret not living enough because of the fear of dying. Just because I have a stupid countdown doesn’t mean I should be afraid to live.”

Isaac looked at you, his eyes moist with unshed tears. “I just want you to be here, to live as long as possible.”

“I know,” you whispered, reaching out to engulf him in a hug. “I’ll try to take better care of myself.”

He nodded slowly, his grip tightening around your body. “And I’ll try to be less overprotective, I promise, I’ll try.”

You smiled, a tear slipping down your cheek. “Thank you, Isaac.”

As you stood there, holding onto each other in the quiet morning light, you felt a sense of peace. When he pulled back, he scrunched up his face. “But it’ll be harder to explain that to mum and dad.”

You shrugged, “they’ll get it, one day, hopefully.”

After breakfast, Isaac announced he needed to run some errands in town. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he said, grabbing his keys. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

You nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine. Take your time.”

As the door closed behind him, the house fell into a quiet lull. You settled back on the couch, trying to get comfortable and rest your ankle. Just as you were starting to drift off, the doorbell rang.

With a sigh, you swung your legs off the couch and hobbled toward the door, wincing with each step. When you finally reached it and pulled it open, you were greeted by Lando’s mischievous grin that quickly turned into worry.

“Hey,” he said, his brow furrowed as he took in your hobbling form. “You shouldn’t be up and about. How’s the ankle?”

“Hey, Lando,” you replied, leaning against the doorframe for support. “It’s sore but I’ll survive. Come in.”

He stepped inside, immediately reaching out to steady you. “Here, let me help you back to the couch.”

You nodded, grateful for his support. You leaned against him and held his hand as he guided you back to your spot on the couch. You couldn’t help but notice the warmth of his touch and the genuine concern in his eyes.

“Thanks,” you said once you were settled again. “What brings you here?”

Lando shrugged, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “I wanted to check on you. Make sure you’re not getting into any more trouble.”

You chuckled softly. “Well, I did manage to twist my ankle pretty badly.”

His expression turned serious. “I know. I felt terrible leaving you like that last night.”

“It’s alright, I was already sleeping before you left,” you waved off his concern.

“Speaking of falling asleep…” Lando began, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I couldn’t resist stopping by the bookstore you mentioned. Figured I’d pick up a couple of books to keep us entertained.”

You grinned, appreciating his thoughtfulness. “You went to the bookstore? You really are determined to explore every corner of this town, aren’t you?”

Lando nodded enthusiastically, pulling the books out of the bag he carried when he entered. “Of course! And since my favorite tour guide is out of commission,” he said, gesturing to your injured ankle, “I had to take matters into my own hands.”

He revealed two identical books, holding them up with a grin. “Thought we could have a reading competition. Winner gets bragging rights.”

You chuckled, shaking your head in amusement. “It’s always a competition with you, isn’t it?”

Lando shrugged nonchalantly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “What can I say? I’m a competitive guy. Comes with the territory. Oh, and by the way,” he added casually, “did I mention I’m a Formula 1 driver?”

You blinked, surprised by the revelation. “Wait, seriously?”

Lando grinned, “yeah, been racing for quite a few years now.”

You nodded, a smile spreading on your face when he delved into the details, and it’s evident that he loves talking about his passion.

“That actually makes so much sense, that’s how you know the Sainz family, right?”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Yes, but how do you know them?”

You laughed softly, and it quickly became a sound Lando loved hearing. “I live next to the villa, remember?” You teased jokingly.

A sheepish smile grew on his face, “oh, right. So what, you’ve met Carlos too? And here I thought I was the first F1 driver you’ve met.”

You nodded. “Yeah, in passing. We never really talked much, but I’ve seen him and his family around often.”

Then you leaned closer and whispered, “but don’t tell him that he may no longer be my favourite.”

He quirked up an eyebrow, leaning in as well and responding with the same amount of energy. “Then who is?”

You shrugged, leaning back with a small smile and a faint blush covering your cheeks. “I think I might have to watch a race to decide.”

As you continued chatting with Lando, the pain in your ankle seemed to fade into the background. His enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself drawn into his stories about racing, the thrill of waiting for the lights to go out, and the camaraderie between his fellow drivers.

Eventually, you decided to start the reading competition. Both of you settled into the couch with your respective books, determined to see who would finish first. But as the minutes ticked by, Lando found it hard to focus on his book. His gaze kept drifting to you, watching the way your eyes moved across the pages and the little expressions that flitted across your face as you read.

He couldn’t help but want to talk to you, to hear more about your thoughts. Finally, he put his book down with a sigh, unable to concentrate any longer.

“So, what’s next on the agenda once your ankle’s better? Something less adventurous, perhaps?”

You placed your book down after marking your page, chuckling as you looked at him. “Can’t focus, can you?”

“Not with you around,” he shrugged casually.

Trapping your lip between your teeth to prevent a smile from growing on your face, you chose to focus on the question he asked.

“There’s this amazing seafood restaurant nearby. It’s a local favorite, and the food is incredible. Fresh catches of the day, and the chef’s specials are to die for. You’ll love it!”

As you spoke, you didn’t notice Lando’s face pale slightly. He wasn’t a fan of seafood, but he couldn’t bring himself to dampen your excitement by telling you the truth. The way your eyes lit up talking about the place made him want to experience it with you, even if he never wanted to be around any sort of fish.

“Sounds great,” Lando said, forcing a smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”

You clapped your hands together, beaming. “You won’t regret it, I promise. The view from the restaurant is amazing too. It’s right by the water, and you can see the boats coming in and out of the harbor. It’s a perfect spot for a relaxing evening.”

Lando nodded, matching your enthusiasm as best he could. “That sounds perfect. I can’t wait.”

“How about we go there for dinner tomorrow?” you suggested, your excitement bubbling over.

“Tomorrow night it is,” Lando agreed, his smile genuine due to your smile despite his seafood reservations.

The next evening came around too quickly for Lando’s liking. Instead of stressing over what to wear this time, he was worried about the food itself. The prospect of seafood was daunting, but he didn’t want to let you down. As he rummaged through his closet, Max walked into the room with a teasing grin.

“Mate, you like her so much that you’d willingly eat seafood for her?” Max said, leaning against the doorframe.

Lando looked up, a mixture of nerves and amusement on his face. “Yeah, well, it’s not just about the food. It’s about the company.”

He chuckled, “you’re a brave man.” Then he sighed exaggeratedly, “oh the things you do in love.”

Lando’s back straightened suddenly. “It’s not love… yet. We’re just hanging out.”

Max’s eyes widened since he didn’t expect such an answer, “wait a second, ‘yet’? Do you actually like her?”

Lando shrugged, trying to play it off, but the slight smile on his face betrayed him. “I don’t know, Max. Maybe. It’s… complicated.”

Max studied him for a moment, then a grin spread across his face. “I should’ve seen it coming, but she’s great! Maybe even a little out of your league,” he spoke with a teasing grin, that only made Lando roll his eyes when he saw his best friend’s face.

“She’s beautiful,” he said softly, not denying Max’s words.

Max's teasing grin softened into a more serious expression. "Hey, I'm serious though. You don't have to go through with this if you're not comfortable. You shouldn't feel like you have to force yourself to like something just to impress her."

Lando appreciated Max's concern, but he shook his head. "It's not about impressing her. I want to spend time with her, Max. She's... she's different."

Max raised an eyebrow, a knowing look in his eyes. "Different, huh? Well, just be careful, okay?"

Lando nodded, his thoughts swirling with uncertainty and anticipation. "Of course."

As Max left the room, Lando took a moment to collect his thoughts. He knew Max was just looking out for him, but there was something about you that made him want to take the risk. With a determined smile, he finished getting ready and was about to head out to meet you, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement building inside him.

Right as he was leaving the villa, Max’s voice rang out. “If you need an excuse to skip out, I can come up with something. No need to torture yourself over fish.”

Lando shook his head, appreciating the concern. “Thanks, Max, but I’ll be fine. I just… I don’t want to ruin this. She’s really excited about the place.”

A very short drive later, Lando knocked on your door, and when you opened it, his eyes widened appreciatively as they swept over you. You wore a simple yet elegant dress, the color complementing your features perfectly.

“Wow,” he breathed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You look amazing.”

Blushing slightly at his compliment, you thanked him and closed the door behind you as you left your cottage, walking towards Lando’s car. “Thanks, Lando, you don’t look too bad yourself.”

He fell in step beside you, still admiring your outfit. “So, do you have a hot date or something?”

You chuckled at his question, shaking your head. “Nope, no dates, just going out with some racer guy, not sure if you know him.”

Sitting in his car, he instantly looked at you with a raised eyebrow and a playful smirk dancing on his lips. “Hmm, sounds like a great guy! Is he interesting?”

You laughed, nudging him as he drove. “Very.”

When you arrived at the restaurant, the sun was just starting to set, casting a golden glow over the water. It was nestled right by the harbor, with a perfect view of the boats coming and going. Lando parked the car and helped you out, his hand lingering a moment longer than necessary as he offered support for your still-healing ankle. Even though you could walk without needing support again, you didn’t mind holding onto his hand.

“Wow, this place is beautiful,” he said, genuinely impressed by the picturesque setting.

“I told you,” you replied with a satisfied smile. “Come on, let’s get a table by the window.”

The interior of the restaurant was cozy, with soft lighting and a gentle murmur of conversation filling the air. A small fish tank adorned one corner of the room, the colorful fish swimming lazily in the water. Lando couldn’t help but chuckle nervously as he glanced at the tank.

“Kinda cruel, isn’t it?” he joked, nodding towards the fish tank. "Having live fish in a seafood restaurant," Lando remarked with a wry smile.

Still, you laughed, nodding in agreement. "The owners think it adds to the ambiance."

As you were seated and handed the menus, Lando took a deep breath, steeling himself for the seafood-heavy options. But when he looked across the table and saw your excited expression, he hoped it would all be worth it. This evening was about enjoying your company, and he was determined to do just that, and perhaps if everything went very well, he might casually mention that he’d like to take you out on an actual date.

As the waiter took your orders, you couldn't contain your excitement, eager to indulge in the fresh seafood the restaurant had to offer. Lando, however, seemed a bit hesitant, but he eventually settled on a dish, trying to mask his apprehension with a smile.

Once the food arrived, you dug in eagerly, savoring each bite of the delicious seafood. However, as you glanced over at Lando, you noticed something was off. His attempts to conceal his discomfort were evident, and you could see the struggle on his face as he hesitantly bit into a shrimp, his expression revealing disgust as he tried to swallow it.

Concerned, you leaned closer to him, your voice soft with worry. "Is everything okay, Lando?"

He hesitated, clearly torn, spitting the piece of shrimp into a tissue before finally admitting, "I'm sorry, I just... I can't do seafood."

Surprised by his confession, you felt a pang of guilt wash over you. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

Lando shrugged, looking sheepish. "I didn't want to ruin your plans, you looked so excited to come here and I thought I could handle it, but..."

Without hesitation, you reached out, taking his hand in yours. "Come on, let's get out of here."

Leading him out of the restaurant, you felt a mix of disappointment and concern. Disappointed that he didn’t feel comfortable sharing such a simple detail with you, and concerned that he attempted to eat a shrimp, knowing he disliked it, all for your sake.

But as you walked together, you were determined to salvage the evening because you didn’t want the night to end just yet. "How about we find a burger place? Is that something you'll enjoy."

Lando's gratitude was evident in his smile as he nodded, and together, you set off to find a new spot to continue your evening, determined to make it memorable for all the right reasons.

You and Lando ended up sitting in his car, munching on takeout burgers and fries, the mood was light and laughter filled the air. Lando was in the middle of telling a funny story from his racing season, his eyes lighting up with excitement as he recounted the antics of how multiple of his fellow drivers tried to convince him to try seafood but failed.

You couldn’t help but laugh along, enjoying the animated way he described each moment. You playfully nudged Lando, a grin spreading across your face. “Well, it seems like all those F1 drivers couldn’t get you to try seafood, but I did, even if it was just a bite!”

Lando leaned back in his seat, a lighthearted smile playing on his lips. “You know, for you, I’d try anything… except seafood.”

As you heard Lando's words, a soft realization came to you that his remark held a hint of flirtation.

“Why don’t you like seafood anyways?” you couldn’t help but ask, especially since this town was full of loads of seafood options and now you had to think of other restaurants for him to try.

Lando shrugged, taking another bite of his burger before answering. “I guess it’s just not my thing. I’ve never been a fan of the taste or the texture.”

As you indulged in your burger, a smear of sauce found its way to the corner of your lips. Lando's eyes caught the small detail, and with a gentle smile, he pointed it out. "You've got a little something right there."

You chuckled, raising your hand to wipe it away, but before you could, Lando's fingers grazed over the corner of your lips, wiping away the sauce. His touch was gentle, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary as he leaned in close.

A subtle warmth spread through you at the intimacy of the gesture, and for a moment, time seemed to slow as you met his gaze. There was something unspoken between you, a silent acknowledgment of the growing connection that seemed to deepen with each passing moment.

His fingers lingered at the edge of your lips, and you could feel his breath, warm and inviting, mingling with yours. The world around you faded, leaving only the two of you in that fleeting instant.

“Lando…” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. The space between you grew smaller, your faces inching closer together.

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes flicking down to your lips and back up to your eyes. The anticipation was electric, a charged moment that seemed to stretch on forever.

But then, he pulled back, a faint blush tinting his cheeks. “I don’t want our first kiss to be like this,” he murmured, his voice soft but resolute. “You deserve a proper date first.”

A mix of disappointment and warmth washed over you. His thoughtfulness, his desire to make things right, only made your heart ache more with affection. Amidst the laughter and shared stories, his words hung between you, a promise of something more.

As quickly as the thought arose, the weight of your illness pressed down on you, reminding you of life's fragility and the uncertainty of tomorrow. Your thoughts lingered on wondering if you even had a future in general. To entertain the idea of a future with him would only cause your heart to ache, knowing that you might not live to see those dreams come true.

The thought of a future, a proper date, a real kiss—all of it seemed so painfully out of reach.

It was a bittersweet realization, knowing that even the simplest of dreams could be overshadowed by the reality of your condition. While he would return back to the fast paced world of racing, you would remain in this small town, wondering how many more dreams you would have to crush because fate decided to take away your life, inch by inch.

Awkwardness filled the car on your end, your emotions shifting to cold and stoic, like they were before you met him. The warm connection you had felt only moments ago was replaced by a wall you erected to protect your heart. Lando noticed the change, his cheerful demeanor faltering as the silence grew heavy between you.

Soon enough, you both finished your burgers, and Lando started the car to drive you home. The ride was quiet, the earlier laughter and easy conversation now replaced by a tension that neither of you acknowledged. When he pulled up to your house, he turned off the engine and looked at you, a hint of concern in his eyes.

“Do you want me to walk you to the door?” he asked softly.

You shook your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “No, it’s fine. Thanks for the evening, Lando.”

He watched as you climbed out of the car, a confused and worried expression on his face. As you walked to your door, you could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t look back. You shut the door behind you, leaning against it for a moment as a tear threatened to slip down your cheek.

Lando sat in his car, staring at the closed door, wondering what he had done wrong and why the evening had ended on such a somber note. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had changed, but he had no idea what it was or how to fix it.

—

Over the next couple of days, you don’t acknowledge the thoughts that are bubbling up in your mind, instead choosing to tread carefully and immerse yourself in your daily routine. You’ve lived a lot more than you have over the past couple of months, and felt the joy that it brings. But now, you had to face the consequences causing you to distance yourself away from Lando before you got too attached to the happiness that came with being around him. Once you realized that you truly wanted to kiss him that night, everything changed. You had to take a preemptive measure, a self-imposed boundary designed to shield your heart from potential pain.

Your health deteriorated significantly. Your energy waned, and simple tasks like walking around the house left you breathless and exhausted. Fortunately, you have a doctor’s appointment scheduled, a simple routine checkup. However, it coincided with plans you made with Lando. Determined to distance yourself from him, you don’t tell him about the change of plans.

At the doctor’s appointment, you sit in the sterile examination room, the familiar scent of antiseptic mingling with nerves that coil in the pit of your stomach. These appointments, routine yet crucial, serve as a barometer of your ongoing battle against your illness.

As the doctor enters, his expression is professional yet compassionate, his eyes scanning through your medical history with a practiced ease. You recount the recent symptoms you’ve been experiencing, the fatigue that seems to seep into your bones, and the persistent ache that lingers despite treatment.

With a sympathetic nod, the doctor orders a series of tests, his urgency palpable as he reviews your file. The minutes stretch into an eternity as you wait for the results, each passing second filled with a silent plea for a glimmer of hope.

When the test results finally come back, the doctor’s demeanor shifts subtly, his tone measured yet grave. “I’m afraid the results are not as we had hoped,” he begins, his words heavy with significance.

Your heart sinks at the confirmation of your worst fears, the reality of your illness casting a shadow over your hopes for improvement. Despite your best efforts, it seems that the tide of your health is turning against you once again.

A sense of dread fills you as he explains that the illness has advanced more rapidly than expected. “We need to keep you overnight for observation,” he says gently. “Your vitals are unstable, and we need to adjust your treatment plan.”

You nod, too emotionally tired to object, allowing a nurse to lead you to the hospital room, one that you became too familiar with over the past few years. You would spend yet another night under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital, experience another round of tests and treatments, and take another uncertain step into the abyss of your illness.

You lie in the hospital bed, hooked up to various machines, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over you like a heavy blanket. The familiar beeps and hums of the medical equipment provide a disconcerting backdrop to your thoughts, each sound a reminder of the precariousness of your health.

As you drift in and out of consciousness, your mind wanders to Lando, the plans you had made together now nothing more than distant dreams. Guilt gnaws at the edges of your consciousness, knowing that he waits for you, unaware of the sudden turn your day has taken.

Just as the shadows of doubt threaten to overwhelm you, a soft knock on the door interrupts your thoughts. Startled, you turn to see Isaac's familiar face framed in the doorway, concern etched into his features.

"Hey," he says softly, crossing the room to sit beside you. "I got your text. Are you okay?"

You manage a weak smile, grateful for his presence amidst the sterile confines of the hospital room. "Yeah, just another setback," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

Isaac reaches out to squeeze your hand gently, his touch a comforting anchor in the sea of uncertainty. "You’ll get through this," he says, his voice steady and reassuring.

As Isaac settles into the chair beside your hospital bed, he observes the flurry of activity around you—the nurses bustling about, the doctors conferring in hushed tones, tweaking the machines, their purpose still a mystery to him after all these visits.

When there's a lull in the commotion, Isaac hesitates before speaking, his voice soft with concern. "Hey, I wanted to let you know... Lando stopped by the cottage today."

“What’d he say?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

"He asked about you today," Isaac begins, his tone gentle. "Said you had plans but you didn't show. He mentioned he hasn't seen you in a couple of days. Is everything okay between you two?"

You nod weakly, offering a small smile to reassure Isaac. "Yeah, everything's fine. I just... I don't know, I guess I realized that I've been enjoying his company a lot more than I should, given my condition."

He frowns, “what’s wrong with that? You’re both happy around each other, so why are you distancing yourself away from him?”

You scoff, “have you seen me?” You raise your arm that has an IV inserted, along with the other wires connected to you.

“It doesn’t matter,” Isaac insists gently. “He cares about you. You deserve happiness too, regardless of what’s going on with your health.”

You shake your head, a hint of frustration in your voice. “You don’t understand, Isaac. I don’t have a guarantee of how I’m spending the next week, let alone the rest of my life. I don’t want to hurt Lando by snatching away his happiness one day too. I’m just… preventing myself, and him, from getting too attached to each other.”

Isaac sighs, his expression softening with understanding. "You're not scared of getting too attached, are you? You already are, whether you admit it or not. But by staying away, you're only hurting yourself and him more."

You avert your gaze, feeling the weight of his words sinking in. "I know," you admit quietly. "But I don't know what else to do."

"He deserves to know if he's falling in love with you," Isaac says gently, his voice filled with concern. "And you deserve to have someone by your side, especially during the tough times."

You let out a heavy sigh, knowing he's right but still unsure of what to do next. "I guess I did find someone that fate hates more than me."

"So you agree, that he's in love with you?" Isaac probes, searching your eyes for confirmation.

"He's only in love because he barely knows me," you reply, your voice tinged with sadness.

“Maybe you should give him a chance to know you, the real you,” he responds.

You bite your lip, unsure of how to respond. Deep down, you know Isaac is right, but the fear of hurting Lando is overwhelming. Yet, the thought of pushing him away hurts just as much.

Before you can dwell on it further, a nurse enters the room, breaking the momentary silence. Isaac gives you a reassuring smile before standing up to give you some privacy. As he leaves, his words linger in the air, leaving you to contemplate the complexities of your situation.

The next morning, you’re discharged, feeling even more drained. The doctors have adjusted your medications, but the prognosis remains grim.

You left the hospital, walking in step beside Isaac for a moment until he headed towards the parking lot to bring the car around. As you were blinking in the bright morning sunlight, you nearly collided with Max, who was just outside chatting with someone on his phone.

“Hey there!” Max greets you with a wide grin, sliding his phone into his pocket. However, his expression quickly turns into a frown as he notices the hospital wristband adorning your wrist. “Wait, were you in there?” he asks, concern lacing his words. “Is everything okay?”

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, not wanting to worry him unnecessarily or dive into the complexities of your recent hospital stay. “Oh, it was just a routine checkup, some bloodwork, you know how that goes, nothing to worry about,” you assure him with a tight-lipped smile.

Max’s eyes narrow slightly, clearly not entirely convinced by your explanation, but he decides not to press further.

He glances over his shoulder, then back at you. “I was just at the café right down the street.”

You nod, “good choice, they make the best coffee in town.”

He smiled as his choice was approved by you. “Do you need a ride? I’m heading back to the villa.”

You shook your head, “no it’s alright, Isaac’s bringing the car around.”

“Alright, I guess I’ll see you around, only a few more days left before we leave this paradise,” he reminds you.

You offer him a grateful nod. “Yeah, time flies, doesn’t it?” you reply with a forced smile since you were hoping to return home soon. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

As Max nods in agreement and starts to walk away, you can’t shake the feeling that he suspects something isn’t quite right. But you push the thought aside, determined to focus on the present moment and put on a brave face as you step away from the hospital and back into the world outside.

As Isaac parks in the driveway, you notice Lando pacing back and forth by the front door, his brows furrowed in concern. The sight of him fills you with a tumult of conflicting emotions. Isaac’s words echo in your mind, urging you to be honest with Lando, to tell him how much you care about him, to share the burden of your illness. But fear gnaws at your insides, whispering that revealing the truth will only drive him away.

His expression changes from relief to frustration as he sees you approaching.

“Where were you?” he demanded, his voice tinged with worry. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

As you and Lando stand in front of each other, locked in a tense silence, Isaac takes a step back, sensing the need for privacy between you two. With a subtle nod, he heads inside the cottage, leaving you and Lando alone on the doorstep.

The weight of unspoken words hangs heavy in the air, suffocating you both with its palpable intensity. You struggle to find the right words to break the silence, to bridge the growing chasm between you, but fear and uncertainty grip you like a vice, paralyzing your tongue.

Lando shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flickering between you as if searching for answers in the depths of your eyes. His expression is a mix of hurt and confusion, mirroring the tumultuous storm raging within your own heart.

You want to tell Lando the truth, to let him in, but the thought of exposing your vulnerabilities terrifies you. You can’t bear the idea of him seeing you as fragile, of pitying you. So, holding your head up high, you decide to make him hate you before he realizes that he loves you.

You force a nonchalant shrug, trying to play it off. “I had some errands to run, and I forgot we had plans.”

“Forgot?” he repeats, incredulous. “We made those plans a while ago. Forget that, I haven’t seen you for days. What’s really going on?”

Annoyed, and wanting to distance yourself from him before your feelings grow even stronger, you let a hint of irritation seep into your voice. “I don’t owe you an explanation for everything I do, Lando. It’s not a big deal.”

He’s taken aback by your rudeness, his face falling slightly. “Not a big deal? I’ve been worried sick about you.”

“Well, you don’t need to be,” you say curtly, avoiding his eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

An awkward silence falls between you two, the tension palpable. Lando’s expression shifts from hurt to confusion. He takes a step back, clearly stung by your words.

“Fine,” he says quietly, his voice pained. “If that’s how you want it.”

You nod, turning away from him and heading inside, each step feeling heavier than the last. Lando stands outside for a moment longer, staring at the closed door. He can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to your abrupt change in behavior, but he respects your wish for distance. With a heavy heart, he turns and walks away, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the echo of the door closing between you

You lean against the door, quickly sliding down and sitting on the floor as you cover your face with your hands, fighting back tears.

Pushing him away is probably the hardest thing you’ve ever done, but you convince yourself it’s for the best.

Isaac spots you sitting on the floor, and quickly rushes towards you. Moving your hands away from your face, he notices the tears staining your cheeks and has an idea of how the conversation went with Lando.

"You're still as stubborn as ever, aren't you?" he remarked rhetorically, but then he enveloped you in his arms, holding you close as you trembled with sobs.

You pulled back slightly, sniffling as you tried to compose yourself. "I can't tell him," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the rush of emotions.

Meanwhile, Lando trudged back to the villa, his mind heavy with thoughts and his heart weighed down by the encounter with you. When he arrived, Max was idly sitting around.

“Hey, mate,” Max greeted but his expression turned serious as he observed Lando’s demeanour. “You okay?”

Lando shrugged, sitting next to Max as he tried to brush off the weight of his emotions. “I saw her today.”

He nodded, “how’d it go?”

Lando frowned, furrowing his brows. “I don’t know, Max. That’s the thing. It’s like I saw a completely different person today. Someone I thought I knew, but now… she’s like a stranger.”

Max furrowed his brow, concerned. “What do you mean?”

Lando shook his head, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like she was pushing me away, Max. Acting cold and distant, like she didn’t want anything to do with me.”

Max nodded in understanding. “Well, mate, maybe she’s just having a rough day. I mean, she was at the hospital earlier.”

His words caught Lando off guard. He blinked in surprise, his brows furrowing as he processed the information. “Wait, she was at the hospital?” he asked, a note of concern creeping into his voice.

Max nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I saw her leaving earlier today. Said it wasn’t serious, just a routine check up but she looked very tired, like she hadn’t slept properly in days.”

Lando’s concern deepened as he absorbed Max’s words. “Why didn’t she tell me?” he murmured, a mix of worry and frustration evident in his voice.

Max placed a comforting hand on Lando’s shoulder. “Maybe she just needs some space, mate. It’s not easy opening up about personal stuff, especially to someone you care about a lot.”

“You think she cares about me?” Lando asked, his tone almost a mumbling mess.

Max scoffed, “see I knew you were an idiot but not to this extent that you don’t even see the obvious. Of course she cares about you, mate!”

“Well I know that, it’s just I don’t wanna read into something that’s not there, you know?”

Max squeezed Lando’s shoulder reassuringly. “Trust me, mate, it’s there. Sometimes, we just need a little nudge to see what’s right in front of us.”

Lando nodded slowly, his mind still swirling with doubts and questions. “I guess you’re right,” he conceded, a faint glimmer of hope starting to flicker within him.

Max grinned, clapping him on the back. “That’s the spirit! Just give her some time, and I’m sure things will sort themselves out.”

The cottage exudes a somber atmosphere, suffused with memories of those initial days when you sought refuge from your parents' house, just across town. After your diagnosis, living with your parents became unbearable, evoking memories of your tumultuous teenage years, always feeling scolded and misunderstood. With persuasion and determination, you relocated to the cottage, that has always acted as a second childhood home, with your brother, longing for respite from the tumult of your parents' home. Eventually, your parents themselves moved to the next town over, seeking their own fresh start, leaving you and your brother to navigate the challenges of your illness in your quiet abode.

Now, as you sit in the same kitchen where you once grappled with the harsh reality of your illness, the mood is eerily similar. A strange sense of déjà vu washes over you as the silence in the cottage seems to press down, a stark contrast to the vibrant conversations and laughter that once echoed within these walls during your childhood summers. Even more palpably, you recall the warmth of recent memories, the shared laughter with Lando when you had twisted your ankle, filling the space with a joy that now feels distant and elusive. The air is thick with unspoken words, the tension palpable as if one wrong move could shatter the fragile peace you carefully built.

Isaac sits across from you, his presence comforting amidst the somber atmosphere. He watches you closely, his gaze filled with concern and understanding.

“Are you okay?” he asks, breaking the silence that hangs heavy between you.

You force a smile, but it feels hollow on your lips. “Just tired,” you reply, the words barely audible over the quiet hum of the refrigerator.

While Isaac may be aware of some of the pain you feel, he doesn’t know the full extent of what you’re enduring. You want to shield him from the worst, hiding just how much it hurts. The pain has been relentless, gnawing at you day and night, with only a brief sense of comfort for a few hours after taking your medication. Every movement feels like a struggle, every breath a reminder of the fragility of your condition.

Isaac studies your face, his eyes narrowing with concern. “You should call Mom and Dad,” he says softly, breaking the silence. “They need to know what’s going on. Your health is getting worse.”

You shake your head, the thought of burdening your parents with more bad news twisting your stomach into knots. “They’ve been hoping I’m getting better.”

Isaac sighs, reaching across the table to take your hand. “They’re gonna find out soon enough and they’ll want to be here for you, to support you. It’s better they hear it from you than from anyone else.”

You look down at your hands, Isaac’s warmth a stark contrast to the cold dread settling in your bones. “I just… I don’t want to shatter their hope again.”

Isaac squeezes your hand gently. “They love you. They’re not going to be disappointed in you. They’ll be worried, sure, but they need to know. You need all the support you can get.”

You nod slowly, feeling the weight of his words settle over you. “Okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll call them.”

Isaac gives you a reassuring smile, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Good. We’ll get through this together. You’re not alone.”

You manage a hint of a smile, looking at Isaac. “You know,” you say softly, “you’re such a good older brother especially for someone who’s younger than me.”

Isaac chuckles, a warm, comforting sound in the quiet room. “Age is just a number,” he says, squeezing your hand gently. “Besides, someone has to keep you in line.”

“Keep me in line? I think we’ve switched roles, remember how I used to keep you out of trouble?” You remark.

You can feel the tension ease in the room as Isaac laughs at the memory before standing up to prepare dinner, allowing you to pick up your phone.

The thought of hearing your parents’ voices fills you with a mixture of fear and relief. You know Isaac is right, but the conversation ahead feels like another mountain to climb. Taking a deep breath, you dial the familiar number, bracing yourself for what’s to come. The phone rings, and with each passing moment, you feel the weight of the upcoming conversation pressing down on you.

Finally, your mother answers, her voice warm and familiar. “Hello, sweetie. It’s been a while since you called. How are you?”

You hesitate for a moment, trying to keep your voice steady. “Hi, Mom. I… I need to talk to you about something.”

There’s a pause, and you can hear the concern in her voice. “What is it, honey? Is everything alright?”

Before you can respond, she quickly switches to a video call. Her face appears on the screen, eyes wide with worry. “Tell me what’s going on,” she says, her voice trembling slightly.

Seeing her face makes it harder to hold back your emotions. You take a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. “Mom, I’ve been trying to stay strong and not worry you and Dad, but… my health has been getting worse.”

Her expression shifts from concern to fear and then to a hint of anger masking hurt. “Worse? How worse, dear? Are you not taking care of yourself properly?”

You wince at her words, knowing they come from a place of worry. “I stayed a night at the hospital,” you continue. “They said if it doesn’t get better with the new medication, I’ll have to go back. The pain has been relentless. I can barely move without feeling it, and the medication only helps for a few hours.”

Your mother’s face pales, her eyes filling with tears. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner? We’ve been hoping you were getting better.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” you admit, your voice cracking. “I wanted to protect you from the worst of it.”

Your mother shakes her head, wiping away a tear. “We’re your parents. We want to be there for you, no matter what. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

“I know,” you say, your own tears starting to fall. “It’s just so hard. Every day feels like a struggle, and I didn’t want to burden you.”

Isaac rounds the kitchen table and speaks up, his voice steady and supportive. “We’re all in this together, Mom. We need your support now more than ever.”

Your mother nods, her expression determined, though the hurt still lingers in her eyes. “We’ll be there for you, sweetheart. Every step of the way.”

Just then, she turns her head and calls out, “Honey, come here. It’s important.”

A moment later, your father appears on the screen, his face etched with concern. “What’s going on?”

Your mother explains quickly, her voice trembling. “She’s not doing well. She had to stay overnight at the hospital, and she might have to go back soon. We need to be there for her.”

Your father’s expression hardens with resolve. “We’ll come over soon. Don’t worry, just be careful.”

Hearing his firm, supportive words, you feel a sense of relief and hope. “I will, thank you, Dad. I love you both.”

“We love you too,” he replies, his voice full of emotion. “We’re here for you, no matter what.”

After exchanging goodbyes and promising to see each other soon, you hang up the phone, feeling a slight sense of relief wash over you. Though it's only temporary, the weight on your shoulders lifts ever so slightly.

As Isaac reveals dinner, the aroma of his culinary creation fills the air, tempting your senses with its savory goodness. But as you take a closer look at your own plate, disappointment washes over you. The food in front of you is bland and uninspiring, reminiscent of the tasteless hospital meals you’ve grown accustomed to.

You poke at your food with little enthusiasm, knowing that the increased dosage of medication has left your taste buds dulled and unresponsive. “I can’t eat this,” you mutter, pushing the plate away with a sigh.

Isaac looks up from his own meal, concern creasing his eyebrow. “Come on, you need to eat something,” he urges, his voice gentle but firm. “It’s important for your recovery.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. “But it tastes like nothing,” you protest, the monotony of the hospital diet weighing heavily on your spirit.

Isaac nods sympathetically, understanding your struggle. “I know it’s tough,�� he says softly. “But remember what the doctor said about avoiding spice. It’s all part of the plan to help you get better.”

Reluctantly, you take a small bite, forcing yourself to chew and swallow despite the lack of flavor. The effort feels futile, but you know Isaac is right. You need to keep up your strength, even if it means enduring tasteless meals for the time being.

As you pick at your food, Isaac’s voice breaks through your thoughts, his tone lighthearted but determined. “Hey, once you’re feeling better, we’ll have a hot chicken wing contest,” he suggests, a playful twinkle in his eye. “Just like old times. And I promise, I’ll make them so spicy, you won’t be able to taste anything for a week.”

Despite yourself, a small smile tugs at the corners of your lips. The idea of a hot chicken wing contest brings back memories of happier times, when your biggest worry was who would win the next round.

“Deal,” you agree, the idea of better days ahead spurring you on. But deep down, you know the truth that you can’t bring yourself to voice aloud in front of him again. You’re not getting better, no matter how much you wish you could.

The next day, you wake up with a sense of urgency gnawing at your insides, an inexplicable feeling pulling you towards the lighthouse. It’s as if an invisible force is guiding you, compelling you to make this journey one last time.

As you slip out of bed and prepare to leave the house, a mixture of determination and trepidation fills your heart. You know deep down that this might be the last opportunity you have to climb those stairs, to feel the wind on your face as you stand at the top and gaze out at the vast expanse of the ocean.

Isaac notices your movements and steps forward, concern etched into his features.

“Hey, where are you off to?” he asks, his voice gentle yet probing.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you should share your intentions. But then, you meet his gaze and find solace in his familiar eyes.

“I’m going to the lighthouse,” you reply, your voice steady despite the weight of your words. “I just… need some time alone.”

Isaac’s expression softens, understanding dawning in his eyes. He reaches out to squeeze your shoulder gently, offering silent support.

“Take all the time you need,” he says softly. “And if you need anything, call me.”

With a grateful nod, you offer him a small smile before turning to leave, the weight of your decision heavy on your heart.

You make your way up the stairs to the lighthouse, each step feeling heavier than the last. The climb feels like an uphill battle, and you find yourself pausing every few steps to catch your breath.

Your chest heaves with the effort, and a wave of dizziness washes over you as you reach the halfway point. You lean against the railing, willing yourself to continue despite the fatigue that threatens to overwhelm you.

With each step, the distance between you and the top of the lighthouse seems to stretch on forever. Your muscles ache with exertion, and your breath comes in ragged gasps.

But you refuse to give up. You grit your teeth and push through the pain, focusing all your energy on reaching the summit. With each step, you draw closer to your goal, fueled by the determination to see the view from the top one last time.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you reach the top of the lighthouse, gasping for air, only to find Lando already there, leaning against the railing and gazing out at the horizon. He turns as he hears your footsteps and ragged breaths, surprise flickering across his face.

He takes a step back, clearly intending to give you some space. “I’ll go down,” he mutters awkwardly, gesturing towards the stairs. “This place is your spot.”

But before he can move away, you reach out and grab his hand, stopping him in his tracks. “No,” you say firmly, your voice stronger than you feel. “Stay.”

He hesitates for a moment, uncertainty flickering in his eyes, but then he nods and settles back against the railing, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart as you lean against the railing beside him. Despite the exhaustion that weighs heavily on you, being close to him brings a sense of comfort that you can’t quite explain.

“Thanks,” you murmur, grateful for his presence beside you.

He offers you a small, tentative smile in return, his hand tightening around yours in a silent gesture of support.

Taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you turn to Lando, feeling the weight of the unspoken tension between you two like a heavy blanket.

"Listen, I owe you an apology," you begin, your voice soft but sincere. "I've been acting... differently lately, and I want you to know that it's not because of anything you did. That day, I was at the hospital for a routine checkup, and it just tired me out more than I expected. I’m sorry about ditching our plans."

You technically didn’t lie, but also didn’t tell him the whole truth either. You pause, searching his face for any sign of understanding or acceptance. His expression softens, and you feel a flicker of relief.

"I shouldn't have been so rude to you," you continue, your tone earnest. "I appreciate your patience, and I'm sorry if I made you feel unwelcome."

Lando nods, his eyes reflecting empathy. "It's okay," he says gently, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. "I understand. And I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable by showing up here."

You shake your head, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "No, you don't need to apologize. I'm glad you're here."

With that, the tension between you starts to dissolve, replaced by a sense of mutual understanding and acceptance as you stand side by side, watching the waves crash against the shore below.

Taking a moment to admire the breathtaking view from the top of the lighthouse, you feel a sense of peace wash over you. But as the adrenaline of the climb begins to wear off, your legs start to tremble beneath you, threatening to give out at any moment.

Recognizing the warning signs of exhaustion, you carefully lower yourself to the ground, your muscles protesting with each movement. Sitting down with a heavy sigh of relief, you lean back against the cool stone wall of the lighthouse, grateful for the brief respite from the physical strain.

Lando joined you as well, sitting side by side on the floor of the lighthouse. You continue to hold onto his hand, your fingers tracing patterns absentmindedly. However, despite your attempt to clear the air, he still seems hesitant, his brows furrowed with confusion.

Finally, unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, Lando breaks the silence. “Hey, can I ask you something?” he begins, his voice tentative.

You turn to him, meeting his gaze with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. “Of course,” you reply, trying to keep your tone light despite the weight of the conversation.

He hesitates for a moment before plunging ahead. “Did something happen the night we went for burgers?” he asks, his words carefully measured. “I mean, you seemed off after… and I’ve been wondering if I did something wrong.”

Realization dawns on you that he’s talking about the almost kiss. The memory of that night floods back, the charged moment in his car when he had pulled back. You had admired his restraint, his desire to do things right, but it also made your heart ache with longing.

Your heart sinks at his words, the guilt weighing heavy on your chest. “No, Lando,” you assure him, squeezing his hand gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You glance at him, seeing the earnest concern in his eyes. How you wish you had the courage to pull him in by his collar and kiss him then, to let him know just how much he meant to you despite everything.

But he doesn’t seem convinced, his gaze searching yours for any sign of dishonesty. “Don’t lie,” he says softly, his voice tinged with a hint of frustration.

You hesitate, grappling with the weight of your own emotions and the truth you’re desperate to conceal. Part of you wants to tell him how much his presence means to you, how his laughter lights up even the darkest corners of your world. But fear holds you back, whispering cruel reminders of the inevitability of heartbreak both of you will experience.

Instead of answering his question, you take a deep breath and change the subject. “So, when are you leaving?” you ask, trying to divert his attention away from your own turmoil.

He furrows his brow, clearly surprised by the sudden shift in conversation but decides not to push for an answer. “Tomorrow,” he replies, a hint of sadness in his voice.

You offer him a small smile, “well, I hope you had a good time despite my lackluster tour guide skills,” you quip, attempting to lighten the mood.

He chuckles softly, the sound warm and genuine. “Meeting you was my favorite part,” he admits, his gaze unwavering as he meets your eyes. “Spending time with you, even if it wasn’t every day, made this trip unforgettable.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks at his admission, the warmth of his gaze sending a shiver down your spine. There’s a playful glint in his eyes that ignites a natural spark of flirtation between you.

In the quiet solitude of the lighthouse, you find yourself caught up in the moment with Lando, the days missed due to your own fear melting away with each shared smile and genuine laugh. Despite the lingering weight of your illness and the uncertainty that shadows your future, you're finally able to let go of the constant worry and embrace the present.

You realize that constantly dwelling on the unknown, on whether you'll have more time together or not, only serves to rob you of the joy of the moment. So instead, you allow yourself to be fully present with Lando, savoring each precious second together.

Yet, beneath the surface of your newfound acceptance, there still lingers a trace of fear. You know that distancing yourself from Lando won't protect either of you from the inevitable pain that lies ahead. His genuine smile, the way his eyes light up when he's with you, speaks volumes, and you can't deny the pull you feel toward him.

Despite the uncertainty of what the future holds, you're willing to take the risk, to open your heart to the possibility of love, even if it means facing the inevitable heartache that may follow. Because in the end, the fleeting moments of happiness you share with Lando are worth every ounce of pain.

Lando straightens up, his movements fluid and confident, as he leans in closer, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. "Hey, do you mind giving me your number and surname?" he asks casually, but there's a hint of mischief in his tone.

You raise an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. "What are you going to do with that information?" you inquire, your curiosity piqued.

His smile widens, a charming grin that could melt anyone's heart. "Well, first so we can still stay in touch even if I’m on the other side of the world, and second so I can send you a pass for one of my races," he replies smoothly, his voice laced with playful charm.

You can't help but chuckle at his response, shaking your head in amusement. "And why would I come to your race?" you tease, enjoying the banter between you.

Lando's gaze softens, a warmth in his eyes that catches you off guard. "I think you might be my lucky charm," he admits, his tone sincere.

You pause, feeling a flutter of excitement mixed with uncertainty. "You believe in lucky charms?" you ask, a hint of skepticism in your voice.

He nods, his smile unwavering. "I didn't," he confesses, "but now it seems like a good time to start believing. Why are you asking so many questions?" he adds playfully, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

You can't help but smile at his lighthearted demeanor, appreciating the way he effortlessly lightens the mood. "You don't want me as a lucky charm," you reply, a touch of self-doubt creeping into your voice.

Lando's expression softens, his gaze filled with genuine warmth. "Why not?" he counters, his tone gentle yet determined.

"It won't last long," you murmur, a pang of sadness tugging at your heart as you glance away.

He reaches out, gently tilting your chin to meet his gaze. "It'll last as long as you're by my side," he insists, his voice sincere and unwavering. "That is up to you, don't you think so?"

His words catch you off guard, stirring something deep within you. "Now who's asking lots of questions?" you tease, attempting to lighten the mood.

"Still you," he replies with a chuckle, his eyes twinkling with affection.

You shake your head, feeling a surge of warmth at his playful banter. "You're something else, Lando."

"So are you," he replies, his smile soft and genuine. "In the best way possible."

You oblige Lando’s request, typing your phone number into his phone and saving your full name in his contacts. It’s a small gesture, but one that feels significant in the moment, despite the fact that you know you’ll never take him up on the offer for a pass to his race.

As the sun casts its golden glow across the rugged coastline, you and Lando sit side by side, taking in the breathtaking view from the top of the lighthouse. The air is filled with the sounds of seagulls circling overhead and the distant rumble of waves crashing against the shore below.

Lando’s arm around your shoulders feels like a lifeline, grounding you in the present moment amidst the tumult of your thoughts and emotions. You find solace in his presence, a sense of calm washing over you as you soak in the warmth of the afternoon sun.

The playful banter and teasing remarks give way to a comfortable silence, allowing you both to simply be in each other’s company without the need for words. It’s a moment of quiet intimacy, where the weight of the world fades away and all that matters is the connection between you and Lando.

You lean into his embrace, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing and the reassuring strength of his arm around you. In this moment, surrounded by the beauty of nature and the warmth of Lando’s presence, you feel a sense of peace wash over you, knowing that whatever the future may hold, you’re grateful for this moment of shared serenity.

As you both prepare to descend the stairs, Lando pauses, noticing your reluctance to leave the view behind. "Shouldn't I be the one lingering back to admire the horizon? After all, I'm the one leaving, not you," he quips with a playful smirk.

You chuckle at his remark, shaking your head in amusement. "Come on, Lando, don't act like you're the only one who appreciates a good view," you tease back, nudging him lightly.

He grins, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before turning back to the scenery. "Fair point," he concedes, his tone light and playful. “I’ll wait for you downstairs then.”

You nod, watching him make his way down the stairs. The gentle breeze ruffles your hair, and you take a deep breath, committing the scene to memory.

With a sense of purpose, you scan the area, searching for the perfect spot to leave your message. Your eyes alight on a small alcove tucked away in a corner, sheltered from the wind and hidden from plain sight. It’s a secluded nook, easily overlooked by passersby, but will be found if it’s searched for.

Slipping something into the alcove, you ensure it’s nestled securely among the shadows, a subtle gesture meant for only the most observant of visitors. With a satisfied nod, you turn to follow Lando down the stairs.

—

The following day is a whirlwind of activity as your parents arrive at the cottage. They come bearing an array of supplies and comforts, ready to pamper you with their love and attention.

"Sweetheart, we brought some of your favorite homemade meals," your mom chirps, bustling into the kitchen with bags of groceries in tow.

Your dad follows closely behind, a stack of freshly laundered blankets in his arms. "And I made sure to pack extra blankets in case you get chilly," he adds with a warm smile.

Isaac turns to your mother, his expression gentle yet concerned. “Just a heads up, she can’t have any spicy food because of the doctor’s orders,” he explains, hoping to avoid any culinary mishaps.

“Isaac, don’t ruin it,” you mutter, holding the tupperware filled with your favourite dishes.

Your dad, overhearing the conversation, interjects with a reassuring pat on Isaac’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, son. Your mother has spent many hours in the kitchen cooking up a storm for our girl here,” he says with a fond smile. “A little taste of home can work wonders for the soul.”

You can't help but smile at their fussing, feeling a mixture of gratitude and guilt at their doting gestures. "How long are you planning to stay?" you inquire, trying to gauge the extent of their visit.

"Until you're better, of course," your mom replies without hesitation, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Throughout the day, your parents dote on you, attending to your every need with unwavering devotion. They fluff pillows, brew tea, and fuss over you as if you were a child again, and despite the sadness that tugs at your heart, you find solace in their presence.

As evening falls and the cottage is filled with the aroma of home-cooked meals, you can't help but feel a pang of bittersweet nostalgia. These moments of familial closeness are precious, and you savor each one, knowing deep down that they may be fleeting.

Amidst the cozy atmosphere that had filled your cottage, a sudden realization dawns on you. Today is the day Lando is leaving, and with the flurry of activity happening throughout the day, you had almost forgotten.

Abandoning your dinner mid-bite, you quickly put on a pair of shoes, your heart pounding with urgency. As you rush towards the door, your parents pause in their fussing, exchanging puzzled glances as they notice your abrupt departure.

“Where are you going?” your mom asks, concern etched in her voice.

You pause in the doorway, a sense of determination driving you forward. “I have to see Lando,” you reply, your words rushed and breathless.

As you disappear out the door, your parents turn to your brother, confusion evident in their expressions. “Who’s Lando?” your dad asks, his brow furrowed in bewilderment.

Isaac sighs, shaking his head as he meets their gaze. “He’s the one she’s in love with,” he explains softly, a hint of sadness in his voice. “But I’m not sure if she’s ready to accept it yet.”

As you reach the villa, your breath comes in ragged gasps, each inhale becoming a struggle. Pain pulses through your chest with every heartbeat, but you refuse to let it slow you down. Adrenaline surges through your veins, driving you forward with an urgency born of raw emotion.

Your eyes scan the scene before you, taking in the sight of Max hurriedly loading the car with his and Lando’s bags. The trunk is nearly full, a testament to the impending departure that looms over you like a storm cloud. You feel a knot form in your stomach, a sense of panic seizing hold of you as you realize that time is slipping away.

Then, amidst the chaos, you spot Lando emerging from the villa, his expression one of surprise and concern as he catches sight of you. His brow furrows in confusion, his eyes searching yours for an explanation.

Without hesitation, you push yourself forward, your feet carrying you towards him with a desperate urgency. With trembling hands, you reach out to him, your fingers brushing against his arm before wrapping around him in a tight embrace. His warmth envelops you, a comforting anchor amidst the storm raging within you. For a fleeting moment, the pain in your chest eases, replaced by a sense of peace that only he can provide.

For a long moment, you simply hold onto each other, the world around you fading into insignificance as you find solace in each other’s arms. The weight of unspoken words hangs heavy between you, the truth lingering on the tip of your tongue, waiting to be unleashed.

As you finally pull away, a silent understanding passes between you, a shared acknowledgment of the depth of your connection. Lando’s gaze searches yours, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and affection, silently asking if you’re okay.

You manage a faint smile, though it feels fragile on your lips. “I just had to see you before you left,” you confess softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

His expression softens, a warmth in his eyes that speaks volumes. “I’m glad you came,” he replies, his voice gentle and reassuring.

You linger for a moment longer, drinking in the sight of him, committing every detail to memory. Then, with a heavy heart, you reluctantly release him, knowing that time is running short.

As Lando returns to help Max with the bags, you watch him go, a sense of longing tugging at your heart.

Once everything was packed up, Lando and Max walked towards you, their footsteps echoing on the gravel driveway. Max reaches you first, his face lit with a warm smile. Without hesitation, he pulls you into a brief, friendly hug.

“Thanks for the good company,” Max says, his voice full of genuine gratitude. “And for keeping Lando’s mood up throughout this trip. You’ve been a real lifesaver.” He chuckles, the sound infectious, and you can’t help but laugh along with him.

“Anytime,” you reply, your smile widening. “It’s been fun having you both around.”

Max steps back, giving Lando space to step forward. Lando’s eyes meet yours, and there’s a depth of emotion there that makes your heart skip a beat. He takes your hands in his, holding them gently as if afraid you might disappear.

“This isn’t goodbye,” Lando says softly, his tone filled with a mixture of hope and determination. “Just a ‘see you later,’ alright?”

You nod, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “See you later,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

Lando pulls you into a tight embrace this time, his arms wrapping around you protectively. You breathe in his familiar scent, the comfort of his presence grounding you in the moment.

He pulls back slightly, his hands resting on your shoulders as he searches your face. “Don’t think I forgot about giving you a pass,” he says with a small, teasing smile. “I’ll be waiting for you at the race.”

You smile through the tears that threaten to spill over. “We’ll see.”

Max claps Lando on the back, breaking the emotional moment. “Come on, mate, we’ve got a plane to catch.”

With one last look, Lando releases you and heads towards the car. You watch them drive away, a mix of sadness and hope swirling within you. The ache in your chest grows, but you try to push it aside, focusing on ways to fulfill the promise of seeing him again.

As you start walking back home, the exertion from earlier catches up to you. Your breath becomes labored, each step feeling heavier than the last. A sharp pain radiates through your chest, and you find yourself struggling to stay upright. Determined to make it back to the cottage, you push on, but every movement is a reminder of your body’s limitations.

By the time you reach the door, you’re barely holding on. You collapse onto the porch steps, gasping for breath, the world around you blurring as you fight to stay conscious. Moments later, the door swings open, and Isaac is there, his face pale with worry.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asks, rushing to your side. His voice sounds distant, echoing in your ears.

You try to speak, but the words get caught in your throat. Instead, you manage a weak nod, though it’s clear you’re far from okay.

Isaac doesn’t waste another second. He scoops you up in his arms, carrying you inside. “Mom! Dad!” he calls out, his voice frantic. “Something’s wrong. We need to get her to the hospital.”

Your parents appear almost instantly, their faces a mixture of fear and determination. Your dad grabs the car keys while your mom hurries to gather your things, her hands shaking.

In the car, you drift in and out of consciousness, the pain and exhaustion overwhelming you. Your mom holds your hand tightly, whispering soothing words that barely register. Isaac drives with a grim focus, the worry in his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.

At the hospital, the staff quickly takes over, whisking you away on a stretcher. Your family is left in the waiting room, their anxious faces a blur as you’re rushed through the halls.

As the doctors and nurses work to stabilize you, you catch fleeting thoughts of Lando, Max, and the brief, bright moments you shared. The reality of your condition settles in, and you realize just how fragile your hope had been.

The doctors stabilize you for now, but you wake to the sound of your mother's soft cries in the room. Her face is buried in your father's shoulder, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Your father is holding her close, his eyes red and puffy, a grim expression etched on his face. Isaac stands nearby, his jaw clenched, trying to hold himself together.

You blink, the fluorescent lights above casting a harsh glow on the stark white walls. A doctor stands at the foot of your bed, looking somber. You catch bits and pieces of his words, the clinical detachment in his voice contrasting sharply with the raw emotion in the room.

"...best if she doesn’t return home... too weak... last days in the hospital..."

The full weight of the words crashes over you, and a sense of helplessness fills your heart. You try to speak, but your throat is dry, and the words come out as a rasp. "Mom? Dad?"

Your mother's head snaps up at the sound of your voice, and she rushes to your side, taking your hand in hers. "Oh, sweetheart," she whispers, tears streaming down her face. "We're here. We're right here."

Your father moves closer, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "We won't leave your side," he promises, his voice steady despite the tears in his eyes.

Isaac approaches the bed, his usual bravado stripped away. "Hey," he says softly, trying to muster a smile. "We’re all here for you."

You swallow hard, trying to process the reality of the situation. "How long?" you manage to ask, your voice barely a whisper.

The doctor steps forward, his expression compassionate. "It’s hard to say for certain," he admits gently. "But we’ll do everything we can to keep you comfortable."

You nod, a mixture of fear and resignation settling over you. Your mother's sobs have quieted, but the sorrow in her eyes is unmistakable. "I’m so sorry," you whisper, feeling a pang of guilt for putting them through this.

"No, don’t apologize," your father says firmly, squeezing your shoulder. "This isn’t your fault. We’re just grateful to be here with you."

Your family’s presence brings a small measure of comfort, but the reality of your condition is a heavy burden. You look around at their faces, trying to memorize every detail, every expression. The room feels both claustrophobic and infinite, the moments stretching out like a fragile thread.

As the night wears on, you find solace in their presence. Your mother hums softly, stroking your hair, while your father reads to you from a book you loved as a child. Isaac sits by the window, watching the night sky, his expression pensive.

You know that the days ahead will be difficult, but for now, you take comfort in the love that surrounds you. The hospital room, with its sterile walls and beeping machines, becomes a sanctuary of sorts, a place where you can hold on to the precious moments with your family, no matter how fleeting they may be.

—

The sterile scent of the hospital room is overwhelming, the beeping of the machines a constant reminder of the deteriorating state of your health. The wires and tubes attached to your body are a constant presence, their weight both physical and symbolic. The medication dulls the pain, but it also leaves you in a fog, half-aware of the world around you.

Isaac sits by your bedside, his expression a mix of forced cheerfulness and hidden sorrow. He tries to make you laugh, telling stories and cracking jokes, but there’s an underlying tension in his voice.

You take a shaky breath and glance at Isaac. “So, this is it, huh?” you say with a dry laugh, trying to sound casual but failing to hide the sadness in your voice.

He looks at you, the forced cheerfulness slipping from his face. “Still laughing?” he asks, his voice quivering.

“If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “And I don’t want that to be the last expression you remember me by.”

Isaac’s eyes glisten with unshed tears. “Remember when you said that you weren’t able to be a proper older sister to me ever since you got diagnosed?” he asks softly. “That’s wrong. You still were because you powered through every moment of pain on your own. Even now, you’re as selfless as ever.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you swallow hard. “I got a taste of how it feels to be selfish recently,” you confess, your voice trembling. “To see what you want right there in front of you, waiting for you to take it, but I almost got too attached to it that fate had to rip it away from me again.”

“Are you talking about Lando?” Isaac asks gently, his eyes searching yours.

You nod, the memories of your brief time with Lando flooding back, a bittersweet ache in your chest. “Life is so cruel, so fickle,” you say, your voice barely audible. “When I finally accepted my fate, it flipped and gave me a chance to be happy, to fall in love, to live like I’ve never done before. When I experienced it all, it just made me greedy. I wanted to keep living like that. But I won’t be able to because in a moment, it’s taken away again.”

Isaac squeezes your hand, his grip warm and reassuring. “You deserved every moment of happiness,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “And you brought happiness to those around you, too. Remember that.”

The days pass in a blur of medical checks, whispered conversations, and the quiet hum of machines. Your parents come and go, their faces lined with worry but always offering words of comfort and love.

Then comes Sunday, one that’s special for you because it’s also race day.

The hospital room is dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of the television screen mounted on the wall. The muted hum of machines and the occasional beep provide a constant backdrop to your labored breathing. Your family surrounds you, their presence a source of comfort even as your strength wanes. The room is filled with an unspoken tension, a fragile hope that somehow, you might find the strength to hold on a little longer.

Earlier in the day, you had pleaded with the nurses to let you watch the race. “Please,” you whispered, your voice weak but determined. “I just want to see him race one last time.”

The nurses had exchanged glances, their expressions softening. “Alright,” one of them had said gently. “We’ll make sure you can watch it.”

Now, the vibrant colors of the Formula 1 race contrast sharply with the sterile white of the hospital room. Lando’s car, resplendent in its sleek orange design, zips around the track with an elegance and speed that seems almost otherworldly. The commentator’s voice crackles with excitement as they describe the race in vivid detail.

“And Lando Norris takes the lead! He’s showing incredible skill out there today, really pushing the limits of his car and his own abilities. The crowd is going wild!”

You try to focus on the race, on the laps ticking by, the thrill of each turn, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult. Your vision blurs, the lines between the real and the surreal beginning to merge. Every breath is a struggle, each one more labored than the last.

Your mother sits by your side, her hand gently stroking your hair, her eyes red-rimmed but determined to stay strong. Your father stands at the foot of the bed, his face etched with lines of worry and sorrow. Isaac holds your hand, his grip firm and reassuring, his eyes never leaving your face.

You gather your remaining strength, turning your head slightly to look at Isaac. “Can you give him a message for me?” you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper, each word a struggle.

Isaac leans closer, his face etched with concern and determination. “What do you want to say?” he asks gently, his eyes locked onto yours, ready to carry your words to Lando.

You pause, the weight of the moment settling over you. With great effort, you manage to form the words that have been in your heart. “Tell him… tell him that he made me believe in living life again. That he gave me something beautiful in my last days. And… and that I’ll always be cheering for him, even if I’m not there.”

Isaac’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, and he nods, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. “I will. I promise.”

On the television, Lando navigates the sharp turns of the track with precision and grace. The roar of the engines and the thrill of the race create a stark contrast to the quiet, somber atmosphere of your room. The commentator’s voice booms with excitement.

“Norris is extending his lead! This could be his race if he keeps up this pace. The team must be thrilled with his performance!”

On the Formula 1 track, the atmosphere is electric. Lando sits in his car, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He can feel every vibration of the engine, every nuance of the track. The pit crew buzzes with activity, their movements synchronized and efficient. Over the radio, his engineer’s voice provides updates and encouragement.

“You’re doing great, Lando. Keep this up and the win is yours.”

Lando nods inside his helmet, his focus razor-sharp. The crowd’s cheers blend into a singular wave of energy that propels him forward. He pushes the car to its limits, every fiber of his being dedicated to the race.

Back in the hospital, your breathing becomes more labored, and your family’s concern deepens. Your mother’s voice breaks as she hums softly, a lullaby from your childhood. Isaac squeezes your hand, his own tears finally breaking free.

“I love you,” you whisper, the words a final, heartfelt goodbye.

“We love you too,” Isaac responds, his voice choked with emotion. “More than anything.”

On the track, Lando crosses the finish line, the checkered flag waving triumphantly. The crowd erupts into a frenzy of cheers and applause. The commentator’s voice is almost drowned out by the noise.

“Lando Norris wins the race! What an incredible performance!”

In the paddock, Lando is overwhelmed with joy, the culmination of his efforts and dedication. He pulls off his helmet, his face breaking into a wide smile as he celebrates with his team. He can’t wait to share the victory, to tell you about the race, to see the look of pride in your eyes.

You watch from the hospital room, as Lando stands on the podium, lifting the trophy high, a sense of accomplishment filling him. A smile graces your lips, noticing the pure joy on his face. Then, you close your eyes, the vision of Lando’s smile still fresh in your mind.

Time stands still. As the world fades around you, your family holds you close, their whispered goodbyes blending into a chorus of love and sorrow. The light in your eyes dims, and with one last, labored breath, you slip away into a place beyond suffering.

As soon as the machine flatlines, the piercing sound of the monitor cuts through the room, signaling the end. Your mother's cries shatter the silence, raw and heart-wrenching. She grips your hand with desperate strength, her knuckles turning white, as if her hold on you could somehow bring you back.

"No, no, please!" she sobs, her voice cracking with each word. Tears stream down her face, her body trembling with the force of her grief. She shakes you gently at first, then more insistently, refusing to accept the finality of it. "Wake up, please wake up!"

Your father stands by her side, his own face etched with anguish. He places a hand on her shoulder, trying to offer support, but his own tears betray his stoic exterior. Isaac, standing a little apart, is frozen in shock, his eyes wide and uncomprehending as he watches the scene unfold.

The room is filled with the oppressive weight of sorrow, the air heavy with the collective grief of your family. The nurses, having done all they could, step back to give your family space, their own expressions somber and respectful.

Your mother’s cries grow louder, a desperate plea to a reality that feels too cruel to be true. She holds your hand to her cheek, her tears wetting your skin as she rocks back and forth. "Please, don’t leave us," she whispers, her voice breaking. "We need you."

The doctor steps forward, his face grave, and gently places a hand on your mother’s arm. "I’m so sorry for your loss," he says quietly, his words sincere but powerless against the tidal wave of their grief.

The only reality that matters is the unbearable pain of losing you, and the impossible task of trying to say goodbye.

On the top step of the podium, Lando basks in the glow of victory, the thrill of the race still pulsing through him. But amidst the celebration, a nagging feeling tugs at him, a sense that something is missing. A bittersweet undercurrent flows through his triumph.

Unbeknownst to him, a message of love and gratitude is on its way, bridging the distance between the track and the hospital room, connecting two hearts in a moment that transcends time and space.

Suddenly, your phone rings, the shrill sound cutting through the flatline beeping on the monitor. Each ring echoes through the room like a mournful dirge. Isaac’s hand hovers over the device, his heart pounding in his chest as he hesitates to answer. But when the call comes again, he knows there’s no escaping the inevitable.

With trembling fingers, he accepts the call, the voice on the other end sending a shiver down his spine. “Were you watching the race? I told you that you are my lucky charm.”

Isaac’s breath catches in his throat, his eyes welling with tears at the bitter irony of Lando’s words. He struggles to find the strength to respond, his voice choked with emotion. “Lando… it’s Isaac.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence on the other end of the line, followed by a tremor of uncertainty in Lando’s voice. “Isaac? What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

Isaac’s heart clenches at the desperation in Lando’s voice, his own grief threatening to consume him. “She’s gone, Lando,” he manages to choke out, his voice breaking with sorrow. “My sister… she’s gone.”

The words hang heavy in the air, a painful reminder of the cruel twist of fate that has robbed them of their happiness. Lando’s breath hitches, his voice barely a whisper as he responds. “No… no, that can’t be true. Tell me you’re lying, tell me this is some sick joke please”

Isaac’s heart aches as he hears the disbelief and anguish in Lando’s voice. He wishes he could erase the truth, to shield Lando from the devastating reality they now face. But there’s no escaping it, no denying the painful truth that hangs between them like a heavy shroud.

“I wish I could, Lando,” Isaac murmurs, his own voice choked with sorrow. “I wish this was just a sick joke, but… but she’s really gone.”

There’s a long, agonizing pause, broken only by the sound of Lando’s ragged breathing on the other end of the line. Isaac can imagine the turmoil raging within him, the crushing weight of grief threatening to overwhelm him entirely. He relays the message that you had for him, only hearing Lando breathing heavily in response.

As Lando stands there, clutching the phone that brought him devastating news, the world around him seems to blur into a haze of incomprehensible grief. The congratulations from his fellow drivers fall on deaf ears, their voices distant and muffled as if coming from a far-off place. Daniel, Carlos, George—all of them offer their heartfelt congratulations, their smiles genuine, but Lando can't bring himself to respond.

He feels disconnected, as if he's merely a spectator watching his own life unfold from a distance. The cameras flash around him, capturing the jubilant celebrations of victory, but Lando feels nothing but a hollow emptiness gnawing at his soul.

Unable to bear the facade any longer, Lando excuses himself from the crowd, retreating to the sanctuary of his driver's room. Once alone, the weight of his grief crashes over him like a tidal wave, threatening to drown him in its depths.

With a gut-wrenching scream, Lando releases the pent-up anguish that has been building inside him since the moment he received that fateful call. He falls to his knees, his body racked with sobs as he grapples with the cruel twist of fate that has torn his world apart.

In that moment of agonizing despair, Lando feels utterly alone, lost in a sea of grief with no shore in sight. The victory he had worked so hard for feels meaningless now, a hollow triumph overshadowed by the devastating loss of someone he held dear.

As the echoes of his cries fade into the silence of the empty room, Lando finds himself consumed by a profound sense of despair. In the midst of his greatest triumph, he is confronted with the harsh reality of mortality, and it is a bitter pill to swallow.

Alone in his hotel room, Lando’s victory feels hollow amidst the empty silence that surrounds him. Instead of celebrating with the fanfare of music, alcohol, and camaraderie that would be expected after such a result, he finds himself throwing his belongings haphazardly into his suitcase, his movements mechanical and devoid of purpose.

The room feels suffocating, the weight of grief pressing down on him like a physical force. With a sense of urgency, Lando hastily gathers his things, his hands trembling as he zips up his suitcase.

As he exits the hotel, he fires off a text to his manager, explaining the situation briefly, typing through his clouded vision full of more unshed tears.

Lando chooses not to drive, the mere thought of operating a vehicle feeling like an insurmountable task. Instead, he hails a taxi, his mind consumed by thoughts of you and the gaping void left in your absence.

The taxi driver casts him a curious glance as he climbs into the backseat, his tear-streaked face a stark contrast to the typical fare. But Lando pays no mind to the stares, his thoughts consumed by the overwhelming grief that threatens to consume him.

Throughout the journey to the airport, Lando’s tears continue to flow unabated, his heart weighed down by the magnitude of his loss. He feels adrift, lost in a sea of pain and sorrow, unsure of how to navigate the tumultuous waters of his emotions.

Lando finds himself grappling with conflicting emotions as he boards the plane back to the town filled with memories of you. Despite the overwhelming pain of revisiting every corner suffused with reminders of your presence, he knows deep down that he cannot stay away.

The thought of pretending that everything is fine when it's not feels like a betrayal of the love you shared, a denial of the profound impact you had on his life. And so, with a heavy heart and a mind clouded by grief, Lando embarks on the journey back to the place where his heart still lingers, knowing that he must confront the pain head-on in order to find a semblance of peace.

Lando’s return to town is marked by exhaustion and dishevelment, the toll of a sleepless night evident in the shadows beneath his eyes and the weariness etched into his features. He barely manages to greet Isaac before retreating to the solitude of the lighthouse, seeking solace in the familiar embrace of its quiet sanctuary.

As Lando stands at the top of the lighthouse, his gaze fixed on the horizon, he can't shake the feeling of déjà vu that washes over him. The flickering beam of the lighthouse casts eerie shadows against the walls, the only sound the mournful cry of seagulls in the distance. It's as if he's been transported back in time, to a moment frozen in history, when tragedy and loss hung heavy in the air.

Tears stream down his cheeks, his sobs echoing in the empty space around him as he allows himself to surrender to the overwhelming tide of emotion.

In the stillness of the lighthouse, Lando is consumed by a sense of profound loss, his heart aching with the absence of the one he longs for. He sits there for hours, his thoughts consumed by memories of you, his soul yearning for the warmth of your presence.

In the dim light, Lando recalls the story you once shared with him, of the tragic love that had unfolded within these very walls decades ago. A woman, waiting faithfully for her lover's return, had spent countless nights standing vigil at the top of the lighthouse, her heart filled with hope and longing. But as the years passed and her lover failed to return, her hope turned to despair, her love transformed into bitter regret.

Now, as Lando stands in the same spot, he can't help but draw parallels between that long-ago tragedy and his own situation. Like the woman of the story, he finds himself clinging to a glimmer of hope, praying for a miracle that may never come. In his heart, he still holds onto the belief that you'll come back to him, that the news of your loss is just a bad dream from which he'll soon awaken.

With each passing moment, however, the harsh reality of your absence becomes more pronounced, the weight of grief bearing down on him like a leaden cloak. Yet, despite the pain that threatens to consume him, Lando refuses to give up hope. He remains steadfast in his vigil, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of your return, his heart yearning for the moment when he'll finally see you again.

His gaze sweeps over every corner of the lighthouse, wanting to etch every detail into his memory. The soft glow of the fading sunlight filters through the windows, casting a warm golden hue over the space. He takes a deep breath, trying to imprint the scent of saltwater and sea breeze into his mind.

As he moves around, his eyes fall upon a small alcove tucked away in a corner, hidden from plain sight. Something tugs at his instincts, urging him to investigate further. With cautious curiosity, he steps closer, his heart pounding in anticipation.

Reaching into the alcove, his fingers brush against something smooth and delicate. He pulls out a folded piece of paper, his breath catching in his throat as he realizes what it is. With trembling hands, he unfolds the note, his eyes scanning the words written in your handwriting.

Lando, I hope this note finds its way to you. It's strange how emotions can turn even the fearless into cowards. I couldn't bring myself to give you this letter in person, so I'm leaving it here, hoping it reaches you. I'm guessing you already know the truth, and that I'm no longer here by your side.

As he reads those words, he can hear your voice in his mind. The acknowledgment that you couldn't face him in person fills him with a mix of sadness and understanding. He feels a pang of guilt, wondering if there was something he could have done differently to make you feel more comfortable sharing your feelings with him.

I don’t think a mere ‘I’m sorry’ is enough for keeping the truth from you. The reason why I did is because every moment with you felt like a dream, and in my dreams, my illness never existed. I’ve always cursed fate for the shitty hand it dealt me but I never would’ve gotten a chance to live something close to the perfect life if it wasn’t for fate.

A melancholic smile tugs at his lips as he reflects on the sentiment expressed in your words. Each moment spent with you had indeed felt like a dream, a precious respite from the relentless demands of the racing world.

Before you came to town, I felt like a living corpse, waiting for my illness to take me under, but when I met you, it gave me a purpose to look forward to the next day. Being your tour guide, although I think it was because you just wanted to spend time with me, was probably the most I’ve lived ever since I was diagnosed. While I used your presence as an excuse to live like I used to, I didn’t ever imagine falling in love with anyone, much less a British racing driver.

A wave of emotions wash over him as he reads your heartfelt confession, his own heart aching with a mixture of sadness and longing. Tears blur his vision as he continues reading, slightly tracing over your words with his finger.

I wish I had the courage to say this to you face to face, to witness your reaction and perhaps hear you say the words back. But one thing I admire about you is your ability to live in the moment. So, in this moment, I want to tell you that I love you, Lando Norris, even though I'm no longer by your side. I hope our memories bring a smile to your face, just as they did to mine.

Please, don’t blame yourself for any of this. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. You're the reason I found joy again, laughter again. Lando, you brought me back to life. Thank you. I'll love you always.

- Your favourite tour guide

As he reaches the final words of the note, he clutches it to his chest, feeling your presence close to him. In that moment, amidst the quiet solitude of the lighthouse, Lando finds a fleeting sense of peace amidst the storm of his emotions. He knows that no matter what the future holds, your love will always remain a guiding light in his heart.

With tears streaming down his cheeks, he whispers a silent promise to you, his beloved tour guide, into the salty breeze surrounding your favourite place. “I’ll never forget you. I’ll carry your love with me, always.”

Then he adds with a sob wracking through his body, “I love you too.”

As he sits in the lighthouse, Lando no longer waits for your return. Yet, he feels your love enveloping him, every word of the note etched into his heart. Though you may be gone, your presence lingers, filling the space around him with warmth and tenderness. In that moment, he finds solace in the memories of your love, knowing that you'll always be with him, no matter where life takes him.

Taglist: @lochnoch @llando4norris @monsieurbacteria6 @namgification @lilymurphy03 @sargeantdumbass @hiireadstuff @racingheartsposts @d3kstar @xjval @namjoonswaifu @isabellewinchester @thedecalcomania-blog @casperlikej @khaylin27 @mlioravanfleet @mehrmonga @nikfigueiredo @wonnou @jointhehunt67 @sya-skies @dreamingonbed @oliviah-25 @heylookwhoitis @unabashedkoalawasteland @inejghafawifesblog @poppyflower-22 @charizznorizz @booksandflowrs @f1ln4dr3cl16mv33 @randomnessis-mine-me @whatever7justchillin @kagome45 @doofenshmirtzevil-inc @timmy-wife1 @writtenbykirs @lew444 @kansas-kisses @barackosteaa @hellof-1 @itsbwokenln4 @nixily @reengard @candyeollies @customsbyjcg-blog @heeseungthel0ml @sweate-r-weathe-r @mattymybeloved @saturnbloom77 @ltotheucyy @ironmaiden1313

#thef1diary fic #lando norris x you #lando norris fic #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris angst #lando norris fluff #f1 angst #f1 fluff #f1 imagines #f1 series #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 x you #angst #fanfic

570 notes · View notes

farfromstrange · 11 months ago

Text

Weed Cookies | Matt Murdock x F!Reader

PART 3 of The Vault

See this post for more information on my Valentine's Day Special & Follower Celebration, but these fics can be read separately!

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Karen receives a box of cookies from one of their clients. Foggy and Matt take a bite. Even with his heightened senses though, Matt doesn't realize what's wrong with the cookies before he's absolutely wasted, and you have to babysit him. Yes, they were edibles.

Warnings: Fluff, faint hints at S3 depressed!Matt and suicidal ideations, attempt at humor, crack fic, accidental drug use, for the sake of this fic we are going to pretend that the edibles were made well enough for Mister I-Know-Everything to miss it

Word Count: 3.4k

A/n: I wrote this after watching the episode of Grey's Anatomy with the Weed Cookies. I took some behaviorisms from my own experiences and exaggerated them a little to fit the vibe of this fic. I scraped parts of this and once again adjusted them because this was even more poorly written before than it is now, and I added the Nelson, Murdock & Page Season 3 narrative again because that's now the running theme of this event. Anyway, if you choose to consume edibles, stay safe! (Also, I'm just copying and pasting my usual tag lists. if anyone wants to be added for this event, do let me know)

“We just got cookies from Ms. Lebowsky next door,” Karen announces happily when she enters the office, balancing the transparent Tupperware in one hand and her handbag in the other.

“She told me to thank you for helping her get out of that hellhole,” she says. Her eyes crinkle in the corners as a mischievous grin takes over her face. “There’s plenty for all four of us. Although she did mention Matt a few more times.”

“Ms. Lebowsky?” Foggy asks. He stands in the doorway of his office, holding a freshly brewed coffee. “Isn’t she the elderly lady we helped last week?”

“Yeah, that’s her. I think she has a crush on Matt.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course, she does. Who doesn’t? Not that I do, but—well, you get the gist.” The blood rushes to his cheeks, and Karen giggles in response.

From the office on the left, Matt’s voice rings out, “We just did our jobs,” he says. “She made us cookies, dude!” Foggy inspects the box on Karen’s desk. “They’re chocolate chip cookies. Our favorite. See what good looks can buy you?”

Matt chuckles, his fingers tracing the Braille indentations in the documents that are starting to form a mountain before him. “I think we got them because we’re good lawyers, Foggy.”

“Yeah, right. No way! That woman was smitten the second she came in. I really gotta get that blind thing going. I mean, she’s way too old for you, but come on! You’re in a serious committed relationship, and women still come piling at your door. It’s not fair.”

The way he whines like a little kid who has just been denied his favorite candy makes Karen laugh at his antics, and even Matt can’t help but join in. No matter how stressed he is, and how badly he wants to focus, Foggy never fails to lighten the mood.

Ever since moving offices, things have been going well for the trio.

When Matt met you, he was at his lowest. You helped him climb out of a dark hole that was threatening to swallow him whole after losing Elektra and almost losing everything he worked so hard for to Wilson Fisk. Thanks to you, he found the will to fight again. You brought him back to life.

He wanted to die. He hated himself for the longest time after the building collapsed and forever took the first woman he ever loved down with its ruins, but then you came into his life, and you didn’t care about his baggage. You were far too good for him, but that didn’t matter to you.

He fell for you hard and fast, and maybe the timing was a little off because what he needed was therapy and not someone new to get attached to. Still, if you hadn’t pulled him back to his feet and encouraged him to fight back against Fisk, saving his friendship with the people he cares most about in the process, he would have never made it far enough to get therapy.

Matt trusts you with his life because he feels like he owes it to you, but he also loves you more than anything. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to him. You’re his soulmate, and he couldn’t be happier.

Nelson & Murdock added Karen to their permanent repertoire. With her, things are flowing much more smoothly, and they’re actually making money now. They’re expensive, as Foggy likes to say it. Matt’s friends are just as happy as he is, giving him hope for the future.

“Hey,” Foggy snaps him out of his trance, “Earth to Murdock.”

Matt blinks behind his glasses, his fingers halting their frantic movements along the paper. “While I don’t disagree with what you’re saying,” he says, “please don’t let my girlfriend hear you say that women are piling at my door.”

Karen snorts. “Trust me, Matt. She knows,” she says.

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t remind her of that.”

“My lips are sealed. Foggy?”

He sighs, once again dramatically. “As long as you don’t sleep with them, you have nothing to fear, my friend.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” says Matt. “The one I’m sleeping with is incomparable.”

Foggy grimaces. “Oh, dude. Gross! You know, God made conscious thought as a mechanism for humans to know when to shut up.”

“To be fair, ninety percent of the population don’t know how to use that mechanism,” Karen jumps to Matt’s defense.

As he laughs, he takes a whiff of the air surrounding their new baked goods. Matt can smell the sweet chocolate of the cookies, and somewhat of a herbal essence, but he can’t quite pinpoint why the scent seems so familiar.

Karen walks around her desk to drop her bag and her coat. “So, do guys want a cookie?” she asks, swiftly changing the subject.

“I’ll take one,” Foggy is quick to answer.

Matt nods from his desk. “I’ll try one, too.”

The innocent decision to indulge in a sweet treat soon comes back to bite them in the ass though. Heavily.

When Matt first bit into the cookie, he didn’t think there was anything wrong with it. It tasted like chocolate mixed with basil, sugar, honey, and the kind of flour Ms. Lebowsky used, but he didn’t find much else wrong with it. Perhaps if he hadn’t allowed himself to get distracted by his phone calling out your name and the sweetest text he could have possibly received this early in the morning from the love of his life, he would have noticed that something tasted off about these cookies. And that what he believed to have been basil as a secret ingredient was something else entirely.

When lunchtime finally rolls around, you drop everything you were doing before and make your way to Matt’s office. You always spend lunch together. It’s your favorite time of the day. For an hour, you can forget the stress of your workplace and focus on him. He’s your safe haven. Your home. You crave to memorize his features anew every day so that you will have something to carry around with you when he has to work a bit longer, or when he goes out at night and his Daredevil duties drag on beyond what he planned.

You need to be with him as much as possible because you’re scared that your happiness will shatter on a white cloth, and you will be forced to move on—you can’t imagine losing him. You dedicated your life to loving him, and the thought of ever losing that privilege kills you.

On your way out, your phone vibrates in your pocket. You smile, thinking that it’s Matt, but when Karen’s number pops up on your screen, you frown.

‘We have a problem,’ she texted you. Without context.

All the alarms in your head start blaring, and you start to walk a little faster. You start imagining all possible scenarios. When you ask Karen what’s going on, she doesn’t even reply. What if someone got hurt? What if something happened to Matt? You almost lost him once; you can’t go through that again.

You burst into the new office space that your friends share a few minutes later, your chest heaving and sweat dripping down your pulsating temples. You’re ready to fight whoever dared to hurt the man you love, or possibly threaten your friends, or both, but when you look up and see your darling boyfriend with his cheek pressed against one of the leaves on their gigantic office plant as if the overgrown Calathea were the coziest pillow he has ever touched, you understand why Karen texted you that you—both you and her—have a problem. A big one, too, judging by the looks of it.

“What is going on here?” you ask the dreaded question, shutting the door behind you.

Only then do you notice Karen to your right in Foggy’s office, trying to get him off of his office chair. He’s belting the chorus of Defying Gravity at the top of his lungs, and he’s got a broom clutched tightly in his right hand.

Oh boy. Your wide eyes drift to Karen’s desk in the middle of the room. As soon as you see the chocolate cookies inside the Tupperware, it slowly begins to dawn on you.

You’re not sure which is worse: Matt cradling a houseplant with his glasses discarded and the first three buttons of his dress shirt undone as he’s coated in sweat, or Foggy singing one of Broadway’s greatest ballads so off-key that the Calathea is starting to wither.

It takes Matt much longer than usual to sense your presence in the room. He calls your name, and his lips curl into a bright grin. Even completely out of it, he looks like an angel on earth.

“Matthew,” you say. You approach him like you would approach a little kid. He’s on his knees, so the analogy isn’t far off.

“Hi, honey. What’s going on?”

“Sweetheart,” he greets you, and you have never heard this man sound so relaxed. His hazel eyes are red-rimmed and glazed over, but the most obvious change lies in his behavior.

“Feel that.” He reaches for your hand when you’re close enough for him to smell you, but he misses. “Where are you?” Matt pouts. “I can’t see.”

You want to laugh, but this is not the time. “You are blind, baby,” you remind him.

“Since when?”

“Over twenty years.”

“Oh.” He finally gets a hold of your hand. The conversation seems to go right over his head. “Feel the power of nature,” he tells you. “It’s so soft.”

You want to drag him away from the potentially dangerous plant if he decides to eat it, but the sight of him is one to behold. He looks downright adorable.

You have to focus though. You gently pat his hand. “Maybe later,” you say, and then you make your way to Karen’s desk to inspect the cookies.

Behind you, she calls your name. You twirl around. From the looks of it, she managed to get Foggy down from his chair, but he remains singing at the top of his lungs. All the signs point to one thing, and one thing only.

“Did you give my boyfriend weed cookies?” you sound a lot more condescending than you planned to.

Karen shakes her head. Her face is pale, and she looks just as panicked as you do. “Those are not mine,” she says.

“But you knew they were edibles?!”

“Of course, I didn’t! I started questioning it when Matt started cuddling the plant because his Braille felt like boobs and he didn't want to cheat on you, so he decided that he needed to touch some grass.” She points to him, exasperated. As if on cue, Matt lets out a happy little sigh.

Your brain struggles to process all of the information at once. “I’m sorry, what?”

“He said that his Braille feels like boobs. I don’t know! I thought he was messing with me until Foggy turned into Elphaba, and that’s when I took a bite and realized there was weed in them,” she says.

You groan, your worried eyes momentarily flicking back to your high boyfriend. High. That’s not a word you thought you would ever associate with him. “How did this happen?” you ask.

“Ms. Lebowsky, the lady next door, we helped her out the other day, and this morning, she gave me these cookies. I called her when these two started acting like idiots—more than usual, anyway. Turns out, she confused them with the ones her niece made for her birthday party tomorrow.”

“Her niece made edibles for her birthday party?”

“Please, don’t ask. I don’t have all the details. I just–”

“It’s fine,” you cut her off. “Just tell me that you’ve got Foggy under control.”

Karen peeks in through the window to his office. “More or less, yeah. You’ve got Matt?”

“Yeah, I’ve got him.”

You have to take care of him. He’s your responsibility. But as calm as he is right now, his heightened senses make the situation a lot more complex than the mere accidental consumption of edibles.

Walking over to him, you try to haul him up. He protests, at first, but then he feels the fabric of your shirt, and he slacks.

Matt wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. “You’re so soft,” he coos. “You smell like honey.”

With his entire weight on you, you have to widen your stance so you won’t fall over. His usually quick reflexes are nonexistent right now; he won’t be able to catch you if you trip, and then you’re both going to get hurt.

“You know what’s even softer?” you ask.

“The plant,” he answers confidently. He sounds like a more careless version of himself. You can’t deny that it does something to you.

“No, silly,” you chuckle softly, “I meant your bed.”

“Oh. But I’m not tired.”

“You’re high.”

He pouts. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” You stroke his back. “It’s okay. I’m not mad at you.”

He stiffens and relaxes at the same time. You swear you can feel the electricity in his veins as his nerves respond to the feeling of your skin on his. It’s like he’s on fire. Like your touch feels a million times more intense, and he’s being crushed under the weight of it in a way that makes him crave more.

He squeezes you tighter, trying to get swallowed by you, consumed to the point that you are the same person. The drugs are doing a number on him, and his already heightened sense of feeling has increased tenfold to the point you’re not sure if it’s pleasurable or painful or both. It must be agonizing, yet at the same time there is a high chance that the weed is calming his nerves and dampening his perception to the point he’s taking everything in without the added weight—he’s enjoying the newfound sensations in limbo, and he’s unaffected by it. You wonder how long that is going to last.

After bidding farewell to Karen, wishing her good luck with Foggy who has now reached a point of his high where he’s lying on the floor, demanding to listen to Bohemian Rhapsody and cry over Freddie Mercury. She assures you that she has got it under control, apologizes again, and then sends you on your way.

“Bye, Karen,” Matt says. “You have very nice hair.” His hand tangles in yours, and his face lights up like a Christmas Tree. You managed to convince him to put his glasses on, at least, or he might get irritated. “Never mind,” his voice turns into a pur.

Usually, you would shiver at his fingers in your hair, tracing the strands and sensually massaging your scalp only he knows how to, but today is not one of those days. You’re still concerned about the effects that the weed might have on him, so you want to be careful, although you’re not sure how much longer you can keep yourself from laughing.

As you maneuver Matt through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, his cane hovers above the ground and his arm is hooked around yours. Without you, he would have run off into traffic by now. He has absolutely no spatial awareness anymore.

Every sound, scent, and texture seems to capture his attention, but there's one sensation in particular that he can't seem to shake: thirst. You’re not even home yet, and you had to stop by a convenience store to get him a bottle of water. He shed his coat, which you are now carrying for him while also guiding him while simultaneously trying not to attract any unwanted attention.

You can’t help but look at him as though he is your whole world. He is. He is everything to you, even high on edibles he never meant to consume, and acting like a feral toddler. If anything, you are even prouder now that he is yours.

“Hey,” he whispers, leaning close to you, “do you think fire hydrants taste like licorice?”

You shake your head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Matt, don’t lick the fire hydrant.”

He pouts. For a moment, you think that you have steered off any possible disaster, but that was only wishful thinking.

Matt’s curiosity knows no bounds, and he’s soon reaching out to touch anything that catches his eye. He runs his fingers along the rough brick foundation of a building, marveling at the texture, and he stops to sniff a flower, declaring, “This is the most beautiful flower I have ever smelled.”

You pluck it for him, and he carries it in the pocket of his coat with a happy smile.

You’re both exhausted when you finally make it to his apartment. Getting his large frame through the door is one thing, stopping him from tearing the tap off the sink as he desperately searches for liquid with the words, “Water!” is another.

“Okay, okay,” you try to calm him. You grab a bottle from the fridge, open it for him, and force him to take it. “Drink.”

One touch is enough for him to drop it. “It’s cold,” he recoils in agony.

You sigh. “Tap water it is, then.”

You have never seen him down so many glasses of water. He is severely dehydrated and sensitive to changes in temperature. It’s either too hot or too cold, and you’re so glad that Karen texted you when she did.

You manage to get him to the couch with some snacks that he devours within seconds. If he moves one more inch today, you may not be able to catch him again.

His lip twitches. “Chickens don’t have any arms.”

You pause in the process of wrapping him in a blanket, staring blankly ahead at him. “Excuse me?” you ask.

“Chickens don’t have any arms,” Matt states. “Every American citizen has the right to bear arms under the second amendment in the constitution. If an egg was fertilized on US soil, and the chicken hatched there as well, technically, that makes them a citizen of the United States of America, therefore allowing tiny creatures without arms the right to bear arms, but who gives the bears their arms?”

You’re so flabbergasted that the absurdity of the situation eludes you. The words process only slowly in your mind, and when they do, they cause a wave of confusion to wash over you before it turns into genuine amusement, and it takes every ounce of self-control to keep yourself from laughing at him.

You can pinpoint the exact second the thought escapes his mind and something else replaces it. His hand brushes over the leather couch. “Smooth,” he observes. You haven’t even fully processed his very philosophical question about the animal kingdom before he drops his cheek down on the couch.

The man who has been carrying the weight of the world in bricks on his back for years is finally relaxed; it shouldn’t leave such a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

You kneel in front of him, reaching out to touch his cheek. “Do you need anything?” you ask.

Matt’s gaze is filled with an odd sort of clarity. “Nah. Just you,” he mumbles.

A soft smile tugs at your lips as you brush a sweaty strand of hair away from his forehead. "I'm right here," you reassure him.

He nods, his eyelids drooping as the effects of the edibles start to take their toll. “Good.” He searches for your hand, and you help him intertwine your fingers. A giddy smile finds its way onto his face. “You’re warm.”

You lean in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “And you’re high,” you tease.

Matt huffs out a breathy laugh. “Mmh, yeah,” he says. “But it’s okay. ‘Cause you’re here.”

Despite the chaos and the unexpected turn of events, there’s a sense of contentment settling over you as you watch him drift off into a state of bliss. He deserves it more than anyone.

You stay by his side, watching over him as he succumbs to the pull of sleep that you’re all too familiar with after a sudden high.

“Note to self,” you say to yourself, “never eat a stranger’s cookies without drug testing them first.”

And love has funny ways of making even the most absurd moments feel strangely beautiful.

Matt Murdock Tag List: @littlenerdyravenclaw @yarrystyleeza @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @thatonegamefish @norestfortheshelbywicked @mattkinsella @itwasthereaminuteago @linamarr @gpenguin666 @acharliecoxedfan

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock #matt murdock x f!reader #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock x you #daredevil #daredevil x reader #reader insert #from the vault #charlie cox #weed cookies

184 notes · View notes

randomperson99sworld · 4 months ago

Text

Ruffled Feathers 🪶

~ Part 6 ~

Summary: Julia Morgan, Bobby's niece, has always been a royal thorn in Dean Winchesters ass since the day they met 1 year ago at Bobby's memorial. She wants to be a hunter, he thinks she's a dumb kid playing dress up. Will she always be seen as an unwanted load in Dean's eyes or will he see something more?

Pairing: Dean x OC

Warnings: Language, age gap, sexual themes (used lightly), physical abuse (Not by Dean).

Word Count: 2,405

A/N: I had to repost this part because my dumb self accidentally copied my rough draft instead of the finished chapter lol. If you guys see anything that doesn’t make sense let me know! I’m still new at writing, but I want to make it as perfect as possible for my readers! This story is cross posted on Wattpad, I made the last minute decision to share it here too. Happy reading! ♥️

Julia stepped into the diner, the faint chime of the doorbell ringing out as she entered. The place was quiet, with only a handful of people scattered around. She scanned the room, trying to push past the frustration building in her chest. Dean's words echoed in her mind—stay out of trouble. He acted like she couldn't handle a real hunt, like she was nothing more than an inconvenience. It wasn't the first time he'd made her feel like that, and she doubted it would be the last.

But she was determined to prove him wrong.

Taking a deep breath, she made her way to the counter where an older woman stood wiping down the surface. The woman looked up, offering a small smile as Julia approached.

"Can I help you, hun?" she asked, her voice warm but tired.

Julia returned the smile, trying to keep her tone casual. "Yeah, I'm new in town and heard there's been some weird stuff going on lately. Thought I'd ask around, see if anyone knows what's up."

The woman raised an eyebrow, glancing around before leaning in slightly. "Weird stuff? You mean the attacks?"

Julia nodded, keeping her expression neutral. "Yeah. People saying it's a wild animal or something?"

The woman sighed, shaking her head. "It's more than just an animal, I'll tell you that. Folks around here are scared. There's been a few people attacked just outside town, and none of them made it. I've heard whispers about some kind of beast, but no one knows for sure."

Julia's heart rate quickened. Definitely sounds like a werewolf. She kept her voice steady. "Anyone get a good look at whatever it is?"

The woman hesitated, glancing over her shoulder like she didn't want anyone to overhear. "There's one guy, a regular, who swears he saw it. Ted, his name is. He's been spooked ever since, though, barely comes in anymore. You might wanna talk to him. Lives in a cabin on the outskirts of town, past the woods."

Julia thanked the woman and ordered a coffee to go before stepping outside. The sun had dipped lower, casting the small town in a soft, orange glow. She spotted Dean and Sam across the street, walking out of the sheriff's office.

Dean's gaze locked onto her as she crossed the road to meet them. His expression was the same as always—guarded, skeptical, like he was waiting for her to mess up.

"Well?" Dean asked, his voice impatient. "You find anything, or were you too busy chatting up the locals?"

Julia ignored the sting in his tone, keeping her voice steady. "One of the waitresses mentioned a guy named Ted. He says he saw whatever attacked the victims. He lives just past the woods in a cabin. Could be worth checking out."

Dean's eyebrows lifted slightly, like he hadn't expected her to come back with anything useful. He gave a slow nod, glancing at Sam before looking back at her. "Alright. We'll check it out."

For a brief moment, Julia felt a flicker of satisfaction. Maybe this'll prove I'm not just in the way.

The three of them piled back into the Impala, the familiar hum of the engine filling the silence once again as they headed toward Ted's cabin. The tension from before still lingered, but there was something new in the air now—anticipation. Julia knew this was her chance to show Dean she could pull her weight.

As they neared the outskirts of town, the road grew rougher, surrounded by thick woods on either side. Dean parked the Impala at the edge of a long narrow dirt path leading to the cabin. The sun was almost completely gone now, the last traces of daylight fading fast.

Dean stopped the car in the middle of the path as it looked too rough to drive the rest of the way. They got out of the car, and Dean grabbed his sawed-off shotgun from the trunk, tossing Sam and Julia their weapons. He eyed Julia for a second longer than necessary before turning toward the path. "Let's go."

The air was cool, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the day, and Julia found herself gripping her knife a little tighter as they walked.

After a little bit of walking , the outline of a small cabin came into view. Dean motioned for them to stop, holding up his hand as he scanned the area.

They walked up to the cabin and knocked and a man opened the door. He was a middle-aged man, his clothes slightly disheveled, eyes darting around like he expected trouble at any moment

"Hey, Ted right? We spoke on the phone earlier." Dean said. "Mind if we come in to talk?”

Ted nodded, his gaze flicking nervously between them. "Sure. I'm not much for company, but I suppose it's better than being alone."

They all came in the quaint looking cabin, and Dean wasted no time getting to the point. "We heard you saw something the other night. Can you tell us what you saw?"

Ted took a shaky sip of his coffee before beginning. "It was dark, and I was just heading home. Then I heard this growl, like nothing I've ever heard before. I thought it was a bear or something at first. But when I saw it... it wasn't any kind of animal I've seen. It was huge, with glowing eyes. It came at me, but I managed to get away. I've been too scared to go back out there since."

Julia listened intently, her mind racing. A growl, glowing eyes—it fit the description of a werewolf alright.

Dean glanced at Julia, then back at Ted. "Anything else you remember? Any specific features or behaviors?"

Ted shook his head. "Just the eyes and the growl. It was like it was hunting me."

Sam leaned in, his expression thoughtful. "Have you seen anything else strange around here? Any other incidents?"

Ted hesitated before speaking. "There've been some odd occurrences—people seeing strange things in the woods, noises at night. I thought it was just my imagination or the stress from what happened to me."

Dean glanced at Julia again, a silent question in his eyes. Julia nodded slightly, indicating that Ted's account was useful.

"Alright," Dean said, standing up. "Thanks for your time, Ted. We'll look into it."

Ted nodded, still looking uneasy. "Be careful. Whatever that thing is, it's dangerous."

They left Ted's residence , heading back to the Impala. Julia felt a renewed sense of purpose. With the new information, they had more to go on. They could focus on the details Ted had provided, potentially narrowing down their search.

As they settled into the car, Dean started the engine. "So, what's next? We going back to check the woods or...?"

Dean nodded, pulling out of the dirt path. The drive to the woods was filled with the low hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of conversation between Sam and Dean. Julia stayed mostly silent, her mind still processing everything from the morning.

When they reached the edge of the woods, the sun was starting to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows through the trees. They parked the car and grabbed their gear, ready to investigate.

Dean led the way into the forest, the terrain becoming increasingly rugged as they moved deeper. Julia stayed close behind, her senses on high alert. The forest was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that seemed to press in from all sides.

After a few minutes of hiking, they came across a small clearing with signs of a struggle—broken branches, disturbed ground. Julia's heart raced. This was the kind of evidence they needed.

"Looks like this is where it happened," Dean said, examining the area. "We should spread out and see if we can find any more clues."

Julia nodded, taking a deep breath as she walked beside

"Stay back," he muttered to Julia, his voice low.

Julia bit back her frustration, knowing now wasn't the time to argue. She hung back as Dean and Sam moved toward the cabin, their weapons raised, their steps silent.

Suddenly, a rustling sound echoed from the trees behind them. Julia's heart raced as she turned, her grip tightening on her knife. The sound grew louder, closer, until a large shadow darted through the trees.

She raised her weapon, trying to get a clear shot, but the creature was fast, darting in and out of the shadows. Before she could react, it lunged at her with terrifying speed.

"Julia, watch out!" Dean's voice shouted from somewhere behind her.

The werewolf's claws slashed through the air, catching Julia off guard. She tried to dodge, but its claws raked across her shoulder, tearing through her jacket and into her flesh. A cry of pain escaped her as she staggered back, her weapon slipping from her hand.

Dean and Sam charged in, guns blazing. The werewolf howled in pain and rage, momentarily distracted by the sudden attack. Dean's shots found their mark, and the creature staggered before retreating into the darkness.

Sam hurried over to Julia, his face etched with concern. "Julia, are you okay?"

Julia winced as she touched her shoulder, feeling the warm trickle of blood. "I... I'm okay. Just a scratch. We need to finish it."

Dean, his face a mix of anger and worry, approached quickly. "You're not okay. You're hurt. We need to get you patched up."

He grabbed her arm, guiding her back to the Impala with Sam following closely. Julia's shoulder burned with every step, but she tried to stay steady. The werewolf might still be out there, and they couldn't afford to waste time.

Once they reached the car, Dean quickly pulled out a first aid kit from the trunk. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, but his expression was tense.

"Sit down," Dean ordered, gesturing to the backseat. "We need to clean this up before it gets worse."

Julia obeyed, gritting her teeth against the pain as she settled into the backseat. Dean pulled out the antiseptic, a pair of scissors, and a needle and thread. He glanced at her shoulder, his jaw tightening.

"You should have been more careful," Dean said gruffly, his voice tinged with frustration. "I told you to stay back and let us handle it. Now look what happened."

Julia bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears. "It's not that bad. I just got a scratch."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "A scratch that needs stitches this time. What happens if next time you get bit? You could've turned. You always rush in without thinking." Dean seethed.

Sam stepped in, trying to defuse the tension. "Dean, she was trying to help. It's not entirely her fault. The werewolf was fast."

Dean huffed but didn't respond, focusing instead on cleaning the wound. Julia watched as he worked, his hands steady but his expression betraying his frustration. He cleaned the wound thoroughly, applying antiseptic before starting the stitches.

The pain was sharp and intense, but Julia bit her lip and stayed still, refusing to let out more than a few gasps. Dean worked in silence, his anger morphing into a grim determination to get the job done right. He finished the stitches quickly, his movements efficient but rough

"There," Dean said finally, tying off the thread and cutting it. "All done. Try not to move your shoulder too much."

Julia nodded, wincing as she adjusted her position. "Thanks, Dean. I appreciate it."

Dean's face softened slightly, though he still looked frustrated. "Just... be more careful next time. We can't afford to have you getting hurt. Not like this."

Julia nodded again, feeling a mix of relief and frustration. "I will. I promise."

Sam patted her shoulder gently, offering a supportive smile. "We need to get back out there and find that werewolf. It's still a threat."

Julia agreed, though she was keenly aware of the ache in her shoulder. "Yeah, let's finish this."

They packed up their gear and returned to the woods, the fading light casting long shadows around them. Dean stayed close to Julia, his attention divided between the hunt and keeping an eye on her.

As they continued their search, Julia tried to stay focused, despite the pain and the sting of Dean's anger. She knew he cared, even if his methods were rough around the edges. And right now, she needed to prove that she could handle herself—no matter how tough things got.

"Dean!" Julia called out, stepping forward instinctively.

Dean whipped around, his shotgun raised, just as the werewolf lunged from the darkness. It was massive, its eyes glowing in the dim light, teeth bared in a snarl. Without hesitation, Dean fired a shot, but the creature barely flinched, charging at him with terrifying speed.

Sam moved to fire his gun, but Julia acted faster. She hurled her knife with precision, the silver blade embedding itself in the werewolf's side. The creature let out a howl of pain, staggering back as the knife sizzled against its flesh.

Dean didn't hesitate. He fired another shot, this time hitting the werewolf square in the chest. The creature collapsed to the ground, dead before it hit the dirt.

There was a moment of stunned silence, the only sound the heavy breathing of all three hunters. Dean stared down at the body of the werewolf, then slowly turned toward Julia, his expression unreadable.

She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, but she didn't back down. "That was close," she said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

Dean's gaze flicked to the knife still lodged in the werewolf's side, then back to her. For a moment, she thought he might say something—maybe even give her some credit—but all he did was grunt and turn away.

"Let's get the body burned before someone stumbles on it," he muttered, walking back toward the cabin.

Julia watched him go, her chest tightening with a mix of frustration and disappointment. No matter what she did, no matter how many times she proved herself, it didn't matter.

10 notes · View notes

tofuiharbinger · 2 years ago

Text

A Complete Compilation of SAGAU Disney References (pt. 1)?

AU: Disney, Mama Tofu, Genshin Impact Cult

Genre: Crack

Word Count: 363 words.

WARNING: Informal writing style, subtle cult themes, gender neutral reader

Description: An exclusive collection of the Disney moments that their Grace and the Mini-Creator have reenacted in Teyvat.

Misc: These were copied from previous asks that I’ve submitted on Shiro’s blog, as well as some bonus snippets that I wrote in the process. Interaction appreciated! (But please do not disclose my existence to Shiro) Remember, reblogs help more than likes!

-Tangled-

Mini-Creator: “Oh, no no no no, this is bad, this is bad, this is really bad…”

Mini-Creator: …

Mini-Creator and Mama Tofu, simultaneously: “They just can’t get my nose right!”

(Bonus)

Impostor AU and the authorities are all very confused because they should’ve heard some word about the two impostors now, but why haven’t they? With Ningguang’s backing, Diluc’s intelligence network, etc. it should be a piece of cake, right?

Well, if only a certain other impostor hadn’t replaced Albedo’s portraits with counterfeits that depicted them with horribly dysfunctional noses. Maybe they could’ve been caught by now.

-Brave-

Mini-Creator: But whyyyy? I don’t want tooooo :(

Mama Tofu: “I am the queen. You listen to me.”

(Bonus)

Random Acolyte A: See? That confirms it! Their Grace is the queen of all gods, meaning that the Mini-Creator should also be a god!

Random Acolyte B: Hm, seems sensible, seeing as how they know everyone’s birthdays, favorite foods, darkest secrets…

-Brave-

Mini-Creator: (invites Childe over for dinner)

Mama Tofu, who doesn’t really like Childe: “No weapons on the table.”

-Tangled-

(Lantern Rite)

Mini-Creator: Standing here…

Everyone: ?

Mini-Creator: It’s oh so clear…

Mini-Creator: I’m where I’m meant to be…

Mama Tofu: (stifles laughter)

Everyone: We’re glad you feel at home here, your Grace :)

Mini-Creator: “...and at last I see the light~”

-Frozen-

(Post-Sakoku Decree)

Mini-Creator, prancing around Inazuma: “‘Cause for the first time in forever!”

Mama Tofu, too occupied with convincing Ei to join as Elsa:

-Tangled-

Mama Tofu: (brushing her hair)

Mini-Creator: “Flower, gleam and glow~”

Both of them hyperventilating when it actually glows:

(Bonus)

Impostor AU where Mama Tofu and the Mini-Creator inevitably suffer some serious injuries from being hunted day and night. Nothing fatal, fortunately, but enough to disable smooth motor function.

The Mini-Creator and their mother slump down near a large tree (doesn’t matter which one), exhausted from sneaking around and avoiding their looming demise. Mindlessly, the Mini-Creator begins brushing out a few tangles from Mama Tofu’s hair.

“Flower, gleam and glow~”

Then the tips of her hair start to shine a brilliant gold, shortly before the wounds on her body begin to close.

Maybe survival wouldn’t be that difficult after all.

(A/N: If you think of any other fun references, you’re free to share! :3 Now I'm almost inspired to write a fic about this...)

#Mama Tofu #Tofu Anon #Sagau #Genshin impact sagau #Genshin sagau #Genshin impact cult au #Genshin cult au

128 notes · View notes

seeingteacupsindragons · 8 months ago

Text

My last post to get people to talk about their creative projects has gotten something of a theme. People who are trying to write a book, but instead of actually writing it, are writing a bunch of…other stuff.

I may be biased because I do very little of that extraneous writing, but I think there’s two main places that situation comes from:

Being scared of writing the book/story

Not actually wanting to write a story

And both of those things themselves could probably be a whole post or series of posts, but let me break them down one at a time to see if it helps anyone figure out what’s going on with them.

Being scared of writing the book/story:

Basically, the writing you’re doing instead of the story is procrastination and avoiding actually working on the story. You don’t want to be writing it, but you’re afraid if you actually write the story, you’ll mess it up, so you’re writing other things and trying to prepare yourself utterly and completely so you know exactly what you’re going to do…except none of that “prep work” worldbuilding and character exploration is actually making you any more confident.

So here’s the thing: You can rewrite the same story from scratch several times if you don’t like what the first try looks like. You can edit the story over and over if you don’t like what it looks like.

Some prep work helps a lot of writers. But at the end of the day, it’s really not helping you write the story. The story is the story and it’s not any of your asides, and the longer you spent avoiding the story and building up All These Cool ideas, the scarier actually writing it is going to get. Because now you have a thousand cool ideas and you’re even more afraid you can’t do them justice than when you had one kinda interesting idea to pursue. You’ve invested all this time—what if the story isn’t good?

It's still going to be better than no story. And you're not going to get better at telling stories without trying to do that specific thing, because of the discussion we're about to get into...

Not actually wanting to write a story:

The people who said this to me in that post were largely writers. But the thing is that doesn’t really get talked about is that…writing isn’t really one hobby.

There’s a lot of kinds of writing, and some of them overlap, but they all require different skills and they require different interests, and they satisfy different parts of a person, if they satisfy any.

Writing a novel is different from writing a short story is different from writing an analytic essay is different from writing standup is different from writing a screenplay is different from writing a Wiki entry is different from writing a business report is different than writing marketing copy is different from writing a technical manual is different from…

I majored in creative writing and minored in professional writing, and I have been writing for 25 years. I have tried a lot of those kinds of writing. I enjoy most of them, because I enjoy wordsmithing. I enjoy putting various words together to see what they look like. Not everyone does, but they might still write because…

They like storytelling. Not everyone who likes storytelling is a writer—sometimes they draw, or make a video game, or pain, or act, or direct, or sing. Lots of ways to tell stories exist! And if you like writing but don’t like storytelling, maybe you’d be happier writing analysis essays or business reports, or marketing copy (which can be storytelling, but is very different from narrative).

And maybe, it leads you to writing long character profiles and worldbuilding documents.

Writing a novel and writing detailed worldbuilding documents are honestly basically different hobbies. You might like both! Or you might not, and just feel like “I like writing,” means you have to write a novel or a short story.

You…don’t. Writing doesn’t mean you have to write any specific thing. You should find why you’re drawn to a specific activity, to figure out what is satisfying you about it.

It is perfectly okay if you enjoy writing about made up worlds without wanting to write a novel about it. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.

So basically:

If you want to write a novel, just do it already! If you don’t, you don’t have to keep telling yourself you will because you feel obligated to do it. Just enjoy whatever part of the process you enjoy.

#writing #writeblr #writing help #writing advice

16 notes · View notes

dominimoonbeam · 1 year ago

Text

A Totally Normal Meet Cute Script...Part 1

Nothing to worry about here. Just your normal meet cute... Part 1 of 3.

Performed by the incredible Jouska over on his youtube and his patreon.

Part 1 -The set up

By dominimoonbeam

[library setting]

[whispering] Hey.

Hey.

I know you can hear me, glasses…

Hey, I just need a second…

[gets shushed]

It’s a library, I’m allowed to whisper.

Gla—

Oh! Hey! Do you have notes from last week’s lecture? What am I saying, of course you have the notes. Can I borrow them? I’ll get them right back to you and I promise not to crease the pages or doodle on them. I will guard them with my life.

What are you talking about? I’m not making fun of you. You have glasses on. They’re cute. I’m a fan.

No, I don’t think you’re smart because of the glasses… I know you’re smart because I’ve had classes with you for the last two years and when you open your mouth you say smart shit and crush anyone arguing with you.

I won’t call you glasses if you don’t like it. How about, backpack? Sneakers? Sweater?

[smiling] Or I can be more personal. Cutie? Smarty pants? Keeper of the notes I so desperately need?

[paper rustling and slapped down]

[someone shushing them]

[whispering] Thank you, benevolent cutie with the glasses.

I’m not trying to charm you. I already got your notes.

Okay, I am trying to charm you, I also want you to be my partner for the final.

I know it hasn’t been announced yet, but we both know it’s coming and we both know you’re the best student in the room.

I know what you’re going to say, sneakers. Why would you, the smartest person in the class, want to team up with me, the most beautiful man you’ve ever met, who on rare occasions doesn’t make it to class because he had extenuating circumstances…

No, I’m not going to ditch you with the whole project, I swear. You have my word.

[voice raising in surprise] What? You know me. You can trust me!

[shushed by someone else]

[back to whispering] We’ve been on the same campus and in the same classes for two years.

I’m not a bad student. I told you, extenuating circumstances.

You don’t believe me? Okay, okay, I’ll bring my transcripts.

I’m not kidding.

Yeah, you can see my grades. This was sort of a bad year for me but I’m getting things back on track and I just need some help with this… I need a great grade on that final if I’m going to pass this class and, let’s be honest, the only way to guarantee that with this particular group is to be with you. I promise, I’m not going to make you do all the work.

[shushed angrily by someone else]

[whisper] Sorry! Just meet me for lunch? I’ll copy these notes and get them back to you and we can talk about it, okay?

[imploring] Glasses? Please?

Yes? Okay! I’m going to run before the librarian kicks me out again.

Did I say again? Forget that. I’ll see you in the cafeteria!

[cafeteria background sounds]

There you are! I was a little worried you weren’t going to show up.

Let’s get lunch.

What? Glasses, that’s a bag of Cheetos and an orange juice…

Okay, okay, whatever you want. I’m going to grab some more food though, do you…want anything? No? Okay, don’t leave! No, I’m not giving you your notes back yet. You’ll bolt. I told you, I’m not stupid.

[smiling] You don’t have to walk me through the line. I’m not giving you the notes back until you hear me out…

What? No, I’m not worried about being seen with you. Are you serious? I mean, if you’re standing close to me because you think it’s going to embarrass me, then you can keep on thinking that.

[sarcastic, smiling] This is terrible. I’m so uncomfortable. I might fold any second now and give you back your notes…Better stand closer, glasses… Maybe lean against me? Loop your arm through mine? Grab my—

Ouch! [laughs] Sorry!

Oh, look, they have a cranberry orange muffin. That matches your color-themed food. Do you want one?

[glasses considering it, speaker surprised] Wait, do you? No, too late, you stared too hard at that muffin. Now I’m getting it for you.

[voice more serious when he orders] Yeah, hey, can I get a chicken salad and a cranberry orange muffin? Thanks.

[back to glasses, smiling] Let’s find a table.

Hm? Yeah, I guess that is a lot of people in the quad.

I don’t think it’s a planned event… You didn’t hear about it?

[sitting down]

You know that student that went missing last month?

Yeah, they said she disappeared between classes. Like, she was there one second and then just gone the next. It didn’t even take people a week to build some urban legends around it. My favorite was the one about an experiment in the science department gone wrong and turning her invisible. Least favorite was definitely alien abduction… I know the guy that started that one. I swear, every mystery with him boils down to aliens. It’s not that I think it’s more absurd than anything else, it’s just…uncreative at this point? I’d rather hear the story about a ghost in the halls than another alien abduction rant—

Huh? Oh, yeah. The missing girl. Well, the admin seemed to think she’d bailed, like life got too stressful and she bolted, but her parents wouldn’t drop it and her friends insisted she wouldn’t have left without telling them. They stuck pictures of her all over campus and were hounding the cops about finding her.

Yeah yeah, Casey.

I guess they were right. [sighs and then whispers] They found her, or like, what’s left? [cringing] I mean, there are a lot of rumors, but it sounds like she’s been dead for a while.

They found her in the weeds on the other side of the fence behind the auditorium.

I don’t know. Stabbed? [smiling] Glasses! Look at you asking all the gruesome questions!

[pause]

Huh… [a little worried] I guess you’re right. There was a couple that went missing last week.

[over the worry] They’ll turn up. Or they ran away together. That would be romantic. [smiling] Do you want to run away with me, glasses? We can do a road trip, be gone for a long weekend, freak some people out…

[laughs] See! This is why I like you. Straight to the point and not afraid to hurt my feelings.

Seriously, that couple is probably pulling a prank or it’s a coincidence. They’ll turn up.

Hm? What do I think happened to her?

Probably some creepy ex-boyfriend, right? Or a stalker? Whoever it is, I hope they catch him.

Wait, are you using sleuthing to distract me from why we’re having lunch?

Glasses, you evil genius! We’re here so that I can convince you to be my partner for the final. Here. Not only did I bring you my transcripts, I brought you a sample of a paper I wrote last semester, and a list of all my extracurriculars.

Yes, that does sound like I’m trying too hard, but I sort of thought that would resonate with you, seeing as you are the resident try hard.

Don’t even pretend you’re not. I’ve seen you do projects for extra points in classes you were already crushing and everyone knows about that time you made the quarterback cry because he threw an empty ice cream carton into the river.

Oh, woah. No. I am not taking his side. Who would litter like that? Absolutely not me… at least, not when I’m sober…

[smiling] I see you’re impressed with my grades…

Huh? Oh, yeah, I was in a bunch of clubs the first two years. Rowing, caving, wood working, boxing, glass blowing, photography, climbing…

[laugh] Yeah. I did. But I joined croquet because I thought it would be the sport with horses. I stayed because it was surprisingly fun, even without getting to ride horses while swinging mallets.

Well, I didn’t do all of them at the same time…

[sighs] Yeah, I’m not really in any clubs this year. I don’t know. I just wasn’t feeling it. Like I said, I was struggling. I was doing all I could just to stay on top of my classes.

What can I do to make you believe that I’m serious, glasses?

I can be your study buddy for the rest of the term, even before the final is announced. You’ll see that I mean it.

[smiling] Really? You’ll think about it? Yes!

Okay, give me your phone.

Yeah, give it so I can give you my number and get yours.

Because…we’re friends now?

Oh, come on. Everyone can use more friends!

And, as promised, here are your notes back.

I wasn’t holding them hostage, I was just…using them to keep your attention. But we’re past that.

Your phone?

Thank you! Let’s see… basic screen, no personal photo…okay, that’s not weird at all…

Mine’s a picture I took of a turtle. [laughs] What? That is not weirder than the preset background!

Okay, I’m putting myself in as, Dashing Motherfucker… and sent!

[text chime] And now I have your number. We’re officially best friends, glasses.

What? Why would I leave, we’re eating lunch together. Unless… Do you want me to go? If I’m really bothering you—

[smiling] You don’t mind? Okay. Then I’ll stay. I’m really excited to see if you’re actually going to eat Cheetos with orange juice.

It’s definitely a weird combo… I’m a little worried you lied when you said that was your lunch and now you’re just too stubborn to admit it. Do you want the muffin instead? I won’t judge you for changing your mind…

Hm? My friends?

Over… Oh, yeah, I know them. Why?

[laughs] No, I wouldn’t rather sit with them. You said you didn’t mind, glasses…

So, this is an insecurity thing? I solemnly swear I’m not pulling any mean romcom starter shit on you. And there won’t be a montage where someone takes off your glasses and I gasp at how hot you are. [smirking] I’m already aware. You’re hot with the glasses.

Woah! [laughs] No throwing Cheetos! You need all of them. I don’t know what nutritional value that tiny bag has, but it can’t be much…

What do you have next today?

In the science building? I’ll walk you after you’re done with that mighty meal of yours.

And risk you being turned invisible in an experiment gone wrong? Haven’t you heard the stories? It happens.

Oh no, I need you for that final. You’re precious now, glasses. I’m not taking any risks.

#audio script #dash and glasses #<3 #dominimoonbeam #clover down #meet cute #totally normal meet cute

40 notes · View notes

kawaii-angelanne · 2 years ago

Text

TW/CW: nudity of minors (not sexual!), all characters (except the teacher) are in high school

KEY TAGS: spoiler-free/pre-canon, female reader (afab and themes of womanhood), second pov (reader's pov), meet-cute, fluff, strangers to ???

WORD COUNT: 6202

CROSS POST: ao3

OPENING NOTE: thanks for clicking on this! please do not repost, copy, modify, or overall plagiarize this work anywhere else please. plagiarism is never acceptable, both in mla 8 format and in fanfiction! for translations, message me, and we can talk about it! reblogs, comments, and likes are super appreciated :>

SUMMARY: "'So…' you trail off, shutting the door behind you, 'How should I do this? Do you have a certain pose in mind or…?'

The blue-haired painter (painter-in-training?) turns to you, 'Well, in order to start, it would be best if you began taking off your clothes.'

'E-excuse me!?'"

Or where Kitagawa Yusuke needs a nude model, and you unknowingly sign up.

“Why don’t you just get a job?” your friend, Yanai Toshiko, points out the most obvious solution to your money problem while chewing in one side of her mouth, “It’s pretty easy these days. All you have to do is take a magazine from the job stand in Shibuya Station, look for a job that interests you, and call them up.”

“Right, and,” your other friend, Akagawa Yokkako, takes a moment to swallow her food before continuing, “if you tell them you’re a Kosei High student, they will most definitely hire you.”

“But that’s so much work!” you groan loudly, burying your head in your arms on the table and then lifting your head up high enough to be able to see your friends, “Besides, my brother’s birthday is in a week. I wouldn’t get the money in time even if I got the job.”

“That’s your fault for leaving it to the last minute,” Yanai clicks open the next tier in her bento box, “I don’t understand how you’re still at Kosei with all your procrastination.”

You perk up at this, “Uh, just because I don’t do my work weeks ahead of time like everyone else here doesn’t mean I don’t do well, thank you very much.”

“What’re you even getting your brother that costs so much anyways?” Yokkako finishes the last of the bun she bought from the school store, crumpling the transparent wrapper in between her hands.

“Limited-edition action figure set of this anime he watches,” you drag your chopsticks absentmindedly across your school lunch, depressed from just remembering the price tag.

Yanai admires her octopus hotdogs, her chopsticks holding one in midair, before eating it whole, “Can’t you get him, like, crayons or something?”

You stop swiveling your chopsticks across the pile of rice on your tray at her suggestion, “He’s not six. He’s turning twelve!”

“What’s the difference?” Yokkako snickers behind her hand, earning one smack on the shoulder from you.

“Seriously, guys,” you now resort to hopelessly picking up singular grains of rice with your chopstick, “Do any of you know how I can get cash quick and easy?”

“Well—”

“And legally.”

Yokkako wilters at the last part, her eagerness to tell you to be a cam girl or start selling drugs vanishing in a flash. While she isn’t involved in stuff like that, you knew she would suggest such a thing anyways, which would have annoyed you more.

Yanai nimbles on her chopsticks in thought, “Y’know, on my way to the teacher’s office—I had to drop something off—, I overheard one of the art students asking around for a model. He said he was willing to pay in cash.”

“Really!?” you straighten up from your slumped position, eyes sparkling at the prospect of possibly getting enough money for your brother, “Who? Do you know how much he’s paying? Did anyone say yes?”

“Hmm,” Yanai places her chopsticks down, “I only heard his voice, so I don’t know who he is, sorry. I didn’t stick around long enough to hear everything, so...”

“Ask one of the art teachers!” Yokkako chirps up, “They might know who it is. I think their office is on the…third floor?”

You turn to Yanai for an answer, who nods silently as she focuses on packing up her lunch, and, with her confirmation, you immediately stand up from your chair, “I’m going to go now then! Can’t have anyone taking my precious money! I’ll see you guys later!”

Dashing off, you try not to bump into unsuspecting students, spitting sorries when you do. You’re going to find this art student no matter what!

“Oh, right, I heard Kitagawa asking one of my other students to be his model yesterday,” the first art teacher you encountered answers, “She said she was too busy.”

Still catching your breath from sprinting up three flights of stairs, you stare blankly at her. Her answer as to who was asking for a model was hardly an answer. For all you know, there could be tens of Kitagawas in this school (it would be funny if they were all in the same art class too). Also, why did she talk more about the person he asked? She isn’t your main concern.

She returns to her work, so you press the subject further, “Kitagawa…?”

“You don’t know?” she makes the effort to turn her chair to face you completely, “Kitagawa Yusuke? He’s one of Madarame’s students.”

“Who?”

“Madarame, the artist?”

When you shake your head, she gapes at you but immediately pulls herself together, “Never mind. What do you need Kitagawa for anyways?”

“I was hoping to ask him if I could be his model,” you don’t bother to explain all the itty bitty details about how you desperately need the cash; she doesn’t need to know that.

The teacher squints at the grid paper taped on the wall in front of her, “I have him next, so I can ask for you. I’ll email you what he says. What’s your name? Include your first name as well, so I know what email to use.”

After telling her your name, she writes it down on a blank notepad, and you thank her for the help before leaving. At least you don’t have to track down this Kitagawa Yusuke.

You slide the door open and then close. Checking your watch, you yelp at the time. Class on the fifth floor is starting in three minutes, and you don’t even have your bag!

“Crap, crap, crap!” you repeat under your breath and push your legs to move faster, brisk walk accelerating to a full-out run.

As you make an abrupt turn around the corner to the downstairs, you harshly crash into someone. You shut your eyes, groaning when you make contact with the ground. Still reeling from the fall, you see the obstacle you bumped into, who is somehow gracefully sitting upon the linoleum floor.

“Pretty boy…” the words flow out of your mouth without a second thought, and your hand slaps itself over your mouth.

But really, is there anyone who wouldn’t have the same reaction? Navy blue hair framing the boy’s cheeks so perfectly and shining like it belongs in a shampoo commercial. The lack of blazer all students have to wear with their uniform revealing his lissome frame. The longest eyelashes you’ve ever seen. The most luscious lips—.

“Are you okay?”

At his words, you cease your shameless ogling, “Y-yes! S-sorry, are you okay? I should have been watching where I was going!”

“I’m quite alright, thank you,” he gets up from the floor, brushing one stray hair away from his face, “Do be careful though. It would not be safe to bump into anyone else like that.”

Before you can retort, you remember why you were in such a rush earlier and rise to your feet, “Oh god, I’m really going to be late now! Again, sorry, but gotta blast!”

You abandon him and take off at the same speed as before. Screw getting your bag; you can just ask Yukkako for paper and a pencil.

Your mind races back to the slender guy you bumped into as you scurry up the stairs. You’ve never met him before. However, you don’t think your paths will cross any time soon. It’s been a month since school started, but you haven’t seen him in any of your classes. Besides, he’s too…graceful. And pretty! Definitely not your crowd.

The bell rings once you reach the fifth floor, and you frantically scramble to the classroom door. You practically fall through the back door. Somehow, no one but Yukkako notices your tumble in and waves her hand rapidly. The teacher strides in the front door the moment you sit down, and you breathe out a sigh of relief.

The moment you step foot in your dorm room, you toss your bag to a corner of the room and launch yourself into the comfort of your bed. Thank god your roommate isn’t here right now. As always, a day spent at the illustrious Kosei High deserves a nap.

Too exhausted to take off your uniform, you snuggle on the top of your bed (also too exhausted to get inside the blankets). Closing your eyes, you feel yourself hazing out of reality and into the wondrous land of slumber.

Ding!

Your eyes snap open, tranquility gone and irritation kicked in. When you reach down into one of your pockets, you pull out the rectangular device. The brightness burns, and you don’t hesitate to lower it.

When you read the subject, “Art Model Information”, you sit up from your bed like a vampire from their coffin. Unlocking your phone, you hastily scan the message.

“‘I asked Kitagawa…need to go to Madarame’s studio tomorrow…might let you model!?’ I’m not even hired!?”

You almost throw the phone down on the mattress out of frustration, sleep disturbed for this. You have to travel to his place and aren’t even guaranteed the job? What if you travel for nothing? That would be a waste of a good subway fee!

To calm yourself, you take a deep breath and release it with most of your annoyance. There aren’t any better options, so what choice do you have?

Scrolling down the email, you find the address of this “Madarame’s studio”—you still don’t know who Madarame is—and copy it to paste into your navigation app.

Your finger repeatedly jams the doorbell as you cower underneath the veranda too small to properly cover anyone. Even though the forecast reported no rain, it began to downpour mere minutes ago with no relent in sight. Fortunately, you had a jacket to drape over your head, but it’s not going to hold for much longer at this rate.

“Oh, come on, answer the door already!” you whine.

You pressed the button just once when you first arrived, but, the longer you went on without a response, the more fervent your pressing became. Maybe you should be more patient. However, how good would a drenched model be? You need to get in soon, or else.

Before you resort to holding down the buzzer, a voice slices through the heavy rainfall, “Who is it? If it’s Sensei you want, he’s not here.”

You pause briefly at the strange familiarity of the voice before answering, “Hi, I’m from Kosei High! I don’t know her name, but one of your teachers told you about me? It’s raining pretty heavy out here, so, if you could let me in, that’d be great!”

“One moment.”

The transceiver disconnects. Footsteps approach behind the door, and the voice’s speaker unlocks it. You can’t help but gasp when the door opens to reveal who was talking to you.

The pretty boy you bumped into yesterday!

“It’s you!”

“It’s you…”

You’re too stunned to move, despite the rain pouring (partially) on you. So, this is Kitagawa Yusuke? You even said yesterday that your paths wouldn’t cross any time soon! What’re the odds?!

“...Will you be coming inside or…?” Pretty Boy, now identified as Kitagawa Yusuke, raises an elegant brow while stepping to the side to let you through.

“Oh! Yeah, sorry!” you step inside and take off the jacket on your head, “I just didn’t think that you’re Kitagawa! Crazy coincidence, right?”

“Indeed, this truly is a trick of fate…”

“‘Trick?’”

What did he mean by that?

Kitagawa doesn’t answer you and immediately begins to circle around you. He mumbles to himself, too incoherent for you to understand. The longer this goes on, the antsier you get. It’s as if you’re being picked apart with his eyes punctuated by those sharp lashes.

It’s not exactly the most comfortable experience.

Before you can ask him if something is wrong, he returns in front of you, done observing you like an abstract work of art, “I suppose you will do for now. Normally, I would try to find a more inspiring subject, but I cannot afford to on such time constraints. Do not worry about taking your shoes off, and, please, follow me.”

Your eye twitches at his slightly objectifying attitude, but you follow him anyway. Before leaving, though, you wring out your soaked jacket directly over the poor excuse of a doormat. Seeing the water permeate fills you with mischievous satisfaction. Seeing how far away he was, you run over to catch up.

It doesn’t take long for you two to enter a small studio room. Towards the backend of the room there’s a window to let natural light in. However, there isn’t exactly a lot of “natural light” shining through due to the storm. The ceiling light seems to provide just enough lighting, some darkness accumulating in the corner.

Various painting and sketching supplies are shelved in the back of the room as well. Three stools are pushed to the side. One stool sits in the middle, and an easel without its canvas in front of it.

Kitagawa goes ahead of you to set up, and you stand awkwardly by the doorway with your jacket over your arms.

“So…” you trail off, shutting the door behind you, “How should I do this? Do you have a certain pose in mind or…?”

The blue-haired painter (painter-in-training?) turns to you, “Well, in order to start, it would be best if you began taking off your clothes.”

“E-excuse me!?” you almost drop the jacket onto the wooden floor from pure shock.

No…is this a nude modeling gig!? Even though themes of nudity happen to make up a majority of famous paintings, you never even considered this would be the case. You’re also a high school student, just like him! Is this even legal?

“Were you unaware that you would be modeling nude?” he strokes his chin, clearly confused, “I made sure to specify that to the teacher though…”

You gulp. Maybe you should have read the email entirely…

“You are more than welcome to leave if you do not wish to do this anymore,” Kitagawa already makes moves to clear up shop, disappointed and…annoyed(?) at this turn of events, “However, if it comforts you, I have absolutely no interest in your naked figure. I am purely doing this for art. I assure you I have no ulterior motives other than painting another piece of work for Sensei.”

“Uh, w-well,” you fidget about, not completely unswayed by his words (even though you should be!), “h-how much will you be paying?”

“Did the teacher not tell you that either?” his brows furrow even more (you really should have read the email entirely), “It might not be much, but, when we finish, I will pay you about one hundred and fifty thousand yen.”

One hundred and fifty thousand!? That would cover your brother’s birthday gift and still leave you some cash to spend! All of that for modeling? Granted, you’ll be naked, but it would totally be worth it!

Wait. Jeez, are you really that desperate for money that you’ll strip for some guy you just met? …No, no, that isn’t the case here! You’re contributing to the art world! So what if you’re in the nude? If this painting is a hit, you’ll be famous, have money, and make your brother happy for this birthday. Well, secretly famous. You don’t want this spreading around, especially to your parents.

“I’ll do it,” you declare despite your heart beating wildly at what you’re committing to, “B-but on one condition! I won’t be officially associated with this. I don’t want people to know that you painted me…naked. So, I don’t want to see my name anywhere near this, got it?!”

“You have my word, thank you,” he softens his curt tone in gratitude, and his lips even curve into a small, pleasant smile.

Your heart stutters for a moment at the unexpected nicety. While Kitagawa hasn’t been outright scornful, you couldn’t help but feel iced out at first.

“Do not mind me as you undress,” his back faces you out of consideration, “I will prepare in the meanwhile. Let me know when you are ready.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Even though his back is already turned to you, you turn your back to him as well for added protection. Well, it would only be your rear side instead of your front side he would see if he turned around (if he does, you’re leaving without a second thought!). When getting ready for today, you opted for a comfortable but still nice outfit rather than your uniform. Had you known you would be modeling naked, you would have just come in sweatpants and a hoodie.

Sitting on the stool, you first remove your shoes. You strip out of your clothes one by one, stacking them into a messy pile on the stool closest to you. Your hands pause at your undergarments. As the room’s chill travels across your skin, goosebumps prickle your skin.

You take a deep breath.

One.

Two.

Three!

You unclasp your bra.

Another deep breath.

One.

Two.

Three!

You push down your underwear.

Adding the two articles to the unorganized mountain of clothes, which had somehow not collapsed yet, you turn around to face Kitagawa. Your hands wrap around your torso, insecurity trickling in like water from a sōzu. Now that you’re actually naked, you don’t feel as confident as you did before when you agreed.

Still, you don’t want to back out now, not after you’ve gone through the process of taking off your clothes. Ugh, you better like that gift, Hanzu!

“Is everything all right?” Kitagawa asks, back still to you.

“Y-yep!” you breathe deeply again to steel your nerves, “I-I’m all ready now!”

He turns around, seeing your naked body for the first time. Despite that, his insouciant expression doesn’t change. He merely clutches his chin between his fingers again; you could almost see the cogwheels turning inside his mind. His ever-observant gaze causes you to cover yourself up even more, your hands sliding up more and legs gradually crossing over each other.

“Stop right there,” he commands with such purpose it freezes you into submission, “This heightened vulnerability and bareness… It perfectly encapsulates both innocence and womanhood at the same time! To think that you would be able to deliver such a concept… Yes, I can work with this. How foolish of me to doubt fate earlier.”

“Th-thanks?” you’re not sure whether you should be pleased or creeped out or if that even sounded like you.

“Please, remain still for now,” he sits at the easel, pencil in hand.

“Sure thing…” you search for an interesting crack in the wall to distract yourself with. With the state of the place, there are plenty of cracks to choose from, which means plenty of story material.

You’re unsure how much time has passed. All has been quiet save for your breathing and Kitagawa’s sketching. Since the session started, you’ve gotten more comfortable. Not completely, but definitely better than before!

However, you now face a new dilemma.

As you learned in psychology class, your brain requires stimulation. When it’s not getting stimulated, like right now, the urge to do something eats away at you like an annoying parasite. And it’s definitely not helping that you’ve been standing the entire time! But Kitagawa told you to stay still. You may have just met him today, but you feel that disobeying an artist’s orders, especially one as passionate as Kitagawa—that’s the impression you get anyway—is just as bad as waking a sleepwalker.

If you can’t move your body, you can at least move something else.

“So, how’s the drawing going?”

His hand falters in the line he was sketching out. With a sigh, he quickly erases it before redrawing. You quietly wince, not intending to irritate him. Maybe you should have realized that talking to him would have snapped him out of his artistic mojo.

He continues to sketch your figure, eyes flickering to you and then the canvas. The silence is even louder, and you’re too ashamed to ask again. Is there perhaps another crack you already didn’t make a story for?

“The sketch is almost finished,” he finally speaks, and you almost relax completely at an answer despite not wearing any clothes, “Sorry, I understand modeling for a painting can be difficult. Would you like to take a short break? I completed the part I was working on and can afford to pause now.”

A break? You thought he would reprimand you for speaking, but that was oddly considerate of him. Well, not like he hasn’t been, but…

“How close are you to finishing? Because, if it’s not too long, then I can handle it.”

He surveys his drawing, “Fifteen minutes should be sufficient enough.”

“Then we can continue, no worries,” you adjust your position to its original state.

“You have my thanks,” he nods and even flashes a gentle smile before resuming the sketch.

After a few more soft pencil scratchings and a few more riveting narratives of the Cracken terrorizing the town with no end in sight, Kitagawa picks up the small, deformed eraser and rubs it strongly against the canvas. His effaces become more and more frequent until he slumps over completely. Despair and hopelessness radiates from him.

“Uh, Kitagawa? Everything all right?” you make it your best effort to not move while also straining to get a better look at him from behind the easel.

“Something’s not right,” he lifts only his head to meet your eyes, “For some unknown reason, I cannot properly draw this last piece. Perhaps it’s the angle of your legs? Or maybe your arms?”

“I swear I didn’t move at all! Not even an inch!” you prepare yourself for a scolding, even though you are one hundred percent certain you didn’t move your legs at all no matter how badly you wanted to.

“I never said you did,” his expression shows no irritation, but his words still cut into you like the crack in the wall, “Allow me to think on this for a moment.”

Mumbling unintelligibly to himself, he pinches his chin between his fingers as his eyes scrutinize you once more like they had in the beginning. You immediately avert your gaze to the other side of the wall. Is it like an artist thing, or does he have this innate ability to pick you apart with his eyes alone?

“That’s it!” he sits up again with such a fervency it almost inspires you to do the same, “Please cross your left leg thirty degrees more inward.”

“D-degrees?”

With hesitant estimation—what exactly is thirty degrees?—you slowly slide your left leg.

“No, apologies, I meant your right leg.”

At his new orders, you, silent and compliant, move your right leg back to where it was originally and repeat what you did earlier to your left leg this time.

“A bit more, please, and point your right foot as well.”

You struggle to maintain your balance at the new position. Praying he doesn't make you do this for much longer, you attempt to keep the shaking to a minimum.

He tuts his disapproval, and your obedience slowly transitions into annoyance.

“Could you curve your foot a little more?”

“Please lower your right leg a little.”

“...Try moving your left leg outward.”

“No, move it back.”

“Why don’t you just do it for me then!?” you practically yell out, frustrated from having to adjust your already-sore limbs every second.

“Good idea, it would save us precious time,” he stands up straight from his seat with such poise and grace, it sends shivers down your spine.

“W-wait a minute, you’re coming over here?” your arms hug you tighter as an unsettling realization crawls on your back.

Not only is Kitagawa going to be extremely up close and personal, but he’s also going to put his hands all over your arms and legs and bend them at impossible angles!

He pauses in his steps with confusion scrawled all over his features, “Yes? Is that not what you asked?”

“W-well, it is, but…but I’m naked!” you state as if it’s the obvious reason (because it is the obvious reason).

“But you have been for the past hour or so,” he raises an eyebrow in even deeper confusion, “What makes now so different?”

“I’m naked,” you strongly emphasize the word “naked” as if Kitagawa somehow did not see an issue in the concept, “I don’t know about you, Kitagawa, but I am not comfortable with you putting your grubby mitts on me as you spread my legs and whatnot. It’s already enough that I’m modeling naked for you!”

“Spread your legs? Why would I ever—?” he stops mid-sentence, finally understanding what you were trying to get at, and his pale cheeks flush red, as if dragged from the center to the red side of the color wheel, “O-oh, I-I see…”

With a clearing of his throat, he continues, “My apologies for being so oblivious to your concerns. However, you currently seem to be incapable of properly executing what I envision for this painting. What to do…?”

Ain’t no way is he touching you! There has to be another way!

“M-maybe!” you interject before he decides that A) you’re not a fit model for him anymore and thus denied the pay you were promised or B) there is no other choice but for him to treat you as if you are nothing more than a wooden lay figure, “Maybe you can…pose like how you want me to? And then I can…mirror it? Yeah? How’s that?”

He stares blankly at you, and, as if a three-second timer went off, he livens back up, “What a splendid idea! Please do your best to imitate me.”

After adjusting his stance to better match yours, he first, as asked of you before, moves his left leg slightly higher to the crux where his legs crossed over. Oh, so that’s what thirty degrees are. Then, with a shift of his torso, he freezes with his eyes intently on you, silently commanding you to imitate him. You immediately follow suit, dumbfounded at how easy it was to copy him when you had failed multiple times.

“Perfect, now please stay like that for just a moment more,” he returns to his stool behind the canvas, pencil already in hand.

You sigh with relief, having successfully escaped any more torment, and focus back on doing what you were hired to do.

This time, instead of continuing to mentally write fanfiction between the crack on the left side of the wall and the crack on the right side of the wall—a true Shakespearean tragedy split by the great schism in the middle—, you find yourself staring at Kitagawa. Since you’re barely a meter away from him, you can see him up close for much longer than yesterday.

He’s so focused. His dark-blue eyes would unblinkingly scan across the canvas as his pencil dragged across the surface. Somehow, a mere glimpse to you can provide enough material to last him minutes of drawing. While his extremely hunched-over posture is left to be desired, his zeal clearly shows with how much he’s leaning in. Any further, and his nose would be touching the canvas!

You also take the time to comment (mentally, of course) on the strange seventy-thirty hair split he has going on. When it comes to parting hair, most go for a twenty-eighty or thirty-seventy split. However, he went the other way and managed to make it look as charming as ever. Even now, side parts aren’t the latest in style, but anyone who saw him would strongly disagree. Somehow, the right side of his hair perfectly frames his cheek. Yes, he has to push a strand or two out of the way every now and then. But, for the majority, it stays perfectly still, coiffed with enough curvature to not appear so limp.

Urgh, he’s a pretty boy in every sense of the word!

After some back and forth from behind the easel to you, the saccades shorter and shorter each time, his eyes then shift to your own. At the sudden eye contact, you flinch, caught red-handed.

“Is something the matter? You’ve been staring at me for quite some time,” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“O-oh, it’s nothing!” you laugh awkwardly, trying to act as if you weren’t staring at him for the past couple of minutes, “I-I was just zoning out, haha! Don’t mind me!”

He accepts your excuse without a second thought (is he really that gullible?), “Well, I am just about done with the sketch. All that is left is to paint it. I greatly appreciate your service and—.”

“Ooo! Can I see?” you jump up from the wooden stool and bounce over to see what he was drawing for the past hour.

Kitagawa immediately stiffens at your close proximity, but you’re too enraptured with what’s before you.

When people meet you, there are some words that easily come to mind: rambunctious, tomboyish, immature, incorrigible. However, you don’t see any hint of that in Kitagawa's depiction of you. You see exactly what he raved about earlier: vulnerability, innocence, and womanhood. How was he able to illustrate you in such a way so different from how most characterize you despite only formally meeting you today?

You also can’t imagine how striking the painting will be when finished. Will he use pop, bright colors to imply your teenage youth? Or will he use muted mature shades to highlight a sense of coming-of-age?

A stammered yelp of your last name draws you back into reality.

“Sorry, sorry! This is just so amazing!” you practically squeal while covering your mouth with your hands, “I can’t believe someone so talented is my age! Can I take a picture? Whoa, this is so cool!”

“I-I thank you for your kind words,” he avoids your gaze, finding the floor most intriguing, “You can take a picture. Please be sure not to post it anywhere should someone come across it and choose to plagiarize my work.”

“Got it!” you hum all happy, ego also inflated from being drawn so well and so beautifully.

Instead of answering, he fully turns his body away from you. You move to his side to find a faint dusting of pink across his nose and the top of his cheeks.

“Hey, are you feeling okay? Your face is kind of red, and—.”

“I’m f-fine,” he clears his throat and shakes his head, all while still concentrating on the weathered floor, “I-I would greatly appreciate it if you can get dressed, though, so I can pay you for your services.”

You look down at yourself, suddenly remembering that you were indeed not wearing clothes, and feel your body heat up from embarrassment, the slightly-cold draft in the room be damned. Your face is as red as a tomato, and your ears are tipped in a similar shade. Squeaking out an apology, you hastily move to the pile of clothes on the chair and fumble through putting them on, too flustered to do so calmly.

Right as you slip on the last of your shoes, you snatch your phone out of your pocket to take a quick snapshot of Kitagawa’s drawing. Up from his stool but still with his back turned to you, he busies himself with something in the furthest corner.

With the press of a button, his sketch is saved on your phone. You observe it on the digital screen, but, even then, it doesn’t even compare to the actual artwork. Well, digital copies never amount to the original anyways.

Pinching in and out of the photo to pick out the finer details, Kitagawa approaches you with a thick, money envelope in his hand, “Here is one hundred and fifty thousand yen, as previously agreed upon. I once again thank you for being my model. You truly brought the perspective I needed for this painting. Don’t worry, I intend to bring this painting the beauty it wholly deserves.”

“Oh, thanks…” your heart skips a beat at his words, moved at his dedication.

With two hands and a slight bow, you accept the money from Kitagawa, who then moves to clean up his supplies. As you stare at it in your hand, unease settles in your stomach.

Was this really going to be the last time you saw him? You don’t share any classes with him. Hell, you never even knew the guy existed until yesterday!

You can’t place your finger on why, but you want to get to know him more. Was it because of his formal speaking mannerisms? His talent? His creativity? His pretty boy appearance (you most certainly didn’t forget that)?

Clutching the envelope tightly, you stride up to Kitagawa with a surge of unknown need, “H-hey!”

Great start.

He turns around from putting his pencils away with utmost confusion, “...Is something the matter?”

“W-well,” you gulp and spit out your first coherent thought, “I-I wouldn’t mind modeling for you again!”

“...Excuse me?” he looks even more confused, and you panic on how to explain yourself.

“Wh-what I mean is,” you clear your throat to stall for time, “I-I really want to see how you paint this and make sure it’s good! It is a painting of me after all, a-and I can be there as a real-life reference! I can even model again, i-if that’s what you need!”

Stupid, of course it’s going to be good. He already drew you perfectly. Actually painting it shouldn’t prove a problem, especially since he’s taught by Madarame, who you found out last night is actually a super famous artist.

Still, despite your floundering attempts, he appears to strongly consider this proposition, “It would be extremely beneficial if I had my subject with me as I painted… However, I wouldn’t be able to pay you again. Unfortunately, I’m a little low on funds this month.”

“That’s fine!”

“Then, it’s a deal,” he takes out his own phone from his pocket, “Let’s exchange contact information, so I can message you when I begin the painting process. It will most likely be in the next day or so, so please keep your schedule open.”

You mentally do a fist pump, “All righty, do you have LINE or something? I have social media too, if that’s better.”

“I must confess I am not all that interested in what the online world has to offer,” he pulls out his phone from his back pocket, “I also don’t have any messaging apps outside of the one already on your phone, so your phone number would be best.”

Nodding, you exchange phones and open his contacts. You’re astonished at the names that flood his screen. Arita Takemi, Mihara Kurumi, Natsuhiko Nakanohara—wow, both his names start with “N!” That’s kind of cool—, Yoshihisa Haru… The list goes on and on! How does he know this many people? Or keep up with them? You don’t even think you have this many classmates!

Choosing not to ask him about it, you put in your number as a new contact. With the addition of your name, you raise his phone in the air to take a selfie of yourself (with a peace sign, obviously). Handing it back, you take your phone to find his contact only with his full name and phone number.

Well, you didn’t really expect much more than that from him.

“Hmm, it appears the rain has yet to stop,” he checks the time on his phone, “and it’s quite late. My sincere apologies for keeping you here for so long. I would walk you to the station myself, but I need to prepare for Sensei’s return.”

Surely it can’t be that late; you got here around noontime. Checking your phone as well, you quirk a brow at his definition of late.

You jam your phone back into your back pocket, “Um, it’s only a little past 5:30, Kitagawa. I’ll be okay on my own, but I appreciate the thought.”

He doesn’t look convinced and leaves the room, “At least let me get you an umbrella. I won’t be long.”

True to his word, he comes back as quickly as he left with an umbrella too big for only one person.

“Oh, thanks!” you blink at it in your hands, surprised at his offer, before back at him, “Well, I’ll be on my way now, but I’ll return it next time I see you!”

“Farewell,” he waves you off, and you do the same.

Leaving the room and out the front door, you notice how the rain isn’t coming down as hard as before. In fact, it’s such a light drizzle, using an umbrella would be superfluous. Still, you open it up before walking out from underneath the extremely narrow veranda.

Kitagawa Yusuke.

He’s so strange and perhaps a little blunt.

But he’s also far more polite than the rest of your male peers.

You put a little more pep in your step and smile with anticipation for the next time you see him, hopefully sooner rather than later.

ENDING NOTE: i present to you a project months in the making with a huge hiatus in between completion! i thought this would be ready to release to the world a month ago but. i was wrong LOL!

so, for a little context, i have always wanted to play persona 5 ever since it came out six years ago. however, i never got a ps4. THEN! p5royal got announced for switch and other devices, and i pre-ordered it almost immediately. now, it hasn’t been long since it came out, but i just finished up makoto’s palace.

playing this game also reignited my love and worship for the man that is yusuke kitagawa. the amount of screenshots and videos i took during his arc is embarrassing. then, i read a yusuke x reader oneshot at like 2 am (it’s on ao3 titled “Emperor” by deareststars! so good, the friends to lovers in me enjoyed it so much!). i sat up from my bed with such urgency at the lightning strike of inspiration and starting writing this.

this wasn’t written all in one sitting; this took about...3 months, and, with college apps, my progress was quite stifled! i originally wanted to do this sunshine, tomboyish, easygoing reader with a begrudging, “i need you to do my painting (for madarame)” yusuke. so, yes, an enemies to lovers. however, i don’t think it was that enemies. i think it was quite normal LOL. there isn’t a lot of romance in this either. i was rlly struggling on what to tag this because there isn’t romance; this is just like. the start of it all! miniseries? no…probably not LOL. right before i was going to post this, i realized i forgot to include the posing scene. my original thought was for yusuke to actually move your legs to how he desired, but i was like reader wouldn’t like that, and yusuke wouldn’t do it if reader expressed discomfort (and she did so). so. you got that teehee.

tl;dr: this was self-indulgent 101%.

#kitagawa yusuke #kitagawa yusuke x reader #yusuke x reader #yusuke fluff #yusuke oneshot #persona 5 fanfiction #persona 5 #persona 5 royal #《angel writes》#《med shot》

96 notes · View notes

theimpossiblescheme · 2 years ago

Text

Okay, I’m super not done talking about this musical that doesn’t even fucking exist... I’m not a professional music theorist by any means, just a giant musical theater geek, but I need to talk about the idea I had for the score. Specifically the Balcony Scene.

Jemi and I had imagined The Fake Cyrano Musical as being scored by Schönberg and Boubli, and especially in their composition for Les Miserables, there are a ton of recurring motifs. I wanted to replicate some of that with leitmotifs for Roxanne and for Cyrano and Christian as a duo. We first hear Roxanne’s leitmotif at the theater--maybe she’s talking to de Guiche, but it’s important that we hear it sung by her first--and then it’s echoed by Cyrano during his conversation with Le Bret, and then again by Christian when he tells Cyrano how afraid he is to woo her. That’s when we first introduce Christian and Cyrano’s shared motif, which becomes the Letters Theme. I love the montage from the 1950 movie of Cyrano essentially acting as the Henry Higgins to Christian’s Eliza Doolittle, so we could probably make the Letters Theme into its own song as the two of them and Roxanne write back and forth to each other. Eventually the rest of Roxanne’s household hears about what’s happening, and it becomes basically a more energetic and intricate version of “Every Letter” from the 2021 movie as everybody reacts to each other.

And then it all comes together and then promptly derails in the balcony scene. When Roxanne first comes out and Cyrano tries to coach Christian through what to say, we hear the Letters Theme--a halting, more uncertain rendition of it since Christian is still trying to copy Cyrano’s way with words, but can’t quite manage with the dark and distance. Roxanne’s motif comes back in tinkling, teasing tones as she pokes holes in Christian’s fumbling, and eventually the music stops altogether. “This grows too difficult.” Cyrano and Christian switch places, and a new melody replaces the recurring motifs--also halting and uncertain at first, but growing in lushness and passion as Cyrano finds his courage and pours out his heart. Roxanne answers in turn, and the earlier awkwardness is replaced with perfect musical cohesion...

Until Christian asks for a kiss. And it all comes crashing back down to earth.

The music tries to start back up again as Cyrano tries to salvage the situation, but doesn’t quite manage for a few more measures. And it’s absolutely key that this same new love melody, now bubbling under the surface and trying to work back up to a boil, doesn’t stop when Cyrano and Christian are talking to each other. Once Christian scales the balcony and gives Roxanne her kiss, then the music crescendos, and we get a little “Heart Full of Love” moment--Christian and Roxanne together, Cyrano in distant counterpoint below the balcony. That transcendence of love has returned--so strong it blows past all the existing melodies we’ve already heard up to that point--and there’s a bittersweet note as Cyrano watches the ones he loves from afar. “My words upon his lips...”

(If I really wanted to twist the knife, I’d include a callback during the very last scene as well... we never hear the balcony’s song of love again except for one other time: when Cyrano reads his and Christian’s very last letter. We expect to hear the Letters Theme again, and so does Roxanne since her quiet counterpoint takes up that melody. But this last letter goes to the tune of the balcony’s song... and every other line, we hear Christian’s voice. It’s a musical representation that Cyrano and Roxanne still aren’t on the same page yet, but this time he can sing honestly to her face without the cover of dark, and Christian can sing through him as he always has. It’s the last time we hear Christian’s voice, too, as the rest of the finale plays with very spare instrumentation and the theatricality is stripped back a bit as Cyrano spends his last moments with Ragueneau, Le Bret, and Roxanne at his side. And since spoken dialogue could be a very easy indication of honesty in a mostly sung-through show, this could also be the last time any of the characters talk to each other rather than sing.)

@ride-a-dromedary

#God if only I could write music rather than just throw spaghetti at the wall like this... XD #For brevity's sake as well I'm saving the capuchin's arrival for *after* the song--the music would be stalling for long enough without him #making it go on even *longer* and the strings from Cyrano's pages can easily herald the beginning of a new song section.#the fake cyrano musical

4 notes · View notes

thirstymercury · 2 years ago

Text

raining in Baltimore on the radio I redid my Tumblr theme I am 30 and almost a half years old and obviously it is April so of course I was carrying furniture in circles I was sweating in my soccer tshirt which is a three day costume and straining my pinky beating up the keys I was deciding the my eighteen year old self was closer to home than this little sloppy copy adult I've been trying on for the past three years alone alone alone and its good and its not good alone alone I'm gonna get my brain back even tho It Is a scary place to be it is a wonderful place to be my joy is bigger than it is supposed to be in April and that doesn't have to mean fuckin nothing it really took me this long to realize she isn’t showing up and still I sorta wanna stick around and wait I sorta wanna order those neutral pumps that every woman must own u know I sorta wanna text him and run my lines of the supporting role I nvr nailed I sorta wanna think I could sweat it out of me in a vitally.important.routine. of moving my body is 30 and can carry a recliner up the stairs purely because my mind is the strongest scariest best nothing I am thinking in world bursts I am just a conduit when I let myself stop holding the door open for her and blurring my eyes to the horizon turning pages missing the whole story all along! course I went tried to make it fit. tried to make them all fit every time. give me more letters and maybe this time they will spell out an escape hatch where there is something to overcome or drug into submission and then here she comes! presenting! at last! I got the closest I could around this time last year. the method acting. a cause of death. of course it comes down to proving yourself a puddle in another winter melt. a conduit is not just a joyful dance a conduit is carpet that makes your teeth hurt a conduit is every sound at once never stopping a gun held to both temples keep your fists hidden just get home just get home and the radiator HUMS. these letters are too right and too pointless to care about anymore. just means the clothes will never stay sorted. just means that I will always desperately want them to stay sorted where they are QUIET. just reads like the credits like the exit sign over the waiting room door and when I pass through there I am 18 and 11 and 7 and 2 and we are all feeling it and will always be feeling it and the hardest part to swallow is the helplessness and the length of it all and the cabin never coming the career the family I’m trying so hard to sketch another version where I'm always myself and it is terrifyingly never the path to security prescribed to a lucky as fuck sort of person I was to be born into it is never a future that gives an aging body peace of mind it is always so MUCH. but that means it we will always get late April there will always be trees and water and if u can bear it there will be music when ever you want it there will be crunchy words that you feel in your biceps alone alone alone we can have it all and sometimes that is joy that again- lucky lucky lucky -!

0 notes

nastybuckybarnes · 3 years ago

Text

All the King’s Men - Eight

Pairing: Alpha!King!Bucky X Omega!Reader

Summary: Your father always said that if it weren’t for your presentation, he’d think you were an Alpha. There’s a reason for that. Growing up in a world where Omegas are treated like garbage, you’ve fought for the respect that you have. Until you’re sold off to an old King desperate for a bride. But you will not lay down and present for your new husband. No, you will fight back.

Warnings: Language, Angst, kinda dark themes, fluff, ABO Dynamics (Marking, Scenting, Knotting, etc.), Smut,

Word Count: 2.2K

A/n: The way that I am fucking exhausted. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy, sorry it’s so late, I’m just... idk. Anyway, enjoy. I love you all very much.

!!DO NOT COPY/TRANSLATE/REPOST MY WORK!!

SERIES MASTERLIST

~*~

The journey to Veronia is longer than you remember, but with each passing moment, your inner Omega grows more and more restless.

So close to her alpha, yet so far away.

All you need is to see him. That should shut her up long enough for you to have a conversation about what you want, what you deserve.

“Your Majesty!” Steve exclaims when you enter the Palace, your brother and Pietro following close behind.

“Where is he?”

Steve doesn’t need you to say who you’re looking for.

“He is in his chambers, but I would advise against seeing him for the time being. He... isn’t well.”

You look at him for a long moment before walking past him.

The palace smells exactly how it did when you left, though there is one distinct smell that is missing.

“I will see him and I will do so now. Unless there is something he is trying to hide from me?”

Steve splutters for a moment before shaking his head vigorously.

“No! Of course not. I just, for your own safety, Your Majesty, I would advise against.”

You purse your lips and nod, walking the familiar route to the King’s chambers with the three Alpha’s trailing behind you.

“I thank you for your input. If it is truly an issue, then you all may remain outside if I am in danger.”

He huffs a sigh but otherwise says nothing more.

As you round the last corner before the king’s chambers, you’re struck with his scent hanging so thickly in the air that you may as well have walked into a wall.

“He’s in rut,” you murmur, your inner Omega guiding you closer slowly while the three Alphas grow uneasy.

There’s a loud snarl from inside the King’s chambers as he smells the approaching men, your scent shrouded by theirs.

“Your Majesty, he is going feral. I cannot, in good conscience, allow you anywhere near him,” Steve whispers, wincing when his King snarls again.

“You may stand outside if you are worried. He will not harm me.” You say the words firmly, though there’s a small twinge of doubt in the back of your mind.

The last time you thought he wouldn’t hurt you he proved you wrong.

Before anyone can speak another word, you push into the King’s chambers.

His scent wraps you in an embrace and clouds your thoughts, and your inner omega preens.

It’s a strange comfort, that missing piece finally found now that you’re near him.

He growls lowly, head digging into the pillows while he fists his cock.

“Alpha,” the word slips out before you can stop it and his head snaps up so quickly it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t break.

His eyes are flaming red as he stares at you and you take a hesitant step back.

“Omega,” he almost whimpers, tossing his head back and digging it into the pillows as he struggles to remain composed.

“You should not be here... I cannot control myself.”

His voice is strained and gravelly and has slick pooling between your thighs.

“Your Majesty, it is not safe for you to be near him when he is like this,” Pietro’s voice pierces through the atmosphere of the room with sharpness like that of a knife.

James growls loudly, his eyes burning with red flames straight from the fiery pits of Hell at the sight of another Alpha’s hands on you.

“He may not mean to, but Alphas are unpredictable when feral.”

Your husband snarls again, pushing himself into a seated position with his deadly gaze trained on Pietro.

You pull your dagger from its place on your hip and point it at the King, growling to match him.

“You will not make another threatening move. I do not care that you are in rut, if you so much as breathe aggressively toward us I will cut off your cock and shove it down your throat.”

His top lip curls into something that’s half frown half grimace, and slowly he lowers to the bed.

“Omega,” he moans, shaking his head and taking deep breaths of your scent, wishing his nose was pressed to your neck so he could bask in it even more.

Pietro is stunned at how the King listens to you but says nothing on the subject.

“He has been like this for days, Your Majesty. He refuses any... offered help,” Steve whispers, his eyes trained on his King in case a hostile move is made.

“He had a rut only weeks ago,” you reply, brows drawn together in confusion.

When James lets out another moan of pain, you take a slow step back.

“Perhaps we should continue this conversation elsewhere. I doubt my scent is helping matters.”

The other Alphas nod and follow you out of the King’s chambers and toward the library.

“The healer thinks it is because of the fresh bond you share. Though she does not know how long it will last without his mate,” Steve explains.

You nod slowly, thinking over his words.

“Has she said what may happen if he goes unaided through his rut?” Elden asks, narrowed eyes focused on Steve. As an Alpha, he knows the risks of enduring a rut alone.

Steve releases a heavy sigh and drops his head.

“She believes that if he endures alone, he will go completely feral to the point where, by law, he will be killed and his next of Kin will take the throne. That would be you, Your Majesty.”

You blink dumbly at the blond for a long while before shaking your head.

“Why has he not accepted the help of anyone? I’m sure Lady Sharon would be more than willing to help him,” you mutter bitterly, rubbing your biceps at the memory of her hands on you.

“We have not seen nor heard from Lady Sharon since your disappearance, Your Majesty. It seems she is hiding from the consequences of her actions. And as for the King... well... whenever it was suggested that we bring him a partner, he refused. He nearly attacked Natalia when she brought it up a second time.”

Why would he be so against a partner?

That is the only option if he wishes to remain a King. Hell, if he wishes to remain alive.

“I will go have words with him.”

As tempting as it is to take control over his Kingdom, there is no way you would not be usurped by the members of his council.

And you’re not ready to have your own Kingdom to rule, not yet.

You wanted the King to die so you could escape and return to your home, not so you could take all that is his.

If he dies, then all of his responsibilities fall onto your shoulders, and that is something you cannot handle right now.

“Are you sure you want to do that? It's dangerous and he’s especially strong,” Elden warns, a hand finding your shoulder gently.

You nod at him, your eyes softening at the worry clouding his eyes.

“He obeyed when I threatened him. If you wish to stand outside, you may. But I cannot have your scent in the room, it will only further aggravate him.”

He reluctantly nods, knowing he has no choice but to obey even if he doesn’t like it. This is, after all, your Kingdom.

You return to the King’s chambers and slowly make your way inside, your inner omega whining for her Alpha.

“Omega,” he whines, sweat glistening on his thick chest.

“You will die if you do not accept the help offered to you,” you say firmly, crossing your arms over your chest and standing at the end of the bed.

He only whines again, crawling to you and shaking his head.

“If it is not you, I do not want it.”

Your heart skips a beat at his confession, but you are not going to forgive him so easily.

“You would die, give up your throne and your Kingdom, for this?”

He nods without hesitation, trembling fingers reaching out and brushing across your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“You said being bonded to me is a fate worse than death itself. I now know how you feel. For being without you has brought me a pain that I would not wish upon my most hated enemies. If I cannot rule with you by my side, then I do not want to rule at all. Life is meaningless if you are not in it.”

You watch him for a long moment before letting out a slow breath and dropping your arms.

“The things you have done to me will not be forgotten,” you whisper, eyes focused on his.

He drops his head in shame and you can almost feel his inner Alpha howling in agony.

“But to sentence you to death is not a punishment fitting of your crime. I will not allow you to destroy yourself and leave your Kingdom Kingless. Not like this.”

Slowly, so very slowly, his eyes raise up to meet yours, a thousand questions swimming in them as they flicker between blue and red.

You hold his gaze for a long while, lifting your chin slightly and asserting your dominance over the situation.

He reluctantly drops his head again, submitting to you if only for the moment.

“Omega,” he whispers, his voice low and gravelly, a soft plea for you to do something, anything.

“I’m here, Alpha.”

You slowly untie your dress and drop it to the floor, stepping out of it and standing before him as bare as the day you were born.

His eyes devour your figure and a possessive growl rumbles lowly in his chest.

You crawl onto the bed slowly, only for him to grab you as soon as you’re near enough.

You find yourself beneath him in an instant, his nose buried in your neck while he ruts his hips against your thigh like a teenager, desperate for release.

One of your hands pushes at his chest and he whines softly, ceasing the sound when you roll over and push onto your hands and knees, arching your back and presenting for him.

“My Omega,” he murmurs, dragging his hot cock through your folds while dropping his head to your neck, desperate to scent you.

“Knot me, Alpha. I’m yours.” You don’t think about the words before you speak them, far too lost in the bliss of having your Alpha back.

He growls softly, the sound vibrating against your throat as he snaps his hips forward, sheathing himself inside you with ease.

The stretch of his cock against your walls has your mouth dropping open and your eyes rolling back.

It’s a type of fullness that you’re not sure you can live without. How you managed to go without it for so long is beyond you.

His lips travel the length of your neck, sucking and marking wherever he can reach.

Now that he has you beneath him, he’s never going to let you go.

For the briefest of moments, you allow yourself to forget about how he wronged you, how he hurt and humiliated you.

For the tiniest moment, you allow yourself to be his mate. To truly be his.

Beneath him, with his strong body caging you against the bed and his hot lips on your throat, you feel wanted.

You feel cared for.

You feel loved.

His thrusts become erratic quickly, his knot swelling as he pistons his hips impossibly faster.

“Up, Omega. I want to feel you.” He dips one hand down your body, tilting your pelvis back and allowing him to hit deeper inside of you while his fingers find your clit.

You whine softly, arching further into him as his knot catches inside of you, hot bursts of his cum painting your walls white.

His teeth find the familiar grooves in your neck and the intensity of it paired with his expert fingers on your clit have you falling headfirst into an Earth-shattering orgasm.

Your hands clench the bedsheets by your head, squeezing the fabric into your fists as your cunt spasms and your body hums with electricity.

You don’t notice his hands move until they’re on top of yours, smoothing out your fists gently and interlacing his fingers through yours over the back of your hand.

His chest heaves as he catches his breath, nuzzling his nose against your neck then slowly rolling the two of you onto your sides, your back pressed tightly against his chest.

You feel content.

Whole and happy after so long.

So you bask in it.

Though there are many mistakes that you have not forgotten, you allow yourself some peace, if only for now.

His voice breaks through the haze of sleep threatening to pull you under, soft and gentle, such a sharp contrast from what you’ve grown accustomed to.

“I made you a promise, sweet Omega. One I will not break. You are all I could ever want and all I will ever need.”

#alpha!bucky x omega!reader #alpha!king!bucky #alpha!King!bucky x omega!reader #alpha!stucky x omega!reader #bucky x reader #Bucky Barnes x reader #king!bucky #king!bucky x reader #king!bucky/reader #alpha!bucky #bucky x reader abo #bucky x reader smut #bucky x reader lemon

1K notes · View notes

queenlucythevaliant · 2 years ago

Text

When Lucy returned to school for the spring term, Peter sent a war poem. It dropped from the crease of his letter into her lap, as unexpected as a firebomb.

“On Receiving News of War,” the title read, and Lucy’s heart lurched. She was sixteen and Peter was twenty-one. The war had ended three years ago and he had only been a British soldier for a matter of months before he was discharged. Now, this poem came: words from the Last Lot, the 1914 war. Lucy picked up the loose page and read.

ON RECEIVING NEWS OF THE WAR

Snow is a strange white word;

No ice or frost

Have asked of bud or bird

For Winter's cost.

Yet ice and frost and snow

From earth to sky

This Summer land doth know,

No man knows why.

She looked up in shock. What did Peter mean in sending this? Was it only that it made him think of their first days in Narnia, white and frozen under the White Witch’s curse? He could not have missed the title. Lucy worried her lip between her teeth, considering. Her brother did not often use words idly.

Red fangs have torn His face.

God's blood is shed.

He mourns from His lone place

His children dead.

O! ancient crimson curse!

Corrode, consume.

Give back this universe

Its pristine bloom.

Oh. Yes, alright. That made a certain kind of sense. And there, at the bottom of the page, was a single line writ in Peter’s hand. “Variations on a theme,” he had written, “only I’m not yet certain what theme it is. Do you have an idea?”

Several, in fact. Lucy’s mind lit up in an instant, all a-whirl with memory and typology. She wasn’t a child any longer, and in small bits her many battles came back to her. Peter, she was sure, remembered even more of Narnia’s wars.

Yet Lucy remembered the ice of Lantern Waste on the first day as though no time had passed at all. She remembered the crimson of Aslan’s blood. She remembered the thaw. In her mind, those things had nothing and everything to do with Britain’s last war. Nothing: the two worlds were as different as King Arthur and Winston Churchill. Everything: because maybe Arthur and Churchill were not so different after all.

That night, after a trip to the library and with a book of poetry on her desk, Lucy composed her reply. “Another variation,” she wrote, and carefully copied out the lines.

All the dead kings came to me

At Rosnaree, where I was dreaming,

A few stars glimmered through the morn,

And down the thorn the dews were streaming.

And every dead king had a story

Of ancient glory, sweetly told.

It was too early for the lark,

But the starry dark had tints of gold.

The poem was called “The Dead Kings.” Peter was not dead, but Lune was and Cor was. Caspian was. It was easy to imagine them appearing in the trenches and whispering their stories into the ears of British soldiers.

“Caspian would have liked the notion, I think,” Lucy said thoughtfully.

Peter leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Yes. Come to think of it, I rather like it myself. If I were the dead king, I mean.”

“It’s strange—I think these were meant to be sad poems, the way they were written. The world unwillingly cursed and the ancient kings dead. Yet when you apply it to Narnia, I don’t think it’s terribly sad at all. Maybe a little melancholy, but hopeful too. Like I know something that the poet doesn’t.”

“You do know something that the poet doesn’t,” answered Peter.

“I mean about war and dying and all. It’s all so distant for me, you know? And yet I often suspect that I know secrets that some men who actually fought couldn’t guess at. The hopeless men, maybe. In Narnia it was all more beautiful. Having lived there elevates even war and death, in this world.”

“We were, both of us, soldiers once.”

Lucy nodded.

“How about this one, then?” Peter shoved his book across the table, nearly upending the cream along the way.

The drab street stares to see them row on row

On the high tram-tops, singing like the lark.

Too careless-gay for courage, singing they go

Into the dark.

“Simple,” said Lucy. “Singing on the way to war is courage. Singing in the dark is just about the bravest thing a person can do. Just because these boys go into the battle without knowing what it’s really like doesn’t make them any less brave for going, or for singing.”

“You would know,” her brother smiled fondly.

With tin whistles, mouth-organs, any noise,

They pipe the way to glory and the grave;

Foolish and young, the gay and golden boys

Love cannot save...

“It makes me think of Susan,” Peter murmured.

“I can see that. Our love cannot save her, only Aslan’s.” Lucy frowned thoughtfully.

“No, no—I mean I wonder if that’s how Susan thinks of us: foolish children still playing games where singing in the dark means anything at all. Gay and golden, but naïve and careless by the same token. Too caught up in notions of courage and glory to realize that we live in a world where good people die.”

“Oh Peter, you don’t really think?”

“She told me once she’s afraid that we’ll never grow up, did you know? I wondered if she meant that we would always be like children, or if she worried we might die young. Sometimes I still wonder.”

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” said Lucy. “To always be child-like, or even to die young. Not by half.”

Peter snorted. “You might not mind dying young, but I’d certainly mind it. You’re my little sister, Lu. If you die young, it means I’ve done something wrong.”

“Well of course I’d mind! There are so many things I mean to do once I’m grown up. But I’ve always thought—ever since Father Christmas handed me that dagger—that I might. As long as I died for something, it wouldn’t bother me. I think I could be a rather good martyr.” She winked across the table.

“Don’t you dare. If Aslan has short lives in mind for either of us, we’ll drink what we’re given. In the meantime, let’s both of us focus on growing up well.”

The next week, Lucy went with Marjorie Preston to the mail room. It was Marjorie’s birthday and she was expecting a parcel from home, but Lucy was also privately hoping for another letter from Peter.

An abundance of riches awaited Marjorie: an enormous box that the two of them had to lift together. Thus, Lucy tucked Peter’s letter under one of the box’s flaps as they carried it, and it was Marjorie who tore open the envelope when they reached the dormitories.

“What in the world is this?” Marjorie exclaimed, waving a poem under Lucy’s nose. Lucy snatched it away and hungrily read the words, considering how this variation fit Peter’s theme. Then, she noticed that Marjorie was still beside her, tapping her foot impatiently.

“My brother sends me war poems,” Lucy explained hurriedly.

“That’s strange.”

“Do you think so?” Lucy considered. “Well, no matter.”

WAR GIRLS (here Peter had added “& VALIANT QUEENS”)

Strong, sensible, and fit,

They're out to show their grit,

And tackle jobs with energy and knack.

No longer caged and penned up,

They're going to keep their end up

Till the khaki soldier boys come marching back.

"Does he mean you?" asked Marjorie, wrinkling her nose.

Lucy laughed, but didn't dispute it. She went to fetch some paper and a pen.

On they went for the next several months, passing poems back and forth in their letters. Some of them were hopeful and some despairing, some sad, some darkly funny. It was a dialogue in a war that Peter scarcely remembered, and Lucy even less. In time, Tennyson and others from before the Last Lot worked their way in. Even Shakespeare made an appearance with several selections from the Henriad. Spring lurched into summer which tumbled into fall. Peter turned twenty-two in August and Lucy was seventeen in November.

Then, at dinner at Professor Digory’s house one night, the specter of a Narnian king appeared before them. Before they left, Peter found the poem he was thinking of in the Professor’s study and gave it to Lucy.

Horror of wounds and anger at the foe,

And loss of things desired; all these must pass.

We are the happy legion, for we know

Time's but a golden wind that shakes the grass.

“Does it feel different this time?” he asked once she had read it.

“Yes,” replied his sister, “and no. It feels obscurely like it did the night Aslan died. Like something is hanging over us.”

“I think this is the end,” Peter said bluntly. “He said we wouldn’t ever go back to Narnia, yet here we are. It feels like the end. Do you remember what it was like the night before a battle?”

“Yes. I didn’t before, but I do now. Like we had to gather up everything inside ourselves and name it. Fear and courage, love and memory.”

Peter sighed. “We ought to get going. There might be ice on the roads tonight.”

Lucy went into the closet and fetched her coat. Peter followed, moving a fraction slower than usual.

“Peter?” Peter turned and looked at Lucy, who was standing in the doorway with her fur-trimmed collar turned up around her throat. “It was a good poem, Peter. The right poem. Time’s but a golden wind that shakes the grass…”

Golden. Golden like Aslan’s mane, which they both so dearly longed to touch once more. Lucy tossed the poem round and round in her mind all that evening.

Before he and Edmund left for London, Lucy slipped an envelope into Peter’s pocket. “Read it on the train,” she told him.

Peter nodded. “I have one for you too.”

It was the last conversation they shared in the Shadowlands, though neither knew it at the time.

When Lucy unfolded her poem, she recognized the words. It was her favorite war-poem, which she’d first sent to Peter months ago when their correspondence had begun.

Sombre the night is:

And, though we have our lives, we know

What sinister threat lurks there.

But hark! Joy—joy—strange joy.

Lo! Heights of night ringing with unseen larks:

Music showering on our upturned listening faces.

It almost made her want to giggle, how well Peter knew her. Lucy thought of him and Edmund together in London; she ached for Susan, who had chosen not to join her siblings in their last battle for Narnia. She breathed in deep and thought of music on the way to war.

Death could drop from the dark

As easily as song—

But song only dropped,

Like a blind man's dreams on the sand

By dangerous tides;

Like a girl's gold hair, for she dreams no ruin lies there,

Or her songs where a lion hides.

That last couplet was wrong. Peter had changed it. The poem ended with, A girl’s dark hair and kisses where a serpent hides, but Peter had written gold and lion instead.

When Peter unfolded his own poem on the train, he found only a single stanza, annotated on nearly every line.

It didn’t pass— (His will be done) it didn’t pass- (His will be done)

It didn’t pass from me.

I drank it when we met the gas (His will be done)

Beyond Gethsemane! (His will be done)

The train halted and the whistle blew. Peter shook Edmund awake beside him, and together they went to unbury the rings.

Poems referenced: “On Receiving News of the War,” Isaac Rosenberg; “The Dead Kings,” Francis Ledwidge; “Joining the Colours,” Katharine Tynan; “War Girls,” Jessie Pope; “Absolution,” Siegfried Sassoon; “Returning, We Hear Larks,” Isaac Rosenberg; “Gethsemane,” Rudyard Kipling

#i really am very interested in the ways that Narnia relates to both ww2 and ww1 #but i almost never like the way other people address the subject #(sorry)#so here's my attempt #i'm not 100% satisfied with it but i think it's good enough for now #the beauty of using a cut is that i can still revise if i decide i want to #also this is part of my informal 'Narnia lit analysis series'#because that's just the kind of gal i am #narnia #dear darling heart-daughter of aslan #high king over all the rest #chapter one #martyr club relevant #leah stories #pontifications and creations #intertextuality

73 notes · View notes

angelasscribbles · 3 years ago

Text

My Best Friend's Girl (Remix) Chapter 18: Back to New York

Series: My Best Friends Girl

My Best Friends Girl Remix

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairing: Drake x Riley

Rating: R

Warnings: Mature themes

Word Count: 1,343

You can catch up on my other stuff here.

We’d been in the U.S. for almost a month. While Liam and Madeleine flitted around the world on their engagement tour, Riley, Max and I went to work with vigor tracking down Tariq.

Riley said she didn’t even care anymore, she wasn’t sure she was ever going back to Cordonia anyway and no one in the states paid any attention to the going on’s of a small, virtually unknown Mediterranean country. But I cared. It was the principal of the thing. And Max cared. He was on a mission to convince her to return with him, Liam or no Liam, and be the sister he’d never had, the best friend he’d come to love like family. But for her to return, especially as a member of House Beaumont, we needed to clear her name.

Selfishly, I wanted her name cleared to remove any and every obstacle between her and Liam. I know she said she was done with him, name cleared or not. But I had to know that for sure.

We found Tariq hiding in Los Angeles and we drug his sorry ass back to New York to the Cordonian Embassy. Liam had never officially fired me, I still had grounds as a Captain in the Royal Guard to arrest the mother fucker and I can’t begin to tell you the immense satisfaction I derived from doing so.

Now I held a hard copy of his recorded confession in my hand. It was scheduled to drop in four hours. I wanted to warn Liam first. He was on the last leg of the engagement tour….New York. We were on the same continent and in the same city for the first time in over three weeks.

He answered on the first ring. “Drake! Is everything ok?”

I felt guilt stab through me. Of course he sounded surprised, we hadn’t spoken since Ramsford. “Yeah, everything is good. That’s why I’m calling, actually, I have some news. Can we meet somewhere?”

I still didn’t trust that his phone wasn’t being monitored by Constantine.

“Sure. Where?”

Twenty minutes later we were eyeing each other uncomfortably over coffee.

“It’s good to see you, Li.” I told him. “You look well.”

He laughed mirthlessly, “That’s probably a lie, but thank you. You, on the other hand, you look like New York is agreeing with you.”

I smiled wistfully, “I don’t know if it’s New York that’s agreeing with me or just the company.”

“Right.” He replied stiffly.

“Shit, Li! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it! We’re not….I mean, we haven’t…..” I trailed off and an awkward silence hung between us. I shifted the Styrofoam cup in my hand back and forth across the table a few times.

Finally, Liam cleared his throat, “You said you had news?”

“Oh, right!” I straightened up, “We found Tariq.”

Shock crawled across his face, chased quickly by hope, then the diplomatic mask slammed into place. “And? Did he…is he willing to come forward?”

I slid the CD across the table to him, “He already did. Here’s an advanced copy for you. This will be dropped to all major news outlets later tonight. I’d have sent you a digital copy, but-“

“No, I get it. It’s a lot more difficult to intercept or alter a hard copy.” He said as he slipped into an inside jacket pocket. “What does this mean, exactly?”

I felt guilt stab me in the chest again at the guarded, but hopeful expression on his face. “I don’t know, Li. It means her name is cleared. She can return to Cordonia as part of House Beaumont without the scandal hanging over her head. It’s what Max wants. Further than that….I honestly don’t know.”

“What Max wants?” He asked thoughtfully, “What about Riley? What does she want?”

I sucked in a deep breath then blew it out slowly before replying, “I’m not sure. She’s talked about staying here, in New York. Max is working overtime to convince her to go back home with him, even if she isn’t….even if she doesn’t….”

“Even if she’s not with me, you mean?” He sounded crestfallen, but resigned.

“Yes. She’s been steadfast in her insistence that she’s over you. I don’t know if that’s true or not. Now that her name is cleared, she can make an actual choice about that, as opposed to having one shoved down her throat by Constantine.” I knew I sounded bitter. I couldn’t help it. Being near the monarchy had done nothing but hurt her.

“You’re in love with her.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“But you haven’t….you’re not….”

I shook my head as I felt a flush creep up my neck, “No.”

“Why not?”

My head jerked up in surprise. How did he not already know the answer to that? “Out of loyalty and friendship to you, and to her.”

“What do you mean, to her?”

“I mean….she says she’s over you, but is she? Your hand was forced, her hand was forced. I would never do anything to interfere with your happiness, or hers.”

Liam shook his head and smiled ruefully, “You’re in love with her, yet you still worked overtime to clear her name so she could be with me, assuming that’s what she wants which is a big assumption by the way, and most likely a false one.”

“What are you getting at, Li?”

“That you’re a good man and a good friend, Drake.”

I flushed again, because I knew it wasn’t true. While I would never stand in their way, I hoped with everything in me that she meant it when she said she was over him. And I felt like the worst friend in the world, because it was so clear that he was still in love with her. But so was I and what were either of us supposed to do with that?

The three of us had been living out of hotel rooms for weeks. Riley, Max and I. Often out of the same room. Even when we booked three rooms, Riley and I still somehow ended up in the same room, in the same bed. I hadn’t slept by myself since the night of the coronation. Nothing had happened, no lines had been crossed, but the more time went on, the more I started to feel like maybe she wanted a line to be crossed. But I couldn’t. Not yet.

I couldn’t, and not just because I had to be sure she was over Liam for her sake, and his, but for my own. Because I knew, deep down in the marrow of my bones, that once I crossed that line, there would be no going back for me. If I crossed that line, then had to watch her marry Liam after all, it would destroy me.

It was always going to be the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life, watching them get married and spend the rest of their lives with each other, but I knew that if I got even the briefest taste of what being with her, really being with her, was like, only to have that snatched away….I knew my stupid, suddenly breakable heart wouldn’t survive it.

So, I did everything in my power to fix what had gone wrong between them, to enusre the road would be clear for a second chance, for them to have a real shot at a happily ever after. Because I needed to know, one way or the other, if she was really over him or not. I couldn’t....I wouldn’t allow myself the thinnest sliver of hope until I had that answer.

Which is how I found myself in a coffee shop in upper Manhattan surrounded by guardsmen that used to be my coworkers, sitting awkwardly across from the best friend I’ve ever had, giving him all the information he needed to make another play for her. If he had any sense at all, he’d break the engagement to Madeline and put a ring on Riley’s finger before Constantine knew any of it was happening.

#my best friend's girl #my best friend's girl remix #angelasscribbles #trr #choices #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #the royal romance #the royal romance fanfic #drake walker #choices stories you play #drake x mc #unbreakable AU #riley campbell

44 notes · View notes

the-hinky-panda · 2 years ago

Text

Mariposa: Part III

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: This is a four-part prequel to “Dustland Fairytale.” There is no Javier Pena x Reader in this fic; it is strictly a Carrillo x Reader fic. You’re a CIA informant that is trying to build the trust between the newly formed Search Bloc and the CIA/DEA. You just never imagined that falling in love with Colonel Horacio Carrillo was going to be part of the deal.

Warnings: Oh boy, lots of warnings. First 18+ only, DNI. If it was in Narcos, it will most likely be mentioned in here: gun violence, mentions of rape (what happened to Helena), characters dying, grief. Also, Carrillo is married so the relationship between him and the reader is an extramarital affair.

Tag List: @the-ginger-hedge-witch @vanemando15 @1950schick @bellestalesoffiction @frannyzooey @littleone65 @harriedandharassed

“These violent delights have violent ends. And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume.”

“Profe, ¿qué significa eso?” (Teacher, what does that even mean?)

You sigh. “Significa que las emociones extremas, particularmente las que causan un comportamiento precipitado, pueden arruinar tu vida. Que esas decisiones son combustibles y destructivas.” (It means that extreme emotion, particularly ones that cause rash behavior, can ruin your life. That those decisions are combustible and destructive.)

“¿Como una cerilla y pólvora?” (Like a match and gunpowder?)

“Precisamente.” (Precisely.)

The bell rings and the students pack up their bags, stack the worn copies of Romeo and Juliet on the back shelf before leaving the room to start their weekend. You sit down at your desk and grab your coffee. It’s cold by now but the caffeine is needed. You’ve been up most nights this week listening to wiretaps and reviewing reports. Escobar is on the run. Police officers are being killed daily. It’s been absolute fucking chaos.

Damn Shakespeare. Whenever a student asks why they need to study Shakespeare, in Colombia nonetheless, you always have an answer ready for them: Shakespeare is known worldwide. His plays are timeless because the themes still apply to today. We can learn from the mistakes of his characters. And as you stare down at those words, you feel like Shakespeare is laughing at you from beyond the grave.

Violent delights do indeed have violent ends.

This is the lesson you have learned the hard way in the last eight months. The CIA transferred you from Bogotá to Medellín. The timing is more than suspicious. Horacio gets reassigned to Madrid and two weeks later, you’re moving into a Medellín barrio. You quickly come to find out, it’s not the worst move. Trujillo lives a few blocks away and frequently checks on you, to the point that his mother has taken pity on you and your kitchen skills. She makes extra food for dinner and passes it off to you but you must attend cooking classes with her on Sunday. Your empanadas are coming along nicely though.

Horacio’s successor, Colonel Augusto Pinzon, is a stubborn, arrogant man with a strong distaste for Americans. You’ve tried setting up a couple meetings with him to pass along intel and you have yet to officially meet him. He either doesn’t show or sends someone else to pick up the intel. This isn’t working and when you report that to Stechner, he tells you that Pinzon is freezing out the DEA as well and not to take it personally. But how can you not when more and more police are killed daily and your intel could save some of them? So after dinner one Sunday, you offer to clean up dishes and enlist Trujillo’s help so you can talk business without the family overhearing. He catches on immediately to the purpose for both of you to be in the narrow kitchen.

“Speak in English,” he tells you. “They won’t be able to keep up if they’re eavesdropping.”

You fill up the sink with soapy water and grab a dishrag. “Pinzon won’t work with me, at all.”

He frowns. “I know. He won’t work with Peña or Murphy either. At least, he’s not being helpful. They keep asking for men to help with raids and he won’t let us go.”

“He has to know we’re all working towards the same goal? The sooner we get Escobar behind bars, the sooner the massacres will stop.” You rinse a couple plates and hand them to him to dry. “How many friends have you lost?”

“Too many.”

“What if I gave you the intel and you gave it to Pinzon? Don’t tell him it came from me.”

“And if he asks where I got it from?”

“Will he ask that?”

Trujillo stacks the plates in the cupboard. “He may. He’s under the idea that the Americans are going to take all the credit for Escobar’s capture. Anything that might be helpful, he wants to make sure it’s the Colombian army that gets the credit.”

“My God, that is not how you win a war.” It’s how you lose one but you don’t want to voice that thought aloud. “Well, tell him a local gave you the intel. Tell him a horse gave it to you, I don’t care what you tell him, just get him the information. We have to stop the bleeding somehow.”

“I’ll pass along anything and everything you give me.” He sighs. “That’s all we can do right now.”

You wash a few more dishes before asking another question that has been weighing on your mind. “Have you heard from him at all?”

Trujillo shakes his head. “No, not at all. They’re probably monitoring his calls from Spain. Making sure he stays out of what’s happening here.”

“This is all my fault.” You grind your teeth together to keep from saying anything else. You hadn’t meant to say that but Trujillo’s hand comes down on your shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“You were the best thing to happen for him. For all of us.”

“But they sent him away because-”

“Because he was being effective. Your intel, his methods, the DEA’s investigations, and the army’s force scared all the right people. Unfortunately, those people were in positions to separate everyone that could bring down the Medellín cartel. They’re more scared of them than us.”

“‘“When you fear a foe, fear crushes your strength; and this weakness gives strength to your opponents.’”

“Is that from one of your books?”

“Shakespeare, yeah.” You finish the last of the dishes and drain the water out of the sink. “We’re going to have to work around Pinzon. Will the DEA agents work with you?”

“They will. They’re just as frustrated as we are.”

“Then let’s use that frustration to our advantage. Pinzon won’t be able to withstand the pressures, especially if he keeps shutting everyone out. It’s going to cause division in the Search Bloc though.”

Trujillo leans back on the counter. “Will it get him out of the position?”

“His men divided, choosing to follow the gringos over him, to catch Escobar? Oh, it shouldn’t take long for the pressure to get to him. His ego is too fragile.”

“Okay, that’s what we’ll do.” He nods, and looks out the window. “If Carrillo were still here, Escobar would leave Columbia. He wouldn’t risk being found by Search Bloc. He knows what we did to Gustavo was just a promise of what we would do to him. We need Carrillo back.”

You agree, whole-heartedly. It’s not just the physical interactions you miss, although you would do just about anything to feel his hands on you again, but it’s the partnership you both had. You spent hours listening to wiretaps, taking notes, playing chess during the quieter places in the tapes. His mind was constantly planning, scrutinizing, picking information apart and choosing which parts were useful and then plugging them into his strategy. It was no wonder the generals were afraid of him and sent him out of the country.

“I agree,” you say quietly. “But it’s going to take something large scale to scare President Gaviria into bringing him back.” And you certainly didn’t want to bear witness to whatever travesty that was going to be.

***

It didn’t take long for Pinzon to realize some of the intel that was being handed to him was coming from a CIA informant. It caused a greater rift between his officers, like Trujillo, and the DEA. More officers were being killed on the streets of Medellín and you are almost at your breaking point. Last night, you had been drunk, missing Horacio, livid at Pinzon’s incompetence, and ended up calling Stechner.

“I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.”

He sighed, like he was dealing with a five year old having a tantrum. “Suck it up, sweetheart. This is part of the job.”

“I’m useless here. Pinzon won’t-”

“You don’t worry about Pinzon. Pinzon’s going to wear himself out. You keep passing intel.”

“To who? No one that can do a fucking thing is getting it!”

“That’s not your job. Keep the intel flowing.”

“Even if it’s going nowhere?”

“Now you’re getting it. Look, your job is simple: teach, listen, and report. That’s it. Carrillo somehow convinced you that you were a soldier in this war and that’s not true. You are a civilian with sharp ears. That’s it. You’re sad? Frustrated? Sick of the violence? Do what we all do, get drunk, get fucked and get over it. Find yourself another officer and get under him. And if that doesn’t work, I don’t know. Change your fucking hairstyle.”

You hung up on him. But he didn’t call you back so you assume since he didn’t get your resignation by the next morning, you decided to keep going. And you had. Despite the raging hangover, you go into the classroom and continue to teach the tragedy of two teenagers who thought they were invincible only to be faced with the crashing reality that they were just as insignificant as everyone else. Death came for them, as it does for everyone. That’s why, when you drag yourself home and see Trujillo sitting on the stairs leading up to your apartment, your stomach drops. Who is dead now? And how many of them this time?

“Hola, Profesora.” (Hello, Teacher.)

“Hola, oficial. ¿A qué debo esta visita?” (Hello, Officer. To what do I owe this visit?)

“Tengo una sorpresa para ti.” (I have a surprise for you.)

You stop a couple stairs away from where he’s standing. This is new. “¿Qué?” (What?)

The briefest of smiles tugs at the corner of his mouth before he climbs the few stairs up to your door. You watch as he pulls out a key and unlocks the door.

“Uh, why do you have a key to my apartment?”

He shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, I’m going to worry about this.”

He grins over his shoulder at you. “Not for long, you won’t,” he says as he opens the door and steps inside.

You follow him over the threshold and into your living room, convinced you’re dreaming. There is no way, no reason, for Horacio Carrillo to be standing in the middle of the room. Trujillo hands him the key and turns to leave, pinching your arm as he passes by you.

“Di algo, hermana.” (Say something, sister.)

You try, you really do, but your mind is still trying to process how he is real and standing before you. You hear the door close as Trujillo leaves and it startles you out of your shock. “You’re really here?”

“I am,” he smiles at you but doesn’t move any closer. “¿Estás bien?” (Are you well?)

“Yes. I, uh, I am. And you?”

“Soy bueno.” (I’m good.)

You’re afraid to move, fearing that if you do, he’ll disappear. But standing still is starting to get awkward. Not to mention the shock of seeing him is starting to wear off and the pounding behind your eyeballs from your hangover is starting to come back. “Do you want a drink?”

He nods. “Sure.”

You force your feet to move and go into the kitchen. You still have a bottle of aguardiente in your cabinet and pour two tumblers of it. He follows you into the narrow space and he’s so close to you now that it makes it hard to breathe. “How’s, uh, how’s your wife and kids?”

“Good,” he answers, taking a sip of the drink. “They’re still in Madrid.”

And he’s wearing his wedding ring which means they’ll be coming back to Colombia. “For how long?”

“Until we catch Escobar.”

You almost choke on your drink. “That could take months.”

“It could.” He leans against the refrigerator. “So you live in Medellín now.”

“Yeah, they moved me here shortly after…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the question. After you left.

He hums in acknowledgement and knocks back the alcohol in one go. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“No, I’m not.”

His mouth is on yours before you realize he’s moved. His hands pull you tight against him, still solid muscle from head to toe, and hold you against his chest. His tongue invades your mouth and you welcome it as your hands relearn the feel of his hair against your fingers. Having him against you after months of being apart is like the moment when a thunderstorm finally breaks and the heavy humidity dissipates, leaving the air cool and fresh. The sadness at his departure has broken and the relief of his presence brings fresh hope.

You know you’ve missed him, but the sharp sting of tears behind your eyes tells you the emotion went deeper than that. You grieved him, the loss of the relationship. Somewhere between you throwing up in a dumpster to saying goodbye to him when he left for Madrid, you had grown from partners, to friends, to lovers. The progress had been so incredibly smooth, he had just become an extension of you. His absence had been that of a missing limb, at times you could still feel him there only to realize he was gone. But he has returned and you wonder now how long it will take for you two to regain that lost ground of your relationship.

He backs you up to the small kitchen table and lifts you up onto it like you weigh nothing. Your legs automatically wrap around his waist and pull him closer to you. This is familiar. The tang of cologne and cigarettes, the feel of his muscles under your hands. His mouth slides from yours and ascends up your neck with a mixture of licks and nips. He reaches your ear and gently closes his teeth around the cartilage as he whispers to you.

“Te he extrañado mucho, mi amor.” (I’ve missed you so much, my love.)

“Yo también te he extrañado. Sueño contigo a menudo.” (I’ve missed you too. I dream of you often.)

His hands are everywhere, trying to get under the neckline of your dress or under the skirt, desperately seeking out any skin he can find. “¿Y tú con qué sueñas?” (And what do you dream of?)

You tug his shirt loose and slip your hands under the fabric and over the skin of his back with a contented sigh. “Este. Estás volviendo a mí.” (This. You coming back to me.)

“Estoy aquí, Mariposa.” (I’m here, Butterfly.)

You have so many questions for him. How long is he here for? Why is he here? What happened to bring him back? But all those questions can wait. You grab his belt buckle and undo it while his hands slide under your skirt and pull your panties down your legs, dropping them to the floor. Your hand wraps around him and he’s already hard and solid in your palm. His head drops to your shoulder with a groan as two of his fingers slide into you with ease.

“So wet for me, querida.”

You wrap your hand around his length and stroke him a couple times, forcing your mouth to work. “I told you I missed you. Seems like you missed me too.”

He lifts his head and pushes your skirt out of the way as you line him up to your entrance. He takes his time to slowly sink into you and you both breathe sighs of relief when he’s fully inside. His mouth finds yours again and the kisses are sloppy but full of barely contained joy at the reunification. He palms your breasts through your clothes and you grab fistfuls of his cotton dress shirt, looking for something to hold on to as he starts to move.

It doesn’t take long for his thrusts to quicken and have more power behind them. The desperation is evident in every snap of his hips. It gets harder for you to hold on to him, so you lay back on the table, reaching behind you to grab the edge. His hands are on your hips, pulling you towards him as he relentlessly pounds into you. Your thighs are trembling from gripping his waist but you feel that low warmth in your stomach starting to blossom. Your grip on the table allows you to push against him with each thrust. You’re both chasing your ends now and the force he’s using makes you grit your teeth to keep them from gnashing together. “I’m going to-”

“Me too,” he grits out.

He removes one of his hands from your hip, his thumb immediately finding your clit and slowly rubbing it. You back arches off the wooden table as your orgasm rips through your body. Horacio lets loose a string of profanity in Spanish as he comes just as violently. He falls forward, covering your body with his own, panting against your neck.

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close, so when he does straighten up, he takes you with him. You stay tucked under his chin, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne. You’re both damp from both your activity but also the humidity in the air. You don’t care though. His pulse beats against your temple, his heart under your palm. His hand spans the breadth of your ribcage and his other is in your hair, his fingers gently massaging your scalp. It’s as if neither one of you can get close enough to the other.

“I thought about you everyday,” you whisper.

“I did the same.” He presses his lips against your forehead. “Te amo, querida.”

“Te amo, Horacio.” It feels so good to say those words again.

He kisses your cheek before pulling away and you both take a few minutes to clean up and resituate your rumpled clothing. You refill the glasses and sit on the couch. You try to remain professional, or at least adult-like, but he pulls you closer to him until your head is resting on his shoulder and his hand, as always, lays on your side. You enjoy a few moments of quiet, of peace, before asking questions about the war zone outside in the streets.

“So Gaviria brought you back to catch Escobar?” you ask.

“Yes. He had to when Pinzon resigned.”

“Wait, what?!” You sit up straight so you look him in the eye. “Pinzon resigned?!”

“Yesterday morning.” He gives you a shit-eating grin. “What? You didn’t know that?”

“No! How did I…why didn’t…” you’re stunned. “Trujillo…”

“Was told to keep it a secret. I only got wind of it two days ago. Pinzon was showing signs of cracking. He was cleaning out files, stashing evidence, and stopped communicating with the unit. Added to the continued attacks on the police, the body count was getting too high to justify. So Gaviria called me and said he wanted me to replace Pinzon when the official resignation came through. Apparently it did yesterday morning.”

“This is awfully big news to keep quiet.”

“We had to,” he pulls out a cigarette and lights it up. “If Pablo got wind of Search Bloc not having a commander for 36 hours, he would have blown the headquarters to smithereens.”

So that answers another question of yours. “So you report tomorrow morning?”

“I do.”

He’s quiet for a moment, studying your face. You know he’s already strategizing for something. “What are you planning now?”

He sighs, releasing a long stream of smoke. “People know me here, much more than they did in Bogotá.”

You take the cigarette from him and take a drawl before handing it back. “We’re going to have to be more discreet. That’s why Trujillo gave you a key.”

“Yes. So now that you know I can let myself in when it’s safe.” He winks at you. “Don’t confuse me for an intruder and shoot me.”

“Head of the Search Bloc gunned down by teacher in barrio apartment. Not exactly a glorious end to your career.”

“No, not at all.” He leans down and kisses you briefly. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

You smile up at him and return the kiss. “I think I do.”

***

Coronel Carrillo’s return certainly put a buzz around the school. Every corner you turned, students and staff alike were talking about it. The feelings seemed to be pretty fairly split down the middle. Half were happy to see his return, certain that he would bring Pablo Escobar to justice. Half were scared that they or their families were going to get caught in the crossfire during the manhunt.

“¿Profe?” (Teacher?)

“Sí.” (Yes.)

“¿Se enteró de lo que pasó ayer en el Barrio Escobar?” (Did you hear about what happened in Barrio Escobar yesterday?)

You did actually, from Horacio himself and a grinning Trujillo. You had to admit, arriving with a hundred police officers and then urinating on the mural did, in fact, get a very clear message across. But you school your face to remain neutral in light of the question. “Sí, lo hice.” (Yes, I did.)

The teenage boy, Diego, shrugs. “¿Entonces, qué piensas?” (So, what do you think?)

It’s a trap, pure and simple. He’s been one that you’ve had an eye on for the last few weeks. He doesn’t say much, keeps to himself, but you watch his reactions to the students around him. He’s recruiting, shifting through those he can pull into whatever gang he’s creating. And now, he’s testing you as only a sixteen year old can: a public challenge in front of his peers and all eyes are on you. Luckily, this isn’t your first rodeo.

“Creo que el Coronel Carrillo tiene una sólida comprensión del simbolismo. Tal vez debería hacer que viniera y enseñara Romeo y Julieta.” (I think Colonel Carrillo has a solid understanding of symbolism. Maybe I should have him come in and teach Romeo and Juliet.)

Most of the class laughs at your comment but there are a few who don’t. You make a mental note to record those names. “Bien, guarda los eventos actuales para estudios sociales. Volvamos a nuestros adolescentes enamorados.” (Okay, let’s save the current events for social studies. Let’s get back to our love sick teenagers.)

The day carries on as normal after that until the last class of the day. You’re helping a student find a line in the play so they can reference it in the paper they’re writing on the theme when you return to your desk with a small note half-way hidden under your well-worn copy of the play. You lift up the book to read the note.

No bebas tu agua. (Don’t drink your water.)

So you don’t. You carry on with the rest of class and wait till all the students leave. You pick up the bottle, with the note, and carry both down to the office, asking to speak to the principal. Of course, the principal is about as helpful as Pinzon, given that you’re new to the school, an American, and a woman. It is the unholy trifecta. Thankfully, the secretary takes pity on you and calls the police directly. Slipping her five hundred pesos also helps get the call made. You sit in the office and wait for someone to show up, having to hide your relief when Trujillo walks into the office.

The principal of course comes out and tells Trujillo nothing is wrong, just a scared American having a prank pulled on them. However, Trujillo takes the bottle and says that he’s going to check it out just in case the prank happens to be more sinister and asks you to join him outside to fill out a report. You follow him out to the car and see Horacio sitting in the front seat.

“I’m honored you showed up in person,” you say, leaning on the open window.

“A teacher being threatened by students, that’s a big offense.”

“Possible threat,” you correct.

Trujillo sets the bottle down and opens the lid. Horacio gets out of the car and picks up a water bottle from the car, moving you out of the way. When he spills some water over your bottle, the entire thing fizzes and erupts, all three of you jumping out of the way of the liquid.

“Holy shit,” you mutter.

“Sulfuric acid most likely,” Horacio says. “Probably grabbed it from the chemistry lab.”

“That would have fucking killed me if I drank it!”

Horacio is staring down at the still fizzing acid, his jaw clenched. You know he’s once again trying to figure out the best way to handle this. “¿Como esta el director?” (How’s the principal?)

Trujillo frowns. “No se preocupa. Dijo que solo era una estadounidense asustada.” (Not concerned. Said she was just a scared American.)

“Supongo que le haré saber que tiene motivos para estarlo. Trujillo, ve a buscar sus cosas de su cuarto y luego llévala a mi casa, aunque por la parte de atrás.” (I guess I’ll let him know she has reason to be. Trujillo, go grab her things from her room and then take her to my house, through the back though.)

You tell Trujillo your room number and that you just need your purse. Horacio opens the passenger side door of the police Jeep, which you eye warily. “You sure this is wise?”

“What?”

“Taking me to your house?”

“Think of it as protective custody until we figure out why they targeted you. Is it because you’re their teacher or do they know something more?”

You’re still leaning on the side of the vehicle. “So you would do this for any teacher that receives a threat like this?”

“Any teacher that’s also a CI, yes.”

He means it too. You don’t need to see his eyes, which are hidden behind the reflective aviators at the moment. It’s the muscles around his mouth that betray him and they haven’t so much as twitched. You climb into the car and he shuts the door. “There are a couple students you may want to track down. I have their names in a notebook in my purse.”

“What happened?” He’s now leaning on the open window.

“They asked me if I knew what happened the other day in the barrio. I told them yes and that you seemed to understand the power of symbolism. There were a couple kids who didn’t appreciate the joke.”

“We’ll start with them,” he nods. “Spotters are becoming a big issue right now. A lot of sicarios are using local kids to act as spies for the cartel. They’re using a fairly extensive radio system to report police movement around Medellín. He could be one of them. Name?”

You nod. “Diego Juarez. And that sounds like something he might be involved in. He’s been paying very close attention to his peers and their reactions to news that involves the cartel. He’s the one that asked me today if I knew what happened.”

“I’ll get your rosters from the Principal. You call Stechner from my house, let him know what happened. I’ll see if Peña or Murphy can help with interviewing the kids.”

Trujillo comes out of the school with your bag in his hand and immediately gets into the driver’s seat. You pull out your notebook and tear the page out with the student’s names from earlier in the day and hand it to Horacio. He looks at it and puts it into his pocket. He points to the phone and you hand it to him. He walks away from the car for a couple minutes while he speaks to someone before bringing the phone back.

“Murphy is coming to help go through the rosters. I’ll ride back to Search Bloc with him.”

Trujillo leans forward in his seat. “¿Quieres que vuelva?” (Do you want me to come back?)

Horacio shakes his head. “No. Quédate con ella hasta que yo llegue.” (No. Stay with her until I get there.)

You give him a cheeky grin. “¿Tiene miedo de robar cosas, Coronel?” (Afraid I’m going to steal stuff, Colonel?)

He gives you a pseudo-irritated look. “Bueno, ahora lo soy.” (Well, now I am.)

“Supongo que tendrás que cachearme cuando llegues a casa.” (Guess you’re just going to have to frisk me when you get home.)

Trujillo groans. “Ustedes dos son los peores.” (You two are the worst.)

You watch the slightest of smiles twitch at the corner of Horacio’s mouth. He taps the car twice and Trujillo drives off. The trip to Horacio’s house takes almost fifteen minutes and it’s in a nicer section of Medellín but certainly not fancy. Trujillo parks the car in the alley behind the home and radios to the officer stationed at the front before you get out of the car to alert him that there’s going to be approved movement in the house. You follow Trujillo through the back gate and into a small, well-manicured yard. He takes out a set of keys and unlocks the backdoor.

“You just have a key to all of our homes, don’t you?”

He smiles. “The price of being a secret keeper.”

“Thank you, for that,” you say sincerely.

He nods in acknowledgement and opens the door for you. It leads directly into a well lit kitchen that is gleaming white tile and cabinets. It’s absolutely spotless which doesn’t surprise you in the least but it’s still something to behold.

“¿Alguna vez has estado aquí?” (Have you ever been here?)

“No.”

“Anda, mira a tu alrededor. Voy a ver si tiene comida.” (Go, look around. I’ll see if he has any food.)

You open a swinging door that leads into a dining area and then into a front formal living room. The curtains are all pulled tight so no one can see into the house. You wander past the front door and into a more casual living area with a den connected to it. The den looks more like Horacio: leather bound books, maps laid out on the desk, and a tape player with headphones.

Trujillo comes to stand next to you and hands you a beer. “¿Ver? No eres el único que trae obras a casa.” (See? You’re not the only one who brings work home.)

You take the beer. “Is this why you have our keys? You break in and drink our booze?”

He smiles at you. “It’s not breaking in if you have a key.”

***

It’s almost midnight by the time Horacio arrives home. He and Murphy had spent most of the evening talking to students and their families. You were right to be suspicious of Diego; he threw off all kinds of warning signs, as did his parents. But by the time he finishes the interviews, compares notes with Murphy, files reports, and picks up some of your belongings from your apartment, it’s much later than he thought. When he walks through the door, Trujillo is watching the news on the television from one of the armchairs while you are sound asleep on the couch.

He nods to Trujillo as he drops your bag at the foot of the stairs and goes into the kitchen, Trujillo following him.

“¿Como es ella?” Horacio asks, pouring a hefty amount of aguardiente into a glass. (How is she?)

“Asustado. Más de lo que deja ver.” (Scared. More than she lets on.)

“Ella tiene una buena razón. Diego Juárez es uno de nuestros observadores, si no uno de los líderes. Estoy seguro de ello.” (She has good reason. Diego Juárez is one of our spotters, if not one of the leaders. I’m certain of it.)

Trujillo nods. “¿Tenemos un plan para comenzar a rastrear a los observadores?” (Do we have a plan to start tracking the spotters?)

Horacio yawns and rubs a hand over his face. “Estoy trabajando en uno. Peña y Murphy van a estar mañana en Search Bloc. Lo discutiremos juntos.” (I’m working on one. Pena and Murphy are going to be at Search Bloc tomorrow. We’ll discuss it together.)

“Bueno. Duerma un poco, Coronel.” (Okay. Get some sleep, Colonel.)

“Tú también, hermano.” (You too, brother.)

Trujillo leaves out the back door and Horacio locks it behind him. He pours another glass of alcohol before going back to the living room. You’re still sound asleep on the couch, covered with a cotton blanket, the tv the only light in the room. He decides to leave you there for now, grabs your bag and heads upstairs. He goes into his bedroom and sees your clothes from the day neatly folded and stacked on the chair in the corner so he sets your bag down there. When he grabs clean clothes to change into, he notices one of his t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants are missing.

His shower is quick and he tries to solidify the plan for later on today. They’ll send out a few cars at night. It’ll be Saturday night and most of the spotters will be out on the streets with their friends. They’ll use unmarked cars, four men in each. They’ll hit the areas on the map where Jacoby, the intel specialist assigned to Search Bloc, had marked off where the transmissions appeared to be coming when they did the run to Barrio Escobar. They’ll gather as many of them up as possible, put the fear of God in them, and send them back home to tell their friends to stay out of the drug war for as long as they can. He towels off and pulls on a clean t-shirt and a pair of boxers before going back downstairs.

You’re still sound asleep, curled on your side, hands tucked under your cheek. He turns the hallway light on so there’s some light after he turns off the television. He’s not that stupid to wake you up in a pitch black room, just his form looming over you. So he bends down and runs his fingers across your check, brushing back strands of hair that have fallen across your face.

“Mariposita?”

You huff indignantly and furrows appear in your forehead. Have you always looked this young? Or is he just getting too old to be fighting this war? He gently pulls back the blanket and folds it. Sure enough, your frame is swimming in one of his shirts and sweatpants. He takes both of your arms, sitting you upright, so he can scoop you up bridal style and carry you to bed. By the time he’s made it to the foot of the stairs, you’re starting to come out of your sleep.

“‘Ratio?”

“Yes?”

That must have been enough of an answer as you lay your head against his collarbone and drape your arms over his shoulders. He lays you down on the bed and pulls the sheet and blankets over you. Your eyes open, blinking slowly as a smile creeps across your face. He sits down on the side of the bed and holds the side of your face in his hand.

“Am I dreaming?” you ask so sweetly.

“No.” But he wonders if he is at the moment. Seeing you in his clothes, laying in his bed makes him dizzy and he doesn’t know why. Maybe it has something to do with this being the only time you have ever truly looked like you belonged to him, that you fit into his life. Whenever you had taken up the same space in public, you had to act like you didn’t know each other. The only time you could indulge in your relationship was behind closed doors: your apartment in Bogotá and now here in Medellín, his temporary office in Bogotá, the backseat of the Jeep, and that one time in your classroom. You were always something to keep hidden, tucked away and discreet.

Then Trujillo had figured out what was going on between the two of you. It had been shortly after Diana Turbay’s death, another late night in the office filing reports when Trujillo came in and shut the door. The conversation had been short and straight to the point as it typically is between the two of them.

“Have you heard from Mariposa?” Trujillo had asked, speaking in English to help cut down on the eavesdropping if there happened to be any.

He kept his eyes on the file in front of him. “No.”

“You should see her.”

“Why is that?” He did look up at that point to Trujillo shift ever so slightly on his feet.

“Because…”

He leans back in the leather chair and folds his hands. “Because?”

“You’re calmer after you see her.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“She brings you peace. And quite frankly, we could all use some of that right now.”

He considered that for a moment and decided there was some truth to it. You do bring him a peace that no one else seemed to be able to provide. “How many people know?”

Trujillo’s head tilts slightly to the side. “That you have a CI or that you’re having an affair with her?”

“The affair.”

“No one, just rumor and not well grounded at that.”

He believes the gringos call it “locker room talk.” That’s fine. “And I trust you will keep this a secret?”

Trujillo actually looked slightly offended. “Of course, Colonel.”

“If anything happens to me, you look out for her.”

The indignation was gone, replaced by solemness. “Of course, Colonel.”

And Trujillo continues to be the only one of his men he trusts implicitly with this beautiful secret.

Peace. You certainly brought him solace that night and many more to come. God, how he had missed you in Madrid though. Nightmares still plagued his dreams and dried up the words on his tongue when he tried to talk about them with Juliana. So he started writing letters to you, saying the things he couldn’t to his wife. He poured out his guilt, grief, and desire on those pages. He brought the letters with him to Colombia and they’re now sitting in a wooden box on the top of the bookcase in the den. He’ll need to burn them before his family returns to Colombia.

“Horacio.”

“Sí, mi amor?”

You wind your arms around his neck and pull him down towards you, pressing your lips to his. Your hands slid through his hair, fingernails scraping at his scalp. When he emits a startled gasp, you take advantage and slip your tongue between his lips. Sleep is now the farthest thing from his mind and judging by the strength of your grip, it’s the farthest thing from your mind too. He slips out of your embrace and pulls his shirt over his head, letting it land somewhere by the dresser. His boxers are the next thing to go as you sit up and disrobe yourself. As soon as you kick off the borrowed sweatpants, you open the sheets for him to join you.

He feels the cool cotton of sheets land on his lower back as he braces himself over you. Your hair is spread out on the pillow like a halo, your cheeks tinged with the heat of arousal, your eyes taking in every little detail of his face. He is still left wondering if this is a dream given how many times he had desperately wished for you to fill this side of the bed. For him, in the comfort and familiarity of his own home, being able to turn over and see you asleep beside him is a fantasy fulfilled. Or, like now, awake and under him.

His mouth descends to the spot where your shoulder meets your neck, his teeth scraping against the muscle. Your back arches, pressing your breasts against his chest and lowers himself down on top of you. Your legs part to make room for him and he easily slides into you, swallowing the moan you make with a kiss. Despite the raging emotion that he’s feeling, he takes his time, trying to draw out the lovemaking since he doesn’t know when he can get you in his bed again. That’s when he realizes three things in very short succession.

One, this is not fucking, this is not sex. This is making love in the purest form. The slow but steady push and pull of your bodies, his intrusion and your willing acceptance, the shared air as you both pant against each other’s face. This union feels more sacred than a marriage vow, which reminds him of the second realization.

Two, before his shower he removed his wedding ring and he never put it back on. This is not a new occurrence, as he often forgets to put it back on. Usually Julianna finds it as she prepares for bed and hands it to him with a mild scolding look. But when his left hand skims down your side, the smooth gold circle doesn’t catch in your ribs. It doesn’t trace over your skin like a constant reminder that you don’t belong to him. He’s able to lay his left hand completely flush with whatever plane of your body he chooses to touch. And he’s not that inclined to put it back on even after the act is completed.

Three, you truly are his now and he is yours. Your legs wrap around his waist, trying to pull him deeper. Your mouth seeks out his in an effort to keep your sighs, pleas, and curses from being heard by the neighbors. When you come, you bite down on the sinew on his shoulder to keep from screaming out and he has to bury his face into the pillow as the sting from your teeth push him over the edge and he comes hard and hot inside of you. Still trying to catch his breath, he starts to pull away from you but you hold him tight against you.

“Not yet,” you whisper.

“I’m not crushing you.”

You hum. “It feels good.”

He turns his head and kisses your flushed cheek. “You feel good.”

Your hands trace unseen patterns on his back. “That was…”

He props himself up on an elbow to stare down at you. “Fantastic?”

“Yes, fantastic,” you laugh. “But, it was also different.”

You were always astute. In the classroom, on the job, and even in bed. You had noticed the shift between the two of you and he wonders if you’ve had a realization of your own: that this is where you belong. By his side, on the field and at home. Partners in every sense of the word. You had asked him that rainy afternoon in the police Jeep if he was looking for a new wife and he had said no and he meant it. At that time. Now, knowing what it’s like to have someone who understands every part of you, even the darker parts, how could he not wish to carry out the rest of his career and life with you? He kisses the tip of your nose before throwing the sheets back so he can get up and get a washcloth to clean you both.

“Must just be the mattress,” he comments with a wink.

You hum your amusement and draw your knees up to your chin and hug your legs closer to you in a half attempt to be modest despite the sheen of perspiration clinging to your skin and the soiled sheets beneath you. You’re the picture of perfection to him and he swears that he will do whatever it takes to keep you safe.

#colonel horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo x you #horacio carrillo fic #narcos fic #Mariposa Series #hinky writes

17 notes · View notes