#lua's masterlist

[fanfiction4sooya]

Masterlist

Hi guys! Just a quick introduction: I'm Lua, 27 brazilian woman who loves to write. This blog is for kpop girl groups and gg's only. I write for fun and for fun only, so I don't like angst and will probably write it only under request (and I can say no if it makes me uncomfortable bc I'm really bad at it).

I try to be as polite and gentle as a human possibly can, but I can and will set boundaries (and be mean) if I have to. (Some people tend to go crazy since they are anonymous)

Mainly a NSFw blog focused on Sub F!R x Dom Idol and Idol x Idol; but feel free to request Dom Fem!R :) I write imagines, thoughts, MTL, polygamous relationships (3 people only) and honestly a lot of other stuff, just check with me on my ask box and I'll let you know!!

I only write smut for girls with legal age/people I'm comfortable writing for;

If I see spam in my ask box I won't respond and probably will delete it, I definitely do not to want to bring any negative attention towards anyone, nor shame anyone.

I don't write about any disorders at all.

Do NOT call me mommy under any circumstances, I'll be rude to you if you do.

Please be kind to each other! 💖

My favorite groups are:

BP, Dreamcatcher, Itzy (Top 3). Twice (For the n*zi shirt incident I chose to NOT write for Chaeyoung, no hate for her or those who write for her), Red velvet, IVE, Loona, WJSN, New Jeans (But I don't write for them), Le Sserafim, XG, G- Idle, aespa, SNSD and VIVIZ

Soloists: Yena, Bibi, Eunbi, BoA, Sunmi, CL, Chungha, Soojin

Dancers: NoZe, Lee Jung.

So here are the links for what I write. Fics are blue, imagines are pink, asks and requests are red!

BlackPink:

Crazy over you - Jisoo x Fem! Reader

Dom! Jennie x bimbo reader

Dreamcatcher:

Office game - Handong x Yoohyeon

Happy Su-A day!

Itzy:

Annoyingly you (A! Chaeryeong/ O!Lia)

Hot wife Chaeryeong

BFF's Yeji and Chaeryeong

Power Bottom Chaeryeong

Soft love making with Chaeryeong

Pervy neighbor chaeryeong

No rush (Yeji x F!R)

Le Sserafim:

Make me yours (Sakura X Yunjin)

Can't save you now (Sakura x Chaewon x Kazuha)

Speak up (Dom Kazuha x F!Sub reader)

Lakers Yunjin fucking you

Sloppy head with Yunjin

Puppy needs (Hybrid Yunjin x F!Reader)

Dog hybrid yunjin claiming you

Just a quick lesson (Yunjin x F!Reader)

Twice:

Fire & Gasoline (A! Jihyo x O! Reader)

Pretty Pet (Sana x F! Reader)

Mornings with you (G!P Momo x F!Reader)

G!P Mina x F! Reader

Jealous Step mommy Sana (G!P)

MILF Sana x Maid F! Reader

Fisting with Step mom! Sana

G!P Doctor Sana x F! Reader

Rewarding Idol!Jihyo

Cockwarming w/ Jihyo

Masc! Jihyo

Possessive G!P Momo

Deep throat w/ G!P Mina

Sana x miyeon

GF Jeongyeon

Brat tamers Jeong and Sana

Loophole (sub nayeon x sub reader)

Sana overstimulating you

Twice as hybrids (g!p)

Jeongyeon bottoming for you

On edge (sana x F! Reader)

Cry for me (Dahyun x F! Reader)

Forbidden dream (G!p Nayeon x Fem! Reader)

G!p jeongyeon making you cum

Momo x chubby Fem! Reader

IVE:

Double Trouble (G!P Yujin x F!Reader x G!P Gaeul)

Rough G!P Yujin x innocent F!Reader

Yujin degrading F!Reader

Nerdy student Yujin

Cockwarming Yujin

G!P Gaeul w/ innocent tutor F!Reader

Birthday Sex w/ Wonyoung

Wonyoung x Bratty F!Reader

Riding hung Gauel

Wolf hybrid Yujin

My dream girl (Wonyoung x Liz) - Fluff

Possessive hybrid wonyoung

Loser yujin giving you head (G!P)

G-Idle:

A little relief (Shuhua x Miyeon)

Miyeon x Yuqi

Miyeon with a breeding kink

Somnophilia & Mimin

Thoughts on mafia boss Miyeon

Red Velvet:

Addictive (Wendy x F!Reader)

Possessive mommy Irene

Loyal dog (Sub A! Seulgi x Dom O! Reader)

Cult leaders RV fucking you

Alpha Seulgi helping on your first heat

Dirty thoughts about Irene

Joy + innocence kink

Aespa:

Mommy Karina

The closest to her (G!P Winter x F!R)

Gamer winter neglecting you

Dirty thoughts about ningning

Somnophilia with puppy minjeong

Call her now (Karina x Fem!R)

SNSD:

Let me help (Tiffany x F!Reader)

Fox hybrid yuri

Possessive alpha Tiffany

How big is alpha Bada/ Tiffany

Jessica Jung and F! R first time

Tiffany with younger gf

Somno w/ Tiffany on her birthday

WJSN:

Use me please (Exy x Dayoung)

XG:

Pillow princess Harvey

Loona: -

I'll be your sweet dream (Heejin X F!Reader)

Camgirl! yeojin

Thoughts on G!P Kim Lip

VIVIZ: -

KISS OF LIFE:

Kitty cat (Hybrid Julie x F!Reader)

SOLOISTS:

Yena:

Married Reader x Yena

Car sex w/ Yena

Eunbi:

Bitter (Eunbi x F! Reader)

BIBI:

Touchy BIBI

BoA:

Dom coded BoA

Sunmi:

CL:

Chungha:

Soojin:

DANCERS:

Bada Lee: NOT TAKING REQUESTS

Sly fox, dumb bunny (G!P Bada x F!Reader)

Alpha Bada

How big is alpha Bada/ Tiffany

Alpha Bada in rut

NoZe:

Making out with NoZe

Lee Jung:

Hard dom Lee Jung

[lua-stellar]

Masterlist ✨🍄

🧿hello i'm lua-stellar aka nico i hope u enjoy my blogg and my timeless pacs (most of them are timeless)

I will regularly update and edit this masterlist and add any new pacs i post :>

Alot of my pacs are done with various methods of divination included (but not limited to): tarot, runes, dice, tea leaves, playing cards, and more in the future :> 🧿

*I don't do exchange readings

🍯My Ko-Fi

Paid Services 🎲

$2 Tarot Readings

Feedback Tag

TikTok: @lua.stellar

Timeless Pacs✨

General Collective Reading Tarot

What Do You Need to Hear Right Now Cartomancy

Opportunities For You In The Near Future Cartomancy

How Is The Past Affecting Your Present Tarot

What Is The Best Step For You To Take in The Month Ahead Cartomancy

What Needs To Be Brought to Your Attention Right Now Cartomancy

What Beliefs do you Need to Let Go of Tarot

What is Coming Your Way This Coming Week? Cartomancy

What Blessings Will you Soon Receive? Cartomancy

What Will Soon Be Revealed to You?? Cartomancy

How Do You Need to Decenter Men? Tarot

What Messages do your Ancestors want you to Know? Oracle

What Are Their Intentions Towards You Tarot

What is the Future of this Connection Lenormand PAC

🍄 Future Spouse/Love Pacs

What Does Your Crush Think Of You Dice Divination

What's Next for You in Love Tarot

How Will Your Future Spouse Talk About You to Their Family Tarot

What's Your Next Lover's Love Language Tarot

What Will Your Future Spouse's Friends Think of You Cartomancy

What Will Your Wedding Day Be Like Tarot

Who is Coming Towards You in Love Tarot

Love and Romance Messages You Need to Hear Cartomancy

Who Currently Has a Crush on You Tarot

Future of Your Love Life Tea Leaf Reading

What Are Their Intentions Towards You Tarot

What is the Future of this Connection Lenormand PAC

✨ Career/School/Professional Pacs

Current Career Energy Rune Reading

Future of Your Dream Career Dice Divination

Will You Be Accepted into Your Dream School Dice Divination

✨Tea Leaf Pac's

What Will July 2024 Bring You Tea Leaf Reading

Detailed Messages for Remainder of 2024 Tea Leaf Reading

Messages for October 2024 Detailed Tea Leaf Reading

Predictions for November 2024 Tea Leaf Reading

Future of Your Love Life Tea Leaf Reading

✨Monthly Pac's

What Will July 2024 Bring You Tea Leaf Reading

Detailed Messages for Remainder of 2024 Tea Leaf Reading

Messages for October 2024 Detailed Tea Leaf Reading

Predictions for November 2024 Tea Leaf Reading

Whats Coming Your Way this January 2025? Rune Reading

[sunnylua]

Jujutsu Kaisen 呪術廻戦

Gojo Satoru

loml

Suguru Geto

Nanami Kento

First time, kinda nervous

Itadori Yuuji

Fushiguro Megumi

Boyfriend Thoughts

Toji Fushiguro

Drabble 1

Maki Zen’in

Stupid in love

Inumaki Toge

Kamo Choso

Takuma Ino

[lualuabestningdungie]

Master List ˚ ༘♡ ·˚ ₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

Who’s there?

BOYNEXTDOOR!

Myung Jaehyun

…

Park Sungho

…

Lee Sanghyeok

…

Han Dongmin

So high school

Kim Donghyun

…

Kim Woon Hak

…

BOYNEXTDOOR

Ot6 as love tropes

[wannaeatramyeon]

Lookism x Reader: Boyfriend Moments

G/N. Fluffy scenes. Yes, this bitch delulu. Sammy, Vin, Goo, Jake, Ryuhei, Gun. Masterlists

Samuel Seo

"Try this," you offer to Samuel your tea.

That is delicious, by the way. And the way he pulls a face at the milky concoction mildly offends you.

You continue to wave the cup in your boyfriend's face, straw close to being shoved up his nose, drink splashing perilously against the lid.

He gives in. Because your dedication for annoying shit like this knows no bounds.

Steadying your hand and leaning forward, he takes a gulp from your drink. It's actually not bad. Better than he thought but-

"Too sweet," Samuel says, straightening and pushing his glasses back up his nose.

"Suit yourself," you shrug, appeased that at least Sammy has given it a go and you take a sip yourself. Then, with a grin- "It's like we just kissed."

He arches an eyebrow at you pointing at the straw, can't help rolling his eyes even as he chuckles at your silliness.

"Here,"  Samuel leans down again and kisses you. Tasting the tea on your lips except this time it is much much nicer. Delicious even. "Now we've actually kissed."

.

.

Vin Jin

Vin is undeniably cringe, according to Mary. And also a simp, according to-

Everyone, actually.

But he reasons that everyone must be jealous because if they found someone like you, they would also be all over them too.

Much like Vin is.

He's a lot more PG-13 than you expected though, less handsy. Even with his reputation, cool and cocky and honestly a bit of an asshole, Vin loves simply holding your hand, your fingers intertwined with his. Walking down the street and everyone knowing you're together.

Maybe it's a bit childish to like this one simple gesture so much. But he doesn't care. Sometimes he likes to just look at your hand in his, comparing sizes, touching your palm against his, and feeling the softness of your skin.

It doesn't stop there though.

He gives you loud obnoxious smooches on the cheek, rests his chin on your head, forces you to share a seat, squished together with your legs draping over his.

Vin wants you close by all the time. And he used to be annoyed when Mary would call him embarrassing, tell him to get a room. 

Has tried to keep a little distance at first yet continues to be drawn to you like a magnet. In the end, he has stopped caring. Besides, he thinks having you by his side automatically makes him a lot cooler.

.

.

Goo Kim

Goo knows what comes out of his mouth is gold, it’s just a shame that other people don't.

Gun tells him to shut up frequently, Crystal's eyes glaze over as she hums politely, and he knows Kouji tunes him out.

He takes it as a challenge sometimes, to see how long he can keep talking before he makes them awkward and uncomfortable, wasting their time, hoping to drive them insane.

It hasn't happened yet, but he's proud to say he's been close.

"And then what happened?" you ask Goo, leaning forward eagerly to hear the end of his story.

His brows knit together, puzzled. "Huh?"

"You can't stop there. What happened next?!"

Goo blinks. This (or 10 minutes ago) was usually when everyone told him to shut up. "You actually wanna hear the rest of it?"

You give a look to say 'duh' and nod.

Huh. Goo feels himself tearing up, dramatically thumps his hand against his heart and tells you you're the best.

"I know. Now finish the story."

.

.

Jake Kim

Jerry can recite all your key facts. Where you were born, your date of birth, blood type, horoscope.

Jason sometimes corrects him on the MBTI though.

Brad knows your favourite foods and favourite drinks, Lineman your favourite clothes and brands.

Lua knows that you prefer colder weather, although there's nothing like a sunny day to brighten up your mood. Or hiding somewhere warm and cosy when the rain pitter patters outside.

Sinu can recite your's and Jake's anniversary off by heart. The gifts that you have bought him, and what he has bought for you. He also knows what Jake was considering buying for you but decided not to in the end, for one reason or another.

Fact of the matter is, Jake slips you into all his conversations with everyone. It's a bit of a talent, to be honest. Even if the conversation isn't remotely related to you, Jake still finds something to mention that involves you.

It was a headache, at first. Jake derailed discussions and Big Deal meetings with anecdotes and tidbits when you first got together. Over time it became barely noticeable, only off hand comments or throw away remarks here and there.

This worked out well for the crew, because no one had the heart to tell Jake to shut up. How could they when his face lights up, eyes soft and crinkling. and he smiles so sweetly talking about you.

.

.

Ryuhei Kuroda

"Hey," you murmur, kissing Ryuhei on the cheek as his eyes flutter open.

He's looking at you bleary eyed, smile spreading as he comes to. You both sport matching pillowcase wrinkles on your face, and Ryuhei's cowlick is even more outrageous than usual.

"That was good," he says, stretching his hands overhead, elongating his limbs and arching his foot.

"The best nap," you agree.

Intimacy used to mean sex to Ryuhei. All physical.

Now, well it still means that because it is Ryuhei after all. But it also means deep conversations into the night with you. Sharing opinions and thoughts and vulnerability. Having another half (a better half, if you asked him) to be with, share experiences with.

And one of his favourite experiences that he recently discovered, is napping with you.

Ryuhei had expected his favourite experiences to be all manners of lewd and explicit things. But nothing can beat the soft domesticity of him curled around your back, both your breaths starting to deepen as you drift to sleep in his arms and he follows closely behind.

.

.

Gun Park

You wouldn't say Gun is a feeder, but the fact that he cooks and feeds you so well came as a surprise.

"Nutrition is important," he would tell you, prepping in a frilly apron that you bought for him as a joke but wore anyway because why wouldn't he? It's from you.

You also don't understand what role nutrition plays when he prepares the food in cutest ways. Carrots in the shape of flowers, octopus cut sausages, onigiri with faces made from nori.

Tonight, you peer down at your katsu curry, with a bear shaped out of rice lounging in it.

You can't help the burst of laughter, thinking of your boyfriend - the fearful Gun Park, the Shiro Oni, in the kitchen cooking this for you.

"What?" Gun asks, seated across the table, a spoonful halfway to his mouth.

"It's too cute," You grin at the black eyed menace, the guy that was supposed to be all about fighting but has a terribly soft spot for you.

You glance down at the bear again, in an adorably relaxed position with steam rising around it reminiscent of an onsen. It seems almost a shame to eat it. "I can't believe you made this."

Gun gives you a matter of fact answer, "You like it more when it's cute." 

Oh.

The fact he goes to all this effort, just because you like it more, makes him the cutest of all.

[ay4tou]

Hello can i ask for lookism men reacts to reader forget to say i love you back (prank)?? that would be hilarious XD thank youu if you dont mind^^

lookism men reacting when you forget to say 'i love you' back

summary: you decided to do a little prank, turns out forgetting three little words is the fastest way to send several grown men into an emotional crisis.

author's note: took a bit too long on the request i got too carried away enjoying my break 💔 a lot of newer characters aren't here bc i genuinely don't know how to write them yet | masterlist

Daniel Park:

“I love you, don't forget to call me when you get home!"

You: “Okay. Bye.”

Pauses. Processes. Doesn’t say anything.

Says nothing for 10 minutes, then hits you with:

“Is this a test?”

You: “What?”

“A test of loyalty. Honesty. Trust. Emotional—”

He looked like a puppy, whining, drenched in the rain, getting told to stay outside the house because he destroyed the sofa. You feel so bad for him so you stay with him for 30 more minutes outside your house to calm down.

Gun Park:

“Love you.”

You: “Alright."

You blink, and he’s suddenly standing five inches closer.

“Say it.”

You: “Say what?”

“You know.”

Stares at you so hard your soul leaves your body, you say “I love you” with your full chest just to survive.

Goo Kim:

“Love you~”

You: “Mhm!”

“MHM???”

Starts spiraling instantly. Drops to the ground like a dying Victorian man.

“You said ‘mhm’ like I handed you a napkin, not my heart.”

Demands reparations in the form of 20 kisses.

Johan Seong:

"I love you."

You text: "Thanks, you too."

"You too..?"

Goes dead. Goes silent. Doesn't reply or even see your texts for a whole day.

You return home and see him glaring at you.

“I knew it. I was right all along. Trust is an illusion. Love is a scam.”

You comfort him and assure that it was just a prank, and after a while of convincing you still love him (of course you do), he breathes a sigh of relief.

You practically see Eden and Miro facepalming.

Zack Lee:

“Love you! See you later!”

You: “See ya!”

He stops. Blinks. Turns.

“…Wait.”

Follows you like a shadow. You lock the door? He stands outside. You go to work? He shows up during your lunch break.

“You forgot. I can wait. I’m patient. You’ll break before I do.”

Vasco:

“I love you!!” 🥺

You: “Hehe okay bye!”

He doesn’t move.

He just... stands there. For a while.

Then he goes to Jace:

“…Do you think they still love me even if they didn’t say it?”

Jace: panicking internally “THEY ABSOLUTELY DO.”

Jake Kim:

“Love you.”

You: “'Kay. Later!"

He nods. Then he realizes.

“Damn. That’s crazy.”

Lua overhears and with a stroke of luck (for Lua, not Jake) gossips to the girls at Big Deal street.

Word gets along fast in the street and Jake gets clowned in the groupchat within minutes.

Samuel Seo:

You: “Bye! I'll let you know when I get there.”

Samuel: “Sure. Love you.”

You wave and get on the elevator without saying it back.

He blinks.

...?

???

???????????????????

Loses his composure for a second but realizes he's in public and regains his nonchalance fairly quickly.

"Tch. Typical.”

Pretends he doesn’t care. Totally does.

Spends the rest of the day overthinking while fixing his hair in every mirror he passes.

DG/James Lee:

He texts it casually: “Love you.”

You: “Alright, later.”

Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t comment.

Just quietly nods and moves on.

But his next text to you is noticeably more formal.

“...Let me know when you get home.”

No emojis. No pet names.

That’s his code for: “I noticed. I’m not mad. But I noticed.”

Ryuhei Kuroda:

“Love you!"

You: “Okay, bye!”

Malfunctions instantly.

“No no no NO. Run that back. Say it again. With feeling. Full sentence. I’m not letting this slide.”

Dramatically reenacts the moment for the rest of the day like it’s a trauma flashback.

You kick him out of the house and begs you to take him back.

Jace Park:

"Bye. Love you."

You: "Mhm."

His first instinct? Apologize to you.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable by saying it first I didn’t mean to rush anything unless you do love me then that’s cool but if not that’s okay too unless it’s not then—”

Send help. He’s spiraling respectfully.

Hudson Ahn:

"Love you."

"Okay, bye."

You stare at each other for 5 more seconds, like you both had something to say.

In the end, he just nods calmly.

Looks away.

You turn around and catch him brooding at the sky like he’s in a coming-of-age film.

“The stars don’t talk back either. I get it now.”

[lushleona]

「 military!mattheo & reader .ᐟ 」

⌗ | military!mattheo ; all muscle and discipline, trained to kill, but the second he gets home, it’s game over—he’s gripping your hips like a lifeline, groaning about how much he missed you as he bends you over the nearest surface, sweet nothings tangled in filth. and you — you’re too gentle for a man like him, but fuck if he doesn’t worship you like you’re the only thing keeping him human.

just posting this beautiful moodboard that my girl lua @riddleshire made for me because i’m in love with it!! also goes with this reader <3

masterlist. military!mattheo.

© leona-hawthorne 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

[kingofbodyrolls]

Rewriting the Threads of Fate | mini series masterlist

Co-written with @letjungcoook7 💕

In 2025, BTS disbands quietly, without a final concert or farewell. One fan—you, grieving, lost, and arching for closure—makes a wish to fix whatever went wrong. You wake up in 2011. Before the debut. Before the fame Before Jimin gave up everything. Fate gives you a chance to rewrite history, but love makes it complicated. When Jimin falls for you and considers walking away from BTS, you have to make an impossible choice: Save the band… or save the boy you thought you knew. But changing the past comes at a cost—and in the new future, you wake up married to the man who never became an idol. Now, in a reality where BTS was never seven, and love means living with regret, you have one final chance to put things right. But the heart doesn’t always listen to reason. Especially not when another member—quiet, guarded, too observant—might be the one who truly sees you. “You were never meant to be mine. But maybe… you were meant to find me.” Will you choose the dream, the boy, or yourself? A love story across timelines. A fan’s heart. A future that never was. You can’t fix everything. But maybe, just maybe… you can choose what matters most.

→ Pairing: jimin x (gender neutral) reader and yoongi x (gender neutral) reader if you squint → AUs: time travel!au, idol!au, fantasy!au,  → Trope: bias to ??? → Genres: angst, minor fluff, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, alternate timelines, fame vs love. → Rating: mature (language and sensitive subjects, but 100% SFW!) → Total word count: 24k → Warnings and triggers: angst, grief, emotional distress, mental health issues and struggles (anxiety, depression and mentions/references to suicidal thoughts and ideation), time travel, time travel paradox, time travel implications, coarse language, dissociation-like experience, self-doubt, BTS disbandment, insomnia, exhaustion, altered timelines, identity confusion, fear of failure, romantic tension, fear of abandonment, bittersweet, nostalgia, mild melancholy, protectiveness, heartbreak, conflicts, crying, relationship struggles, second chances, memory, fate, emotional breakdowns, bittersweet love, healing from afar, letting go, emotional maturity, emotional restraint, emotional pain, reference to identity and memory loss, unspoken love, rebirth, military enlistment stress and trauma, soft hope, legacy, distant love, memories of past trauma. → Read on AO3? [link]

→ Chapter 01: The Last Song → Chapter 02: Back to the Beginning → Chapter 03: You Don’t Belong Here → Chapter 04: What If You Stayed? → Chapter 05: The Moment it Shatters → Chapter 06: The Confession → Chapter 07: Fracture → Chapter 08: The Ghost of Life → Chapter 09: The Second Wish → Chapter 10: This Time, Let go → Chapter 11: The Life That Was Meant to Be → Chapter 12: Heartbeat [fin]

→ Taglist (permanent): @nora12379, @jeonsbabygirlsworld, @fancypeacepersona, @ktownshizzle, @pjmxxjm, @ajoonniice, @kookiewithluv, @mikrokookiex, @rapmonjoon94, @parkitrighthere,

→ Taglist (series): @graydolan12 (you wanted to be tagged for anything Jimin if I remember correctly, otherwise I can remove you from the taglist) If you wish to be tagged for this series, just let me know in the comments!

→ Author’s endnote: what do you think of it? Ready to join me on this time travel adventure?? 🥹 and if you’re worried about all the angst—yeah, it’s a lot, but I promise it’s very beautiful. You might cry, yes, but I swear it will be a good cry! And if angst is too much for you, that’s okay, you can just skip this one. And if you don’t read anything without smut, you can find plenty of other fics out there. This story is one that me and my friend Lua (@letjungcoook7) wanted to write together, which we partially did. The plot and theme was completely her idea, and after we’ve been sitting on it for like a year, I suddenly got the inspiration to kick it off. I do hope that some, just a few of you guys out there, will find a spark in it 🥹 © @/kingofbodyrolls and @/letjungcoook7 2025 // Please don’t copy or repost! You are more than welcome to reblog it, leave a comment or ask me anything about the story 🥰

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 6

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Time's up.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 Additional 🚨: self-harm, suicidal thoughts

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 🧡 Thank you for your patience, I appreciate you all SO DAMN MUCH. See you in the end note 🧡 @frannyzooey you're a warrior and I'll go all gothic on you: I will keep loving you long after I'm dead, long after I'm gone, long after love ceases to exist. Thank you for your invaluable help 🧡

Word count: 14.5k

[prev] * [series masterlist] * [next]

Chapter 6: Never Let Me Go

Benny bends forward with a huff, and drops the bulky card box he’s carrying next to a pyramid of similar boxes, all labelled “LIVING-ROOM” in black Sharpie. It hits the hardwood floor with a loud thud that resonates in the empty room. 

“Fuck me, that’s heavy. Okay. I think that was the last one,” he pants, lifting his baseball cap and wiping his sweat-damp forehead on his shoulder.

“That went fast,” William observes. His brother whips around to face him with a scowl. 

“That’s because you took the bags labelled ‘clothes’ and you let me haul up all those fucking books! Fish, what the fuck do you have so many books for, man?” he adds, as Frankie steps into the room, two solid oak planks propped over his shoulder.

“To read,” Frankie answers absent-mindedly, setting down the wood against a wall.

Silence falls over the small square room as the two brothers exchange another wary glance. Frankie doesn’t notice. He hasn’t noticed much since morning, too focused on the task at hand, too caught up in his head. 

“What’s this for?” Will asks patiently, pointing at the wood. 

“Shelves. For the books. I left the old ones to Lupe.”

“You mean there’s more books over there?” Benny snarls. Will glowers at him, and the younger man pouts, adding in a softer tone, “You know you could save yourself some money and trouble and get shelves from Ikea or somethin’.” 

“Nah, I don’t like these things, they’re full of solvents. You’re just breathing toxic shit. Don’t want that for my kid.”

Don’t want that for Lee. 

Frankie straightens up and takes a quick look around him. The room is small, yes, but luminous. Clean, and well ventilated, which had been selling arguments. The house itself is no frill, a bit soulless even, but functional. There’s a separate dining-room he plans on converting into a playroom for Lua. Maybe a TV room or an office, when she’s older. The kitchen came equipped and is large enough for a table and four chairs. There are two bedrooms upstairs and, most importantly, a spacious basement where he can work wood. 

The front lawn is fine, but the backyard will require a lot of work, the previous owners seemingly having had no interest in tending to it. 

It’s good enough for his kid and him, but will it be good enough for you? 

He assumes you could afford two houses like this one with what you make in a year. He assumes you live downtown, in one of those lanky glass towers that cast their haughty shadow over the harbor. 

He assumes you hate it. 

And maybe you hate it enough to break your cage open and leave. Maybe someday soon, your Russian literature will sit next to his engineering books on those shelves he’s going to build for you. 

“You got more wood like this at the other house?” 

Will’s voice brings him back to the square room. To all the things that remain to be done. To the urgent necessity of furnishing the house so it’s habitable for a two-year-old. A tiny bed with tiny linens, rainbows, stars and suns. Rails to secure the stairs, a shower curtain, drapes and rugs. Safety outlet plug covers. 

And the question he has yet to ask you. 

“Yea, in the garage. But I can take care of it later.”

“No, let’s get to it, buddy. We can wrap up everything today so you don’t have to go back.”

Benny swipes the hem of his Kiss t-shirt over his face and nods, walking toward the front door. Will’s gaze follows his brother’s tall silhouette before it returns to Frankie, steely eyes of blue openly trained on his face. 

The allusion is not lost on Frankie. This house is a mere couple of blocks away from the one he shared with Lupe. He’s not keen on the idea. If it was up to him, if he moved through life alone, he would have already crossed three or four state lines, at the very least. Head north, and maybe west. Closer to his sister. 

But he’s not alone. He’s a father. Living nearby makes the everyday logistics of co-parenting that much easier. Daycare, then school. Family doctor, friends and sleepovers. Lua will be able to walk between her two parents’ homes. That’s not exactly a functioning family, but for now, it’s the best he can provide.  

“I’m doing what I can, here, you know?” Frankie murmurs, dipping his head under the brim of his hat.

“I know. I know you’re doing what’s best for them.”

Will runs a palm over his nape and winces, hand flying to his left flank. 

Frankie has noticed him clutching his side every so often. He can’t tell if it’s pain or remembrance. He’s never encountered anyone with the Millers' capacity to endure physical injuries. Only he knows first hand that guilt-tainted wounds are another deal entirely. 

“You okay there, man?” Frankie frowns.

“Oh yeah. Golden.”

“We can take a break. Finish after lunch. There’s beer in the fridge and–”

“Let’s get to it, Fish,” Will insists, patting Frankie’s arm as he walks past him.

Frankie firmly believes that no one over thirty should ever, under any circumstance, ask their friends to help them move. Which resulted in him calling the Millers on very short notice. He had decided early on to leave all shared belongings to Lupe, thus hadn’t anticipated there would be so many things left to move. It seems to him that, until three years ago, his entire life could fit in a single rucksack.  

When he saw the two brothers stepping out of Will’s truck this morning, it felt as if a formidable weight had been lifted off his chest. He’d woken at the crack of dawn, setting all the bags and boxes on the front lawn, to spare Lupe the ordeal of having his friends trampling all over her carpet. Not that she’d said anything. She’d gotten up shortly after him, preparing a large pot of coffee, placing a fresh box of donuts on the kitchen table.

“You’re a good man, Francisco,” she’d told him back in early April, when he’d asked her if he should move out, if she wanted him to. “And you’re always going to be the father of my child. I’m sorry it didn’t work out. We’re just not a good match, I guess. You know that, right?”

“I know,” he’d said, holding her gaze. “I just– I want you to know I’m sorry. And grateful. I’m grateful for you, Lupe.”

She hadn’t answered. Lupe was made of heavy silences and sharp thoughts. A perceptive gaze in a movie star's face. She’d pushed away from the kitchen counter, and reached out for his shoulder, giving him a strong squeeze. A gesture that meant, you’ll be alright.

He’ll be alright. That much he knows. When he wakes up every morning between sheets that bear your luminous scent, when your mug is drying on the dish rack next to his and when your clothes are hanging in the closet next to his clothes. Then he’ll be alright.

He cannot wait for you to meet his kid. It’s a childlike anticipation, a fantasy, really. The only thought that keeps him going. That enables him to ward off the crippling dread spreading black and murky inside of him. 

When you came back to him with that fresh wound on your forehead, a clock got set off in the back of his head. A distant ticking, at first, stifled by what you hadn’t yet extinguished of his rage and regrets. But every week since, the timer has been growing louder, pulsating faster in his temple like a swollen vein, ominous, threatening, he needs to get you out of there. Out of there, out of your cage, away from this man. 

This pain rooted in his chest whenever he thinks of you, that piercing ache has become a hindrance, he can’t keep a clear mind, that one obsessive thought obstructing everything else, he needs to get you out of there. Keep you by his side, where he can make sure you’re safe. 

Every Saturday morning, when he parts from you, reluctant and exhausted, the fear that you’ll get caught cheating clenches his hands into vengeful fists. 

Cheating is a filthy fucking word that feels all kinds of wrong to describe what you share and everything you mean to him. Bitterly, he remembers how he tried to scare you off, that first night at the motel. Everything he’s done to keep you at arm’s length, letting you believe he belonged to another woman. How he failed and fell hard, beyond the point of no return, how he was doomed to fail from the very first look you exchanged. 

How does he fix it, now? Does he step into the motel next Friday and flat-out ask you to move in with him? No preamble, no casual dating, none of that bullshit? Would you get scared? Would you trust him? Would you laugh in his face, reject what he’s offering? Does he get you into the truck and drive away with you into the sunset, like he’s dreamed of doing since the first time he took you for a ride, five months ago? 

Will you forgive him? You’ve trusted him so far. Can he push it a little further?  

How much more time can he afford to waste, before your safety is seriously at stake? 

He needs to get you out of there.

—

There’s a latch on the left side of the window frame, concealed in the sleek aluminum panel. It’s difficult to find, to say the least. Purposely, you suppose. 

The pads of your fingers run over the cool metal until you feel a tiny groove in the flat surface. With a satisfied hum, you slide a fingernail into the ridge and lever it up. It’s thin and sharp and it bites into the soft flesh of your thumb. 

“How many times do I have to tell you not to open the windows?” Adrian’s voice comes in from behind you, and you whip around like a cartoon thief caught red-handed, catching your balance with the flat of your palm on the glass panel. “There’s no need for it. And It messes up the thermostat.”

His tone is reprimanding. It makes your toes curl.

He’s been gone the entire weekend. Since Friday morning, as far as you can tell. His bespoke, royal-blue suit looks slept in. It probably is. Somehow, even when you’d been buzzing with gin and numbed out on pills, you’ve always maintained enough clarity to notice these kinds of details. To pay attention to him. 

Tonight, you’re entirely sober. Like you’ve been for weeks. And you have no trouble seeing the white collar of his shirt smeared with lipstick, the faintest trace of a flaming red pigment. You nearly scoff at the cliché. The flap house motel, the lipstick stain. So much for 2010 Bay Citizen’s power couple.

There’s an unkept air to his general demeanor. The dip of his collarbone peeks out from his unbuttoned shirt, his pale skin is flushed. His hair tousled, fairer without the matting pomade he normally applies to sleek it back, loose strands falling on his forehead, casting a shadow over his brow. 

He looks different. A younger, rougher version of himself. He looks handsome. It strikes you, with a sense of guilt to the realisation, like something you’re supposed to know but forgot everything about. 

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“So you thought you’d open the window?” he asks flatly, breaking eye contact to take off his jacket and drape it over the Stark chair.

“I need fresh air. Real air. It’s too stuffy in here,” you mumble. You sound like a scolded teenager. You hate it. 

“Is that literal?” he snarls, throwing you a glance over his shoulder, sliding his undone tie off his neck. 

You sink your teeth into your cheek, strong enough to taste blood. You pivot toward the window. The soft pad of your thumb finds the latch and you swiftly lift it, ignoring the bite of the metal. The window frame cracks open. The dried out joints part with a crunching sound. 

It’s a mundane sequence of actions. Insignificant, inconsequential. Nothing like following a stranger to a dark, deserted parking lot behind a bar. But inside you, the wild creature stirs, awakened by what you’ve set in motion. You don’t know it yet. But it’s too late to back down. 

A briny evening draft rushes in, carrying the bustling city’s noises on its tail, distant traffic, siren’s wails, fracturing the seal of your glass cage. 

When you turn back to face him, a smirk is forming on Adrian’s thin lips, one that can only be interpreted as an expression of condescension for your poor attempt at rebellion. 

The notion riles you up. 

“Actually, it’s not stuffy, it’s suffocating. But you wouldn’t know, you haven’t been here in three days.”

The air stills between you. It’s tangible, ironically, despite the open window. His expression freezes mid-smirk, and your eyes quickly scan his face. That long ingrained apprehension in the back of your brain, desperately, frantically trying to set off all the alarms, but something within you won’t let it. Something new. Something brazen.

Adrian straightens up. For a fleeting second, his expression shifts, unclear, undecided, as though he’s still making up his mind on how to deal with you.

And then, his face settles. 

“Well, that’s rich, coming from the woman who’s been deserting her home every Friday night for over half a year.” His lips purse in disdain around the word woman. 

It’s rage. That something new and brazen inside you is rage. It’s white-hot, and it’s growing fast, too fast for you to even try to contain it. It fills up your brain, smothering your inner voice and muffling the blaring alarms, overpowering everything else. You can feel it swell inside your chest, powered by the wild creature between your lungs. It takes up so much space between your rib cage, you can barely breathe, and yet you embrace the sensation. It’s not discomfort. It’s strength.  

“Another thing you wouldn’t know, since you’re out all night playing poker.” In turn, you scoff at the word, at the lie, at the hypocrisy of this long-overdue squaring up.

His eyes narrow on your face before he delivers the next blow.

“Maybe I had you followed. Maybe I know exactly where, and with whom, you spend your Friday nights. Have you thought of that, babe?“

Blood rushes down to your feet as you break in an instant sweat. Prickling scalp, nape and armpits. The sheer idea is unbearable. This life, or whatever’s left of it, colliding, trespassing on your time with Frankie. At your back, the weak breeze wafts in, and your eyes clench off the vision of the fourteen-story void. 

The sound of Adrian’s delighted snigger jerks you out of the intrusive thought. Your eyes are wide open again. 

“I don’t think you care enough about the details of my whereabouts to spend money on a PI,” you start, lifting your chin as if your heart isn’t thumping in your throat. “In fact, I think it suits you just fine that I haven’t been on your ass about your whereabouts.”

There’s the faintest hint of a wince altering his smug expression at your profanity, but the words keep pouring out of you. 

“Most of all, I think that if you really had me followed, you wouldn’t have missed the chance to ruin whatever you think this is for me. Like you do with everything I–” 

“Ruin whatever…? Oh, I’m the one ruining things?” he cuts in, lunging toward you in a movement so sudden you recoil against the open window frame. “When you’re the one who’s single-handedly destroyed our relationship with your fucking pills and your fucking depression? And now you’re having an affair with God knows who! I hope you haven’t been dumb enough to pick him among our circle of friends. And I fucking hope to God it is a man. Maybe you’re a degenerate, just like your sister.” 

You hit the mark. He doesn’t really care, and it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but his blatant lack of interest still hurts. After all those years, it still makes you bleed. The pain is washed over by anger, and the cruelty of his grossly redacted and biased narrative of your history. Doubt and guilt tighten your throat. 

He’s taken a step back. Hands on his hips, he’s seemingly waiting for you to counter. After a few dragging seconds, when he’s satisfied that he has silenced you for good, he faces away, and begins to unbutton his shirt. 

“I— You’re— you’re so fucking unfair,” you stutter, deflating, miserable.

“I’m going to shower. Make sure that window’s closed by the time I get out of the bathroom.”

“I’m leaving.”

The words rise from between the folds of your existence, overdue, evident, irreversible. They slip through your lips, and panic pervades your body at a molecular level. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” Adrian retorts with an audible smirk, sliding his shirt off his lean frame, “the Grants are coming over for dinner. That’s the only reason I came home.”

Tim Grant is Adrian’s most valuable client after your father. He’s in politics, in some office or other, you know you should know. His wife Cheryl is a flawless, sculptural blond. A Stanford graduate who has mothered five children. She’s three years younger than you. 

You need to get out of here. 

You are rooted to the tiled floor, vaguely aware of the lingering taste of blood on your tongue, and your right hand pinching your thigh. 

“I’m leaving you,” you clarify. 

Adrian turns around and pauses. He looks at you. Looks at you for what feels like the first time in months. At last, you caught his attention.

The alarms are bellowing inside your skull. You have nowhere to go. Ava is over a thousand miles away, everyone you know is primarily Adrian’s friend, and there’s no way you’re going back to your parents. 

Beyond the window, the indigo dusk is shifting to blue. The breeze is soothing. It’s Sunday, April 26th, 6.52 pm. You’re standing on the threshold.

“You’re what?” he asks in a thin voice. 

“I’m leaving you.”

Something flashes across his face, something you’ve never seen before. This is uncharted territory, for the both of you. He scrunches his brow, narrowed eyes flickering between yours. Lifting both hands, palms outstretched toward you, he speaks in a slow voice, detaching each word. 

“Alright, okay, I get it. You’re angry. You can leave the window—”

“I don’t care about the window, Adrian, I am leaving you.”

“Lee, this is not the fucking time for this, the Grants will be here in half an hour and the catering–”

“I don’t give a shit about the Grants!” you burst out.

Adrian’s hands fall limply to his side, his eyebrows jumping to his hairline. He licks his lips, an attempt to regain some countenance. 

“Okay,” he concedes in a strained tone, “I guess we’re doing this. Where do you go every Friday? Who are you fucking?”

“Now, you care? Now, you want to know? When I’m halfway through the goddamn door? I gave you ten years of my life, Adrian! Ten years! I loved you! I gave you everything!”

“You loved me?” he yells back, pocking a finger to his chest. “You gave me everything? Are you fucking serious? You are never here, Lee. You’re checked out, 24/7. Is that what you call love? Let me laugh! You never ask me any question about work, you never once came golfing with me. You can’t even pretend to care!”

“You are so fucking unfair! Tell me, how does it feel, to treat me like you do?”

“I am not unfair, Lee, I am realistic! Yes, maybe you loved me, but as soon as shit got real between us, you fucking checked out! An eight-year-long engagement? Really? Is that your idea of giving me everything? I am the laughingstock of everyone at the firm! You want to know how it feels? How it feels when I see your face closing off every time I try talking to you? You don’t know how to love, Lee. You know nothing about love. Unrealistic expectations, that’s all you got. Dreams. Childish fantasies. You’re heartless. Remote. Fucking hollow. Completely unfit for reality.”

The walls ring out with his acid rant. He stands before you panting, unmasked, with his shaking frame and his unfiltered anger, with his truth and his raw pain openly displayed. With his hurt and his loss and regrets. It’s vertiginous, unbearable. Your body recoils into the glass panels, tears spilling down your face. 

He straightens up, and takes in a quivering breath, a pointed but vain effort to recompose his face.

“Now would you please be so kind as to clean up, and instruct the maid to set the dinner table before catering gets here?”

But his vulnerability lingers in his voice and your crying intensifies, your chest convulsing under the weight of your sobs, of his words, of all your mistakes, and you slump down onto the cold hard floor, weeping uncontrollably. 

“I’m– I’m sorry,” you blubber, “I’m so sorry, Adrian.”

He sniffles, taken aback. Standing awkwardly, he wipes his nose with the back of his hand and takes a tentative step closer.  

“Babe, come on. Don’t cry. I’m sorry. Go get cleaned up, we’ll talk about this later.” 

But you can’t stop crying, your life is folding in on you, all of your certitudes, your broken heart and your grievances exposed, ugly and distorted, through a drastically different lens.

“I’m so sorry, Adrian. I– I loved you wrong. I wasted– wasted your time,” you sob.

“Shh no, come on,” he coos, crouching down beside you, brushing the hair from your face in a gesture so gentle it only makes you cry harder, hot tears scalding your eyelids, “I’m sorry I lost it. I’m tired. Let’s not talk about this now.”

All you want is to reach out and wrap your arms around him. Hold him tight, stop shaking. Go back to the start, take away the pain you’ve caused. But there’s no going back, and your hands are clenched around your shins, pressing your knees into your chest.

“I’m not the one you need. I failed you. I’m not the woman you need and I tried to be and I led you on– and I wasted your years and— and mine, I’m so sorry, Adrian.”

“Babe, stop crying,” he pleads again, panic skirting his tone, “I’m sorry I lashed out. Fuck, I know I can be an asshole sometimes. We can work this out, we always work things out.”

His clear-blue eyes shine with unshed tears. Everything inside you hurts. Everything inside you bleeds.

“I should have done this sooner. I was so scared. I’m such a fucking coward, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t leave, Lee,” he rasps. “We can– Please. Stay.”

—

You stay, inexplicably. You stay to host the Grants. 

Adrian lets you use the shower first, guiding you to the en-suite bathroom, his arm wound around your waist. You keep crying under the hot stream of water, unable to control your sobbing, choking on the hot steam with every shaking gulp of air you take in. 

And perhaps it’s the only way you’ll ever get out of here. Dead, chocked up on grief. 

You let the water run while you step out of the cubicle. Adrian stores the double-edge blades for his razor above the sink, inside the cabinet behind the backlit mirror. The sharp metal slices a shallow cut in the pad of your ring finger when you grab one. You adjust your grip, splay your hand at the top of your thigh, and slash the blade through your tender flesh, underneath the old scar Frankie likes to tease with his thumb. 

Trembling hand, straight line. The pain is searing, your relief immediate. Back in the shower, the blood runs down your leg in crimson rivulets, and your crying finally ebbs. 

In the bedroom, you swallow an anxiolytic, then another. The tablets catch at your throat going down, burning your esophagus like shame and failure.

You’re no longer a person, not really, not anymore. You’re the sum of your pains and discomforts. You’re that cut on your thigh and those pills in your throat. You're the black mascara that coats your eyelashes and burns your eyelids, you’re the red lipstick that dries out your lips. Fragments of you, held together by the snug material of a dress that you hate, a gift from Adrian, the figment of someone else’s desire. 

When the doorbell rings, your hair is still wet.

The dinner is an awkward mess. Adrian looks shell shocked, powerless to summon his usual charming persona. His answers are monosyllabic, incoherent. To you, it’s a complete blur. You drink fast, and too much, hanging your dazed gaze on Cheryl’s double row of natural pearls. Every time you shift in your seat, a sharp pain stings your thigh. You smile through it. 

The poorly executed charade goes on for about an hour before the Grants make a hasty exit. 

Tethered by a thinning thread of lucidity, you go straight to your bedroom, Adrian on your heels. He watches you from the threshold as you heave your shabby college suitcase onto the bed, his pale face twisted, clouded eyes, pinched lips. You try to avert your gaze, you need to hurry, to gather your brains, gather your things. 

But your eyes flicker back up to him. One last look. One last tear. You stare at each other in silence for a brief moment, until a draft closes the bedroom window with a muted bang. Adrian slides his hands in his pockets, turns around, and walks away. A few seconds later, the front door opens and slams shuts behind him.

Your heart trips and plummets. Somewhere far away, long ago, a small voice implores you to run after him. To beg for his forgiveness. To mend your faded dreams. 

Completely unfit for reality. 

Nausea lurches in your stomach, and you lower your head to the empty suitcase stretched open across the bed. You need to get out of here. 

But what are you supposed to pack? The apartment is filled with reminders of what you’ve destroyed. Photo albums, art, trinkets and souvenirs, Christmas presents, birthday gifts. It’s like slicing through ten years of your life, ten years of yourself, of the person you’ve been and never again will be. Letting that woman die and disappear. What do you need to take and what do you choose to leave? 

Completely unfit for reality.

Fighting a sense of urgency, your vision getting more unfocused by the minute, you go through the nightstand and dresser. Prescription pills in rattling tubes, a little box of old Polaroids and Ava’s maternity hospital bracelet, your e-reader and random books, two chargers coiled on the floor like resting snakes… You throw everything indistinctly into the suitcase. It swallows your belongings like a chasm, like a crevice, like a monster with unhinged jaws. 

Staggering to the walk-in closet, you slide some clothes off their hangers and shelves, throwing them blinding behind you. With precarious balance, you rise on your tiptoe to retrieve a leather-bound edition of Anna Karenina hidden on the upper shelf. A gift from your Russian lit professor for your graduation, with an inscription etched in his distinguished cursive on the cover page. Something about you being a promising young woman. You haven’t looked at it in years.  

Completely unfit for reality. 

You pull out a travelling bag, and stuff the book inside it, along with some shoes, and in the bathroom, cosmetics and lotions. 

When you try to change out of the dress, blood has glued the fabric to your skin. You have to rip it off like a band-aid, like a life-threatening habit. The slit starts bleeding again. 

The suitcase’s tired wheels swivel with a loud squeak over the tiled floor of the corridor. The bag keeps sliding off your shoulder. It’s all too cumbersome for you to drag, heavy like your spinning head, swaying like your vision. 

In the living-room, the city’s night lights twinkle and dance behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. You search the room in the semi darkness for something else, something more. Your laptop perhaps, before you realize it’s in your office. Do you need a laptop? You probably do. 

Completely unfit for reality. 

You grab your I ❤️ NY bag and drop the apartment’s keys on the console by the door. Propelled by the creature in your chest, by decades of silence, by an obscure promise for peace, you leave. 

You are in no condition to drive, but you don’t need to be. Your drowsy body’s on autopilot, and the traffic on the 589 northbound is fluid. 

You pull up in front of the motel a mere 54 minutes later, and stagger over to the office, where the young clerk with his blond hair in a bun is hunched over his phone. 

The suitcase refuses to roll over the gravel. One of the wheels folds and breaks off. You have to walk back to the reception and ask the young man to help you carry everything to the room. Your voice is slurring. You rummage in your bag for some cash to give him, only to find him already gone when you triumphantly pull out a tenner from your wallet. 

You don’t fold the dirty bedspread. You don’t clean up your face or brush your teeth, you don’t undress. You kick off your sneakers, and slip under the sheets, Adrian’s words ringing out in your ears. The truth they carry deafening, inescapable. 

You’re unfit for life. For reality. You went out of your way to create a relationship with a stranger, exempt of responsibility, of commitment, of any kind of difficulty. So you could revel in the illusion of a bond, of something greater than you. So you could romanticize a hope, without having to materialize its promises.  

You cry yourself to sleep. 

—

Buried at the bottom of your bag, your iPhone chimes for a solid 14 minutes before you can crack open an eyelid. Your hangover is vicious. It’s a wildfire raging inside your brain. It’s your body thrown off a cliff. 

Cautiously, you sit up on the edge of the bed, brain sloshing inside your skull, nausea lapping up at your esophagus. The harsh denim of your jeans rubs over the slit on your thigh, abrading the cut. A brownish stain of dried blood smears the fabric, and you scoff, thinking you didn’t pack any band-aid. 

The prospect of dragging your body under the shower and putting on clean clothes feels like medieval torture, but presenting yourself at the office reeking of alcohol and in yesterday’s blood-stained jeans is not an option. Not a satisfaction you’ll grant your father, anyway, and the thought gives you strength. 

In the bathroom’s black-edged mirror, your reflection is haggard. Downright cadaverous.

You’re sick a first time, emptying the content of your stomach crouched over the chirped porcelain bowl of the toilet, and then a second time, in the parking lot, after gulping down a tepid coffee from the vending machine in the reception. With the tip of your shoe, you scuff the gravel over the small mess and get in your car, not in the least ready to face the morning traffic, your father, or the rest of your life. But proceeding anyway.  

When you step out of the elevator, your father’s senior secretary is waiting for you in the lobby. Adrian has made some phone calls. Kaytee ogles the scene from her desk, a petty glee lighting up her dull features. 

You follow the older woman to your father’s office, unfazed, obedient. Absent-mindedly watching her restricted gait, encased between her pencil skirt and 5 inches heels.

Richard is calm. An impassive look on his handsome face concealing all thoughts and emotions, the sleeves of his Armani shirt rolled-up to his elbow. He lets you speak first, he listens in silence. 

I’m resigning with immediate effect, the words come out of your mouth easy, and you, too, listen to them. 

You expect to be chastised. Scolded like a rebellious teenager. Sent back to your desk with a mention etched in red on your permanent record and a slap on your hands. You brace yourself for the usual words, his favorite weapons, designed and crafted to humiliate and defeat. 

Instead, he reasons. He bargains. Calling you a valuable partner. A genuine asset for the company, he says, with irreplaceable experience and unique expertise. 

Shadows shift across the glass surface of his desk. His cellphone buzzes, and remains unanswered as he keeps talking, his attention focused on you for longer than it’s ever been. What would your trajectory have been, if he’d paid attention to you from the beginning? If you’d heard his praises as a child? 

What did Adrian say? How did he sound?

After a while, it’s your turn to speak. At the first mention of your shares, Richard’s posture and demeanor switches instantly. Before long, you know you’re never getting this money Ava has instructed you to fight for. 

You don’t argue, you know better. You’ve witnessed firsthand his power of nuisance. His sense of entitlement and his twisted passion for meticulous revenge. But your father’s ire escalates, until he’s standing next to you, pulling you up your seat by your arm and manhandling you toward the double glass doors. 

You wonder how far he’ll go, if he’ll make this public, if he’ll risk the scandal. You soon find out. You’re a rag doll in his hold, as he drags you toward the elevator, seething and sputtering threats.

“You have dishonored me, the name I gave you, your family. You’ve been nothing but pointless ever since you were born. Don’t ever try to come back here. I don’t care if you’re starving.”

As you stumble inside the cabin of the mirror-lined elevator, you realize you never got to retrieve your laptop. You turn to face your father and, looking straight at him, you cover your ears. 

Before the doors close with a cheerful ding, you see his face distorted by wrath, turning a violent shade of purple. 

—

“What do you mean, the room is taken? Taken by whom?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I cannot disclose that kind of information.”

Raul’s affected attempt at hotelier’s etiquette has Frankie scoffing into the receiver. Or is it Joachim? No, you’d said his name was Raul.

“Wait, it’s taken now, but is it booked on Friday? I just need it on Friday. Why did you give them that room, anyway? I’m pretty sure you got plenty of vacancies.”

The real question is, why is he behaving like an ass to this poor man who’s only trying to do his job properly? Why is he getting so nervous over this? How does it matter if you’re not in room number 2, this week?

“I don’t know if the room will be available on Friday, sir. I am afraid the lady hasn’t specified a date for the end of her stay.” 

Frankie’s spine grows rigid. Like a bucket of ice is being poured over his head in slow motion. That ominous ticking fires in the back of his head, so rapid and loud it might fracture his skull open.

“What lady?” he rasps, his throat suddenly parched. “Who’s in there? Is it the– Is it the woman who comes in every week? With me?”

Raul doesn’t answer, and his silence tells Frankie everything he needs to know.

“Alright, thanks,” he snaps, hanging up and throwing the phone on the desk. 

An hour and a half later, he’s pulling up into the motel’s parking lot. Lupe has been gracious enough to agree to pick up Lua from day-care, even though Monday is his day, so he’s got the rest of the afternoon to sort this out. 

This is foolish, though. He, is foolish. Your car is not even here. He’s probably overreacting. 

The thing is, his gut instinct tells him he’s not. It’s a potent, familiar dread, one that sets all his senses on alert. One he’s sworn himself never to ignore again, after Tom’s death. It’s that vision he had on Christmas evening. Your lonely silhouette sitting by the window on the edge of the bed. It’s that pull in his chest. That ache in his flesh.

He gets out of the truck swiftly, with a quick glance at the reception office, and walks straight to room number 2. The place looks even shittier in the bright midday sun. The contours of the low building are pressed flat by the blinding light and the heat. The lime wall between room 2 and 3 is streaked with deep, long winding cracks. The paint on the porch’s poles is chipped, coming off the sun-baked wood in large, crispy flakes. The hanging lights are covered in rust, the base of the railing in mold. 

Once more, guilt squeezes his chest tight at the thought that he’s made you come here, week after week. That you docilely agreed to it, and never said a word. That you kept coming back. Back to this place. Back to him, too.

The door is locked. He rattles the doorknob harder, more to shake off his own frustration than to achieve anything else. The yellow curtains are drawn, and no matter how hard he squints, he can’t see jack shit beyond them. 

He’s probably overreacting. 

What if he picked the lock? Just to make sure you’re not in here?

“Jesus,” he sighs, running a palm over his face, “the fuck is wrong with me?”

He stands in front of the door a while longer, head hung, hands propped on his hips, so still he can feel the sweat beading on his nape. Eventually, he lifts his cap and combs his fingers through his hair, then turns around and steps down the porch. 

He’s halfway to his truck when your sedan appears at the end of the road.

—

On the drive back to the motel, you roll both front windows down, and let the warm breeze blow your hair in every direction.

Yesterday, the pain was all encompassing. So sharp and piercing, you wanted to cease existing. Now, thoughts and images come and go, carried by the draft from the opened window. Kaytee moving into your office, and your employment prospects, nonexistent in the Bay Area. Your forgotten laptop. The talk you need to have with Ava. Your financial situation. 

Everything seems distant, another woman’s problems. You are numb. Remote. Hollow. 

The tears will come back, though. When you ask yourself if this tragicomic public humiliation was your final interaction with your father. If the formal lunch you shared with your mother last Thursday was the last time you’ll ever see her, the last time you’ll hug her frail figure. When you realize you won’t see Agatha grow up. 

You will reject the pain. The sense of loss. Of isolation. But it’ll sweep you away anyway. 

The fact that you have voluntarily orphaned yourself. 

You will choke on your grief. 

“I need to start making plans,” you inform the empty cab with an even tone. 

Or you could simply hide away in the motel for the rest of your life. Waiting for Frankie, Friday after Friday. 

Frankie. 

A strangled gasp ricochets inside your throat. You push the thought of him away, bury it deep between the folds. 

Completely unfit for reality.

But when you turn into the parking lot, the red truck immediately pops into view, stationed in front of your room. Frankie’s standing a few yards away from it, eyes trained on you through the windshield. 

Your body tenses up, a lump grows inside your throat, your grip on the steering-wheel white-knuckled as you maneuver to park. 

When you kill the engine, Frankie walks up to your door. There’s a suspended beat, as he motions to grab the handle. But he seems to reconsider, taking a step back and waiting for you to get out. 

Raw nerves and flayed skin, you exit the car. 

“Are you okay?” he asks when you’re standing in front of him. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Lee, are you okay?” he repeats, detaching each word, his large hands coming to frame your face. 

Shaded by the brim of his hat, his dark eyes skip nervously over your features. You know what you look like, puffy eyes, ashen face, and you squirm nervously in his hold.

“I’m okay. I’m fine. I didn’t fall again,” you add with an empty chuckle, trying to pull away from his grip, evade his scrutiny. 

“Jesus fuck, Lee,” he sighs, shaking his head. 

Your spine grows stiff, but his hand is already cradling the back of your head, drawing you in. Hunched around you, he presses your rigid, reluctant form into his chest, into his heat, breathing you in. Face tucked into the curve of his neck, you stand awkwardly still between his arms, terrified of your body’s reaction should you let go and relent, should you lose yourself in the reassurance of his solid figure, of his soothing embrace, of his comforting scent. 

Eventually, you wrap your arms around his torso, skimming your hands over the soft, cottony fabric of his shirt. 

“Why are you here?” you ask again, your voice muffled against his collarbone. 

“I called to book the room,” he starts, talking into your hair, “and this Raul guy said it was taken. By a woman.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I don’t know. I just knew.”

Clenching your eyes shut, you ball his t-shirt in your fists. 

“Listen, Lee, I can help you. With whatever it is that’s going on. I can help you. Let me help you.”

“I know. I know you can. But I… I think I need to help me.”

Prove yourself, and that collective we, that you can make decisions, be resourceful, be resilient. Other than through silence and disappearance and pills. Stand on your own. Face reality. Deal with it.

You feel the working of this throat against your temple. His hands span your back, spreading warmth in their trail, finding purchase on your waist with a vice grip, as if to make sure you’re really here. 

“I understand.” The deep, velvety roundness of his voice envelops you. “Would you tell me if you needed my help?”

You nod, your cheek brushing the pebbled skin of his neck. 

“I promise.”

His heart beats strong and steady against your breasts. You lean into the slow, pulsating rhythm, into his life force. 

“I need to talk to you,” you start, and his hold on you tightens. “Can we go inside your truck?”

“Sure,” he answers, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t move, and you grow anxious, afraid you’ll lose courage, and the momentum will fall to a halt. 

Completely unfit for reality. 

“Okay, let’s go,” he finally says, and you lead the way, walking in short strides toward the passenger side of the vehicle. 

Once you’re both seated, Frankie turns on the ignition. The AC immediately kicks in. In the harsh, unforgiving daylight, the dashboard is not black, but a faded shade of anthracite gray. 

When you turn to face him, he’s already looking at you, the dark pools of his eyes boring into you, searching. 

“I left,” you say in a flat tone, your voice as hollow as your chest feels. “I left Adrian. My fiancé. And I felt my father. The company, I mean. I quit.”

He registers the news, the crease in his brow deepening, lips slightly parting. 

“Okay,’ he nods. “How did it go?”

“It… I don’t know. It went? I’m not sure if they realize I’m never coming back. Adrian especially. Well, my father too, actually. Although he made it clear that he never wants to see me again. I don’t know. Maybe I’m mistaken. I really torched those bridges,” you shrug.

A myriad of fleeting expressions animate Frankie’s features, too fast for your overwrought brain to read into any of them, before they settle into the familiar frown.

He swallows hard, before he asks, “How are you feeling?”

In turn, you furrow your brow, searching the abyss inside your chest. 

“You know the movie, The Dragon Tattoo Girl? Or whatever it’s called? The one with the James Bond actor?”

He lifts a puzzled eyebrow, but nods for you to keep going.

“You know toward the end, when they’re in London and they go tell this woman that her brother is dead, the killer guy. Her abuser, basically. They go back to the car to monitor her computer activity, and she’s just… shopping online?”

“Yea?”

“That’s how I feel.”

He huffs, and you don't know how to interpret his reaction. 

“It doesn’t change anything. For you, I mean. My sister’s in New York, she got away some time ago and I–”

“Lee,” he cuts in, his hand flying to grab yours, but you recoil from his touch, “I told you, you can ask me for anything. Anything you want. Anything you need.”

His gaze pierces through you, soft sad eyes, cold hard stare, and you can’t withhold it any longer. You face away, turning to the brass number 2 hanging upside down on the wooden door. Behind it, there's a travel bag and a beat-up suitcase with a broken wheel that contain all of your belongings. 

You’re thirty-five years old. You only just broke free, and everything you want is in this cab. 

This man, his past, the burden of his sins. The strength and resilience weaved within the fabric of him, his tender touch, too, and the promise of his future. The sense of safety he provides you, unlike anything you’ve ever known in all your years. 

His solid body’s thrumming next to yours, steady vibrations caressing your skin. The air between you ripples as if it were liquid. It’s the only thing you can feel. The first thing you’ve felt since you woke up this morning. 

His words come back to you, from so many Fridays ago, pained and yearning, Are you real? You never questioned the realness of him. You gave yourself blindly to the reality of this. This inescapable and electrifying living thing between you. It’s not the reason behind your emancipation. But it has propelled you toward it.  

Was it all just a dream? 

“Do you sometimes think…” you trail off, hesitant. You’re still not looking at him. The heel of your palm comes to rest over your denim, over the thin wound that brings you relief. You press down on it. You wince. “I don’t know how to ask you this.”

His voice rumbles with tension. “Just shoot it straight.”  

“Do you sometimes think you’ve replaced cocaine with— with me? With this? Whatever this is?”

You risk a glance in his direction and watch him take the blow, eyes lowering to his hands. He releases a deep sigh, cocking his chin. 

“Aren’t you scared you’ve replaced an addiction with another?” you continue. “What if… what if I’ve traded my pills for you?”

His eyes flick up to yours. He stares at you in silence for a while. When he moves, it’s to take off his hat. He props it on the dashboard, assuring its balance, before his gaze returns to you, and you brace yourself, chewing on your cheek.

“Yea, it’s… It’s a valid question. Can’t say I haven’t thought about it. At the beginning, at least. But the answer’s no. I don’t think I’ve traded cocaine for you. I like the man I am when I’m with you. You make me want to be happy. You make me feel good. Coke never made me feel good. It was a means to escape… pretty much everything. I don’t want to escape anymore. I don’t need it. I don’t think I can ever unlearn what you taught me.”

Frankie pauses, letting his words settle over your tense, motionless body. You grit your teeth, your jaw aching. 

He breathes in deep. His voice drops to a murmur, low, but firm.

“I love you, Lee. I was never in love with drugs. I don’t think I was ever in love, not really. Not the way I’m in love with you.”

Your body shudders, tears rising like high water inside your throat, face flushing. All of your suppressed emotions come back rushing. Guilt and fear, remorse, rage and resentment. Hope and elation, too. They tumble inside you like boulders falling off a mountain, in a formidable landslide.

“You can’t love me,” you say in a choked up voice.

“Why is that?”

“Because I don’t know if I can be loved. I don't know if I know how to love back.”

“That’s bullshit,” Frankie grunts. 

“It’s not,” you retort, aggressively brushing a rogue tear from your cheek with the flat of your palm, angered by the confidence of his statement. “You don’t know– I’m faulty, Frankie. I’m fucked up. Defective. I can’t handle reality.”

“How about you stop talking about yourself like you’re a machine? Nobody can handle a shitty reality they feel trapped in, Lee. Nobody. Just look at me,” he adds with a shrug.

His words open a floodgate, more tears spilling out of you, streaming down your face in scalding rivulets. 

“But what will happen when you don’t love me anymore?”

“That’s never gonna happen. I can promise you that much.”

“No, that’s bullshit!” you spit out. “Everything passes! Everything ends! Everything, and you know it!”

“Not this. This never ends.”

His assertive tone, his steady demeanor, your stupid, uncontrollable tears, everything sets off your temper. Yet, something throbs inside you, longing and want, stronger than your rage, pulling you toward his still, solid body. His gaze pins you down, not like a dead butterfly in a glass frame, but like a benevolent shadow stretching over you, seeping through your flesh to wrap around your heart and protect it, keep it safe. 

You push back against it, back into the door, the handle biting into your spine, covering your mess of a face with trembling hands. 

“I know what my track record looks like,” he says. “But I’m asking you to trust me. My love for you has no end.”

The seat bench creaks under his weight as he moves closer to you. 

“C’mere, baby.”

His hand circles your arm, pulling with gentle little tugs until you give in and let him tuck you into his side, his arms keeping you firmly pressed against him. His scent engulfs you, his quiet strength, the rumble of his voice felt through your chest as he hums quietly into the crown of your head, Don’t be scared, you got this, I got you. 

Surrendering, you allow yourself to cry, weeping loudly into his shirt, full-body sobs quaking your frame. You might break apart in a million scattered pieces, should he let go of you, but you’re not scared, you got this, he got you, resolute, unyielding, and you weep until the tears run dry, until your rib cage is too sore to heave, until the convulsing of your throat is reduced to a silent tremor.

Releasing his hold, he guides you over his lap to sit you between his legs, and you burrow into him like a small child, eyes drifting close, finally resting. 

—

Around the truck, the sky has gradually changed. The crushing, white-hot afternoon light slowly gave way to a fuzzy, faded coral atmosphere. 

Frankie’s lost track of the time. His arm is numb, his shoulder sore, but he’s not moving. He won’t risk disturbing you. Your breathing comes in deep and regular, you might be sleeping. 

From orange to pink to indigo, the day dies out into the night. 

It’s almost dark when you quietly call his name, and he can hear the toll grief has taken on you in the rasping of your voice. 

“Is it okay for you to be here?” you ask. “Are you going to leave?”

The questions send chills down his spine. Now is the time to tell you. Now or never. It’s been years since he’s known such a fear. 

“No, it’s fine.” He marks a pause, then takes a leap. “What did you mean, earlier, when you said it doesn’t change anything for me?”

Releasing his shirt, your fingers splay over his chest, and with an apparent effort, you push away so you can look at him. In the dim dusk light, he can hardly distinguish your expression. 

“I meant just that. I didn’t leave Adrian on your account. I’m not expecting you to do the same for me. I’m not going to ask you to divorce your wife and abandon your child.”

He runs a palm over his face, sighing heavily.

“I’m not married, Lee. I never married Lua’s mother, and we split up a little over a year ago. Right after that… after that bullshit mission I told you about.�� 

Your silence is unbearable. His heart thumps painfully in his throat.

“We kept living together. Until a week ago. Lua’s still young, it was more convenient. I owed them that much.”

You’re still silent, your mind probably working over the implications, measuring the extent of his betrayal, when he’s asked you mere moments ago to put all your faith in him. 

“Why did you never tell me?”

Sweat prickles over this nape. 

“It was easier at first. I could keep you– keep you at a distance. I was scared.” 

“Scared of me?” 

Your eyes glimmer in the darkness of the cab, boring intently into his. He’s reminded of that very first night at the bar, when they bore into his back. When he swiveled on his stool and your gazes met for the first time. When your lives collided. He thinks about how much your eyes have come into focus, since. 

“Scared of what you made me feel,” he breathes.

“What did I make you feel?” 

“Like I’m worthy of you. What I saw on your face when you looked at me… I didn’t want it, but I also didn’t want to lose it. I didn’t want to risk changing anything. I’m sorry, Lee. I’m so fucking sorry.” 

He straightens up imperceptibly, moving to touch you, but you lean back into the steering wheel.

“What did you see on my face?”

The words come out of him in a husky murmur.

“You were burning inside. Burning with life. And you wanted me.” 

Everything stands still.

Slowly, your hand goes up to his cheek. It rests there, light and soft. A cool and soothing touch. Like it’s always been. Your thumb strokes his scruff, and he leans into your palm, exhaling painfully.

“I still want you, Frankie,” you whisper, leaning forward, your lips meeting his lips. 

—

You step out of the truck feeling drained, acutely aware of every aching bone and tissue in your body. Frankie by your side, watching over your balance, you walk back to your car to get the room’s key. The brown diamond-shaped keychain fits in your palm with a homely feeling. 

The room has been made. The artificial perfume of the industrial detergent blends with the musty scent woven into the curtains and rug.

Frankie swallows you in his embrace as soon as the door closes behind you. His mouth slanted over yours, his face pressed into your face, his kisses are deep, needy, desperate, and so are yours. His arms wound up tight around your waist, you cling onto his broad frame. 

With infinite care, with measured movements, he starts undressing you. You’re docile, pliant like a sleepy child, giving in to the solace of his touch, relenting to the safety of his devotion. 

Kneeling at your feet, he slowly slides down your jeans, revealing the mess on your thigh. Clumps of rusty-colored blood are caked around the flushed, raised skin. The sight stops him. Your heart cowers, your breathing suspended as he stares at your self-inflicted wound. 

His left palm skims your leg upward, until the small cut is framed between his thumb and index. When he looks up, you can’t tell if the tears gleaming in his eyes are anger or sadness. You cup his face, so many words stuck inside your chest. So many fears, so many regrets. 

Soon, you’re crushed under his weight, spread around his breadth, ankles locked over the small of his back as he fucks his love into you, his hands hooked over your shoulders. His skin rubbing against yours, long, languid, thorough strokes splitting you open. The painful ecstasy only he can give you, when he buries himself deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours. Healing all of your wounds. 

He’s breathing you, his heart thumping inside your rib cage, I love you, Lee, I love you, but your words still won’t come out, so you nod, and he knows. Your nails sink into his back, and you pray that he knows. 

For the first time ever, you sleep in his arms throughout the night. His chest to your back, a thin shin of sweat between your two bodies. His steady breathing fanning the hair on your nape. You wake up together, on a Tuesday morning. 

Stirring out of sleep, he pulls you flush against him. His plush lips trace a wet path of open-mouth kisses along your neck, exploring the expanse of your skin, drawing ephemeral patterns, warm and unhurried. Softly humming, he tastes you, licking your sweat, inhaling your scent, nuzzling the edge of your jaw and nibbling your earlobe, his cock hardening against your cheeks, his calloused hands kneading the soft swell of your belly. 

His mouth rounds over the slope of your shoulder, and he sucks in sharply. You jerk between his restraining hold, his tongue peaking out to ease the blooming bruise. 

You lift a sleep-heavy eyelids and the morning light hits your iris. Dust particles suspended in the golden sunbeams, the musty smell from the sun-warm curtains carried in the air. His teeth sink in sharp at the base of your neck, a low growl rumbling from his chest, primal and possessive, and it dawns on you. What he’s doing. 

The realization thrums along your nerve-endings, courses through your veins, it blooms wild and spreading inside your chest. He is yours. He was always yours. He was never running away from something, not really. He was running to you. 

He chose you, remote and aloof. A bottomless well of craved affection, lonely scars, lost ideals, and he filled you. Imprinted on you his want and his need, his trust and reverence, in all the ways you let him. 

You summoned him. He found you. He appeared. 

You push back into him, granting him access to the line of your throat, and his bite sinks in deeper. Your fingers card through his hair, heart bursting, body like a fever, arousal pooling slick and sticky between your hips. 

He fucks you slow. Shallow thrusts, the fat head of his cock teasing your entrance, inching further inside your heat with each dragging stroke. His arm banded across your chest and his hand between your folds, he commands your pleasure, flooding all your senses, until you cry out his name, until he comes with you, until your bodies are spent. 

You shower together, and drive to a nearby diner for breakfast. Sitting in a red pleather booth, you drink strong filter coffee and devour thick, buttery pancakes, Frankie’s spend trickling down your panties as you watch him shovel scrambled eggs inside his mouth with a ravenous appetite, his face beaming with a dimpled grin. 

Your smile is so wide, your cheeks hurt.

On the way back, he stops by a CVS to get plasters, gauze and an antiseptic ointment. In the room, kneeled between your thighs, he lets you twirl his curls around your fingers while he dresses your small wound in silence, cautious and meticulous, deft and experienced. 

You know you should talk, know you should start making plans, but he carries his heart in his hand, and his touch is soothing, and your want is restless. High after high, your body tenses and breaks, as he fucks your cunt, your ass, your face, fills you up with his come, greedy teeth sunk into your flesh. 

After making a few calls, he stays another night, and when he leaves for work on Wednesday morning, you spend several minutes observing your reflection in the bathroom’s black-edged mirror. You look good, if not rested, your skin gleaming with a flattering post-orgasm glow. 

You detail the bite marks adorning your skin. They’re everywhere. He hasn’t been gentle. He hasn’t been careful. Some of them still a little sore when you poke a finger into the bruised, tender flesh. The mild pain draws a buzzing, electrical line from your heart to your core. You smile at your reflection. Stop me, you challenge the woman in the mirror. She smirks back at you. She’s so beautiful, so confident, your breath hitches. 

Eventually, your current situation resurfaces. Calling Ava sits at the top of your mental checklist. You wait for a couple of hours, until her lunch break, to dial her number. The first ringtones send you into a brief panic. Above the desk, the woman in the mirror is looking at you. You anchor yourself to her image. 

When Ava picks up, you tell her what happened in terse words: you broke up with Adrian, then quit. You’re currently staying in an out-of-town motel. 

She hollers into the receiver, and you wince with an uncertain smile, holding the phone away from your ear. There are a few cheerful curses as she expresses her pride and surprise, but she quickly gets back on track. 

“So when are you coming here? You’re coming here, right? Richard is gonna make sure you never work again over there. You know that, right?”

“Yes, I know,” you concede ruefully. 

That’s the part of the conversation you should have planned ahead. But you’re still riding high on the fuck-drunk euphoria of the last two days. She questions you for more details, demanding an elaborate report of the events that you’re not too keen on remembering, nor submitting to her judgment. She left without a word, without a goodbye, unnoticed, unacknowledged. You had to confront not one, but two of them.

It occurs to you that you don’t have to tell. Nothing forces you to. Maybe, for the first time ever, you can curate your own experience. Refuse to give in to peer pressure, however benevolent. Define your own story. Be its main character, and its sole narrator. 

“What would I do in New York, anyway? Crash your couch? And then?”

“I told you, Polly has a job for you.”

“No, you said Polly could help me find something. Now she has a job for me? What kind of job?” you frown. “At her practice?”

“No, no. Something in a publishing company one of her clients owns. I don’t know, nothing fancy apparently, but enough to get you started.”

“And what, they’re holding a position for a woman without any qualification and zero experience in their field?”

“If Polly says it’s a sure thing, then it’s a sure thing. Call her. She only mentioned it in passing, we never actually thought you’d fucking leave, Lee! And our couch is very comfortable, I’ll have you know.”

This goddamn collective we. 

When you hang up, nothing is decided. Frankie won’t be back until Friday evening. You're going to be on your own to stew over the crossroads for the next two days. 

Lost in the liminal sequence. 

Ava is right. You could never find a decent job in Tampa. You can’t stay here. You don’t even want to stay. You hate this city, you hate this fucking state. It has been your life-long dream to break-free and get away. The idea of staying inside your father’s radius of influence, within reach of Adrian, gives you the wrong kind of chills. 

But New York? Do you really want to live there? The city has always mildly scared you, with its buoyant history and its mythical aura. Too big, too noisy, too stressful. Completely anonymous. It would be so easy for you to drown in there. Forever disappear.  

The truth is, there isn’t any place you can see yourself living in, because you don’t want to live anywhere without Frankie. 

Only right now, the sheer thought of being despondent on another man rises bile in your stomach. You will never be that woman, ever again. 

“Here is fine,” you sigh with a pout, looking at the one-dollar store painting of the Appalachian. “Why can’t I just stay here forever?”

Completely unfit for reality. 

Adrian’s words seem to find you everywhere. They followed you all the way here, in your hiding place, plucking at the safety blanket Frankie’s care has swaddled you in. You shudder in the warm, quiet room. 

Well, fuck Adrian. Fuck your past. Fuck his words and their condemning truth. 

Step by step. That’s how you’ll proceed. You need to secure your financial situation. You need a new laptop. You need to buy underwear to replace the ones you forgot to pack. And you need food.  

You get dressed and drive to an Apple Store in town, where the price tags on the MacBooks make your eyes bulge. You’ve truly been living inside a despicably privileged bubble. Guilt makes your skin grow tight. 

After running a quick search on your phone, you find a second-hand electronic store, where you purchase a refurbished laptop for a quarter of its original price. You feel stupid for feeling so smart. After all, you’re only experiencing most people’s life. The thought helps you follow through with the rest of your errands, starting with the bank.  

When you come back to the motel with your shopping bags and some takeaway Thai, however, the problem of your immediate future remains unsolved. 

Deliberately stalling, you start fiddling with the computer. The motel doesn’t have Wi-Fi, but you manage to tether the laptop to your phone. The small victory alleviates your anxious sadness. You settle over the bed, back propped against the pillows, and watch brainless social media content as you eat. A warm breeze wafts in through the cracked-open window. This is good, you think. The life-altering decisions can wait. 

Over the next couple of days, you gravitate within a few miles radius of the motel, only going out to buy food and take short walks in the surrounding area. Exploring its vicinity in broad daylight anchors the motel in a reality you are not ready to confront. The fact that it’s always felt like an isolated island is what brought you a sense of safety in the first place. 

But being on your own is exhilarating. You can sleep in late without having to put up with the nagging beeping of an alarm-clock that’s not even yours. Choose to shower, or not, skip a meal or eat pancakes for dinner. You can watch Parks and Recreation bloopers all night long and never tune in to a financial show ever again. You can sleep with the window opened and listen to Disintegration fifty times in a row. Your newfound freedom is in every little detail. 

When Frankie comes back on Friday evening, carrying a six-pack and a takeaway bag, he finds you bare-faced in your sleeping t-shirt, sitting cross-legged on the dirty carpet, watching SNL Digital Shorts on your good-as-new computer. 

He sets the beer and the bag on the desk. An appetizing aroma fills the room. Freshly made burritos from his favorite place. 

Silently patting the space next to you, you invite him to join, but he faces away, hiding his soft smile from you. He takes off his hat, then toes off his boots, and your heart somersaults at how far you’ve come since your early rituals. 

Walking over to you, he crouches at your side to inspect the bandage on your leg, that you changed every day, per his instructions. Seemingly satisfied with your handiwork, he pivots to sit down, his knees protesting with a resounding POP that makes him grunt, and you're overcome by a powerful wave of fondness. Oblivious to the food and the videos on the screen, you unfold your legs and climb over his lap in a straddle. 

“Evening, baby,” he greets you with a round chuckle, soft as velvet, as you lean in for a greedy kiss, prompting him to open with a swipe of your tongue over his plush lips. 

He responds in kind, voracious mouth slanting over yours, tongue licking inside you. Your arms wrap around him, fingers burrowing into the plane of his strong back, the heady scent of him, leather and musk, filling your brain with static and your belly with want. His warm hands slide under your shirt, calloused palms roaming the expanse of your naked chest. He swallows your wanton moans, thumbs playing over your peaked nipples and you take, back arching into his chest, nails digging, hips rolling. 

His touch gets rougher, his hands a kneading grasp over your soft breasts, over the dip of your waist, the swell of your ass, desire pooling hot at your center as his tongue licks and twirls inside your mouth. Chasing the contact of his growing bulge, you bear down over his harsh denim, and his breathing comes in shorter, fingertips teasing the elastic band of your cotton panties. You exhale heavily through your nose, slick soaking his jeans through the soft fabric. 

His lips curve into a grin, thick fingers sliding under your panty-line. He presses into the dip underneath your hips to part your leaking folds with an explicit sound. You push harder into him, into the wall of his chest, forcing him to lean back, your need coiled like a wound spring, angling his face with a harsh tug on his curls to catch his lower lip between your teeth.

“Fuck, okay,” he growls, straightening up with a cinch. 

His fingers clutch the swell of your ass and in one swift motion, the room around you swivels, you’re on your back, legs bracketing his waist. 

As he unbuckles his belt, your gaze follows the rippling of his lean muscles along his forearms to the shifting bulk of his biceps, lingering on the round of his shoulders and his corded neck, up to his gorgeous face. Tousled hair, kiss-swollen lips, cherry-red, curved in a boyish grin. Black, lust-blown pupils that watch you watch him. 

A clear laughter rises from your chest and bubbles in your throat, its music beautiful to your ears, almost alien, long forgotten. 

His grin widens, dimpling his face, and he tugs off his shirt, throwing it at random in the room behind him. Your laughter dies in your throat; it steals your breath away, it always does, the sight of his naked chest, towering over you, gleaming golden in the soft hues from the bedside lamps. The dips and planes, the pattern of his freckles, the scars you could trace with eyes closed. The stories they tell, your precious secrets, your treasured knowledge.

A flat press of his palms over your knees, and he spreads your legs open, exposing the wet patch on your underwear to his gaze, and his smile falls, his expression turning wilder, dark and hungry. 

“Fucking soaking wet,” he husks, chucking down his jeans, pulling out his stiff length from his boxer briefs, and you squirm over the rough rug with a pleading whimper. Spiting in his hand, he starts stroking himself, eyes trained on your core, deft fingers loosely circling his cock in a slow up-and-down motion. Saliva pools in your mouth, you clench around nothing. 

“What’s that t-shirt?” he asks, bending closer to you, slotting his cock between your folds over the slick-drenched fabric of your panties.

“Oh god,” you gasp. “That– what?” 

“That t-shirt you’re wearing.”

You can feel the throbbing weight of his sex, feel its heat as it rubs back and forth over your swollen clit, and your mind scrambles.

“From– from college.”

“You’re gonna keep it on,” he tells you, his left hand finding your breast and giving it a tight squeeze through the worn-out material. “You look so young, it’s like I’m fucking you in your dorm.”

The fat head of his cock nudges at your entrance, pushing the soaked fabric in, and your mouth falls open, hips arching into him.

“Like I knew you back then. Like I’ve always known you,” he rasps after a thick swallow. “Like a second chance. You know?”

“I know,” you mouthe with a short nod. 

Hooking the tip of his finger, he slides your panties aside, just enough to line himself up, slowly inching inside your heat with a strained groan. 

“Shit, baby, you’re tight.”

The stretch is impossible, the size of him blinding, and you hiss and squirm, but his hold on your waist is bruising, keeping you in place as he thrusts inside you inch by inch, thick cock catching at your entrance. 

There’s the working of his throat as he gathers saliva in his mouth, and he locks eyes with you, making sure you’re watching, before he lets it slide along his tongue straight onto your cunt. The rough carpet scraps your ass as you writhe against his restraint, against the terrifying notion that he always knows just what it is that you want, that he always makes sure you get it. 

“You wanted it, now you gotta take it. You’re gonna take it like a good girl.”

“Yes, Frankie,” you breathe out, nodding again, surrendering, bucking your hips into him.

“Oh yea, good girl, that’s it,” he coos. “Gonna stretch that pretty little cunt on my cock, until you come all over it,” he says, moving inside you, “until you beg me to stop–”

“I’ll never beg you to stop,” you breathe out, brows furrowed, sweat beading at your temples as you take his first shallow, labored strokes.

“Wanna bet?” he asks, drawing your legs over his lap with a sudden tug, deepening his thrusts at a blinding angle. 

You thrash your head, back arching off the carpet, a guttural sound vibrating in your throat as he starts fucking into you at a steady pace, his cock dragging along your walls, leaving you no choice but to accommodate his girth. 

With a small grunt, he thrusts in deeper, the round head of his cock grinding against your center and your fingers scrabble frantically, flying to his chest and clawing at the meat of his muscles.

“That perfect fucking cunt,” he says, eyes trained on where he disappears into you, “you feel so fucking good, Lee. You’re so beautiful. Say it.”

“I’m beautiful,” you say in a warped voice.

“You’re fucking perfect. Say it, Lee,” he husks, drilling inside you faster, with undiluted strength, clutching your waist and sliding you over his cock so you meet him thrust for thrust. 

“Oh god, Frankie,” you beg, after all, taking hold of his wrists, a desperate attempt to slow down his merciless pace. 

Leaning forward, he covers you with his broad frame, crushing you into the rug, spine undulating as he thoroughly wrecks you, unrelenting, his speed escalating.

The heady musk of his scent fills your nostrils, so thick you can taste it. His hot breath scalds the shell of your ear, brutal shockwaves radiating from your center with each of his strokes, each of his words.

“Be a good girl, and say it,” he pants, “say you’re perfect.”

—

You’re mine, Lee Abbott. 

Celadon green, and a pale shade of yellow. He knows your scent will haunt him long after you’ve left him. You’re a part of him now. He made you so. You’ll forever be woven into his flesh, into his very soul. 

You’re mine. Lee Abbott.

He never speaks those words out loud. He’ll sooner die than compromise or be a hindrance to your newfound independence. 

But god, you’re his. Your entire body bears the mark of his desperate plea. Bite marks on the swell of your hips, the round of your ass, the curve of your neck. Heart shaped flecks of crimson, blossoming underneath the surface of your thin skin along the line of your throat, your collarbone, and the weight of your tits.

Every night, he covers you in his sweat and his spit, before he fills you up with his come. 

I love you, he said instead, that first night, and you never replied. In a few days, you’ll be gone, and it might very well kill him, but he will let you go. 

And maybe, from the start, he was more yours than you ever were his. A part of him knew it. The part that tried resisting your pull. The part that compelled him to run away from you that very first night.

Two weeks. Two weeks, and you’ll go north. Live with your sister in New York. Start over. 

There was this talk, over cold burritos and warm beer. He ate with reluctance, desirous to keep your taste on his tongue. Forever preserve the flavor of your orgasm that he lapped from your folds.

That talk that tore his bleeding heart right out of his chest, when you hinted you might have to leave town. You couldn’t explain, you said. Couldn’t make sense of it. You said, I just want to stay here in this room, with you. I don’t want anything to change. 

But it made sense to him. You had to leave, put physical distance between yourself and those who’d wounded you continuously throughout the years, so you could rebuild your life, rebuild yourself. And you needed to be on your own to do this the right way. Once more, he reveled in your courage. He admired your strength. 

He hadn’t measured the extent of his hatred for this man until you pronounced his name. Adrian. Your fiancé. This shit stain. Ever since you broke free, he’s had violent dreams about him. A faceless, lanky silhouette, he beats him to a pulp until his knuckles burst over the man’s skull. He wakes up feeling blood spilling warm and gooey between his fingers.

The local newspapers continue to allude to your departure from your father’s company. Short, carefully redacted articles downplaying the event with meticulously curated talking points. Typical PR damage control bullshit. 

He looks them up, and never mentions them, of course, but every so often, when he arrives from work, he finds you hunched over your laptop, brow furrowed, bloodshot eyes. Quickly shutting the computer close as soon as he approaches. You’re preparing the after, you say. Scouting for jobs, apartments, and once more, he chooses to believe you. 

But then, you cry at night. Silently heaving next to him, your face buried into the pillow to muffle the sound of your heavy sobbing. He pulls you into him, into his chest, wrapping his body around your shaking frame. Chin tucked over the crown of your head. Humming into your hair. You seem so frail, so vulnerable in his hold, and he wishes to absorb your loss, annihilate the pain, rip it from you and make it disappear. 

I got you, Lee. Don’t be afraid, you’ll get through this. 

Can you hear him, then? Do you believe his words of reassurance? You fall asleep with your hands clutching his shoulders, exhausted, the wrong kind of spent. 

You need to go. And he’ll let you leave. Your needs are his needs. They dictate his life. He’ll be right here, waiting for you on the other side.

He said, This never ends, and he meant every word.

But the fucking pain. 

Constantly ripping through his chest, it’s in everything he does, tainting your last days together. In every look at your gorgeous face, in every kiss, every stroke, every embrace. It’s there when he marvels at the graceful ways in which you move, at your recovering appetite, at your patience with him when you let him dress your wound that’s long healed. 

It’s in the blissful domestic routine you two have so naturally fallen into. It’s in his every thought, at work, with his kid, with you. When he comes to you at night, in this shithole that feels more like home than his new house does.  

And whenever he opens his mouth, he fears he’ll betray himself. The words are always there, in the back of his throat, ready to pour out of him. I want you to meet my daughter. I want you to move in with me. I’ll provide for you. You can be whoever you want. Stay. Stay with me. 

You’re mine, Lee.  

Two weeks isn’t enough. Two lifetimes wouldn’t be. 

—

The small cantina is crammed, swarming with boisterous kids and their harassed parents. A continuous clamor hangs over you like a lead lid, you don’t think you’d be able to hear your own voice if you were able to speak. 

Frankie’s head is dipped, his face half concealed behind the brim of his trucker hat, his broad frame hunched over his tray. He hasn’t touched much of his food, and you have yet to start on yours. When you left the motel, a quick lunch had sounded like a good idea. A welcome distraction from the impending separation. 

Now, it feels like moving through a bad dream, like running away in slow motion from an ineluctable disaster.

Inside your palm lingers the ghost sensation of the room’s keychain. You balled your fist around it before checking out at the reception. You raked your brain for an excuse to keep it, and found none. 

Two weeks ago, you’d thought leaving was the right thing to do. He said he understood your decision. He said, I’ll wait for you. 

And when you booked the flight, the date, however close, seemed surreal. Somewhere in the distant future, intangible. As the day drew near, you did what you do best. You refused to acknowledge the reality of it, eluding the prospect, reasoning with yourself that you were merely preserving your last moments with Frankie. 

Now, the take-off only a couple of hours away, your luggage stored in the truck’s tailgate, you can’t shake the feeling that this is a terrible mistake. You don’t care about rebuilding your life. You don’t give a damn about having a job, about emancipating, about being an independent woman. You want to build a home with him. You want to become his wife, to raise his daughter. You want to be his forever. 

You’re going to be sick, is what’s going to happen. 

“Should we go?”

You meet his shadowed eyes, fighting the tears that fill up yours, and nod in agreement. 

Outside the cantina, the heat hits you like a brick wall. Thoughts rush to your head, about the New York winters, the harsh, icy winds, the snow. The clothes you’ll have to buy. Wool sweaters, boots, a coat. Familiarize yourself with the subway. Those dark, underground tunnels. The ramifications of what this new life entails are overwhelming. 

You look up at Frankie and there is no cold hard stare. Only his soft sad eyes, and the gentle caress of their mahogany light, and the pleading arch of his brow. You’re hanging off a cliff, suspended over the abyss, grasping at the dirt, like the wild creature in your rib cage, trying to claw its way out and back to him, where it belongs. Where you belong. 

Nothing makes sense anymore.

“Okay, I’ll call a cab,” you say into your bag, looking for your phone, heart thumping in your throat, tears prickling your nose.

Frankie sighs, a constrained, pained rasp of a breath. He props his hands on his hips, cocking his leg to the side, and the heel of his boot scuffs over the asphalt. 

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you to the airport?”

The swelling lump in the back of your throat won’t let you talk, so you shake your head no. 

“I can drive you all the way there, if you want. New York, I mean. We could… we could make a detour. Through the Appalachian. See that ugly painting in the real.”

His attempt at a cocky smile fails to reach his eyes. 

A first tear spills out from the corner of your eyes. A fat, angry droplet that rolls down your cheek to hang on the edge of your jaw. 

“Hey now, don’t cry. C’mere.”  

Your bag falls to the floor when you crash into the solid warmth of his chest. Winding his strong arms around you, he cups the back of your head in a gentle, careful cradle, lifting you up in his hold.

His cap falls to the ground when you thread your fingers through his hair. You burrow into his neck, into him. You want to live inside his body, meld with his bloodstream, wrap around his heart, become his heartbeat. 

He breathes you in, the plush press of his lips a warm caress on your temple, and more tears flow out of you.

“I wish you could come with me.”

“I know, baby. I wish I could come with you.”

“I would—” you start with a sob, “I would love her like a mother. I could. I know I could.”

“I know you would. Of course, you would. Hey, look at me,” he says, putting you down and pulling away just a notch, cupping your wet face with both hands. “This is not over. It can never be over. It’s just the beginning. The beginning of something different.”

Eyes fluttering shut, you tilt your head to the side, his calloused palm grazing your cheek, to place a kiss on the inside of his wrist. Over the small tattoo you never got a chance to ask him about. You inhale him there, musk, leather, safety. You let your head rest between his hands, the same way you placed your life between his lips, many months ago.

“Frankie, I need to ask you something.”

“Anything.”

“Why… That very first night, in the bar. Why did you turn around? What made you look at me?”

His face falls. The crease in his brow deepens as he visibly ponders over his answer. The sun backlights his curls with a golden halo. When he speaks, his voice is a low rasp, a round aching husk. 

“I’d been searching for you for a long time.”

He thumbs away a stray tear from the apple of your cheek; he scratches his throat. 

“Call me when you get to the airport, okay? And when you board. And when you land. Okay?”

A wistful smile lifts the corner of your lips. Looking at him through hanging tears, you say, “I just realized we’ve never ever talked on the phone.”

Frankie breathes in deep, his smile mirroring yours. So beautiful, so strong. So soft. Yours.  

“See, baby? We got so many things to look forward to. It’s just the beginning.” 

*****

Thank you so much for reading and for your patience 🧡 I hope you liked it. Remember, there's still an epilogue. It will be shorter, so it shouldn't take me too long to birth it, if my brain cooperates 🤞🏻

[seokmn]

bonus chapter.

wc: 0.5k words

chan laughed out loud while looking at his phone. “i cant believe you really tweeted this,” he showed his cellphone to you, showing the last tweet you posted on your private account.

you smiled and shrugged your shoulders, looking at your own cellphone once again. “i didn’t lie, tho.”

“i know,” chan wrapped his arm around your waist and placed a few pecks on your neck. you could feel chan smiling against your skin. “that’s what i love about you. but i hope you dont care about those comments, they’re silly and harmless. i would never have a mistress.”

chan kept kissing your neck in a playful manner. “unless you want to create a persona that is into guys who aren’t available,” you gasped and laughed while leaning back to look at his cocky smile.

“don’t even start with these nasty jokes, lee chan!” you pushed his head and he chuckled while raising his hands in surrender. “okay, okay!”

chan’s behavior soon changed into a calm one and he grabbed your hand, caressing your knuckles while looking at the promise ring he once put in your finger.

“you know, it feels surreal. looking at your hand, seeing the ring i put on your finger, knowing that one day i’ll give you two more rings,” he sighed and looked at you. “i’m really happy, yn. i’m happy that i left that company, i’m happy i didn’t become an idol, and i’m happy to have you.”

“what about being happy for becoming an important singer? soon enough you’ll be having your first tour.”

“i’m happy about that too, of course. but that wouldn’t happen if all of that crazy shit didn’t happen, don’t you agree?”

you looked at him with a small smile on your face and nodded. “you’re right. it was tough, but i’m glad it happened.”

“it put our love in game and we showed to ourselves and to the world that your love is real. now look at us, you’re a fashion designer and icon and i’m a successful singer,” chan cringed when the word ‘successful’ came out of his mouth, making you hold back a laugh. “it feels weird talking about myself like that.”

“but it’s the truth, you are successful. i always knew you would be, tho. you’re so talented, kind and charismatic. there was no way that your career as a singer would fail, especially under seungcheol’s company, he knows what he’s doing and knows what you’re capable of.”

chan felt his heart melt as he heard your words and immediately pulled you into a kiss when you finished your sentence.

“i love you. you’re more than everything to me. i promise you my heart will always be yours and yours only,” he whispered once the kiss was broken, his forehead resting against yours as you scrunched your nose while giving him your usual goofy smile that a teenager in love would give to his crush after he pecked her cheek.

“i promise you my heart will always be yours too. i love you way too much for my own good, but i like that.”

“good, you really should like that, love. now come on, let’s go out, today is a special day.”

“special day? why?”

“you’ll see.”

lua’s note: and now hss is officially complete! i want to thank yall for reading it and expressing your love towards the smau! that was the first time i got so many compliments and interactions in a project and every single time i saw a comment, a rb or an ask about the smau my heart would always melt!! i hope yall enjoyed hss, and if you want to stay tuned for my next smau ;) hope yall have the best days of your lives from now on ❤️ love you always, lua.

HIGH SCHOOL SWEETHEARTS

yn and chan date since their freshman year and are truly high school sweethearts, but will chan’s dream of becoming an idol get between their relationship?

masterlist – prev

taglist: @ivehypnosis @wonkierideul @ateez-atiny380 @noircheols @222brainrot @odxrilove @vixensss @starshuas @ziidino @headlockimnida @svtmaru

[astra-ravana]

⛧Astra's Grimoire Masterlist Part 2⛧

(Because Tumblr only allows 100 links per post)

Working With Spirits

Agalierap

Anubis

Baba Yaga

Barbatos

Bifrons

Cain

Chenor

Fenrir

Flereous

Fleurety

Furfur

Glasya-Labolas

Gremory

Hekate

Hel

Hismael

Lua Saturni

Lucifuge Rofocale

Mammon

Marax

Morgan Le Fay

Naberius

Ose

Rashoon

Rosier

Set

Tiamat

Thoth

Vepar

Spells/Recipes

Eliminate Personal Poverty

To Cause A Man Impotence

New Friend Spell

Child Protection Shoe Spell

A Cord Of Nine: Demonic Money Spell

Unblock A Manifestation

Mind Your Mind

Ghost Water

Lost Object Spell

Manifestation Powder

Opening The "First Gate Of Madness"

Ghost Hex

Lemon Curse

One Word Spells

White Rabbit, White Rabbit, White Rabbit

Stir Your Inner Darkness

Other/Various Topics

Aleister Crowley Quotes

Undoing Spells

Burning A Black Candle

Essential Correspondences

Astagyromancy: Dice Divination

Datura

The Stuck Heart

Uses For Teeth

Defensive/Protective Magick

Counting Crows

Cat Magick

Why I Spell Magick With A 'K'

Using Taglocks

Bones In Magick And Divination

Magick Mushrooms

Planetary Days And Hours

Getting Dirty

Witch's Jewelry

Augury: Bird Divination

Must Love Demons

Elementals

The Pendulum

Celebrating Samhain

Witch Swords

Pokeweed

Working With Poppets

The Magickal Chants of V.K Jehannun

Tips For Working With Demons

The Poison Path

The Dark Dead & Baneful Necromancy

Mirror Magick Applications

Sigil Magick: Illustrating Your Intent

The Advantage Of Dream Work

High Vs. Low Magick

The Power Of Ley Lines

Aleister Crowley's Thoth Tarot Deck

Using Goofer Dust

Just Add Chaos

Types Of Fae

Music Magick

On Types Of Spirits And The Genius Loci

Djinn And Their Types

Evil Eyes

Shamanism: Beliefs And Practice

The Signs: Correspondences

Necromancy Basics

The Powers That Be

A Guide To Shape-Shifting

On Astral Travel

Portals

Automatic Writing

Tips, Fun Facts & Guidelines: From The Grimoire Of Deathful Wombs

Medieval Witches & Psychedelics

The Witching Hour

Labradorite: History And Use

[fanfiction4sooya]

Masterlist

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (16)

A Holy Sight

At long last, Arianwyn returns to King’s Landing.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: none

Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Emrys, Vermax, and Arrax were already saddled and waiting in the courtyard when Arianwyn, clad in her riding leathers, raced down the castle’s steps. Emrys immediately lurched forward to try and meet her, but the Dragonkeepers had long since learned their lesson and now had six monks holding his reins to keep him in place. He whined rather pitifully but perked up the moment Arianwyn laid a hand on his snout.

“Lentot jī, Emrys,” she whispered. “Jorrāelti gierȳti lua āmāzī.” We are going home, Emrys. We are going back to the people we love.

He whooped in response, crouching to allow her to mount more easily. She climbed into his saddle, fastening a satchel behind her. The majority of her belongings would be with Brynna and her guards on one of the ships leaving from Spicetown, but not this.

Not used to carrying any cargo beyond Arianwyn herself, Emrys tilted his head as he examined the small bag.

“Arlī mīsītsor, yno syt lo bē Dāro Vilinio māzissuty jonevīlun. Nūmia sepār landir sesīr,” she explained. The dragon looked from her to the bag, then back again, as if confused. “Vaogenkon rongondi jomīston āmāzīnna daor. Dāria yne tolī sȳrī gīmēdas.” Fresh clothes, for me to wear once we arrive. Jewels and shoes, too. I can’t make my return in dirty leather. The Queen taught me too well.

Emrys only huffed, and she imagined that if he could, he would roll his eyes.

The courtyard doors opened, and Rhaenyra and her family emerged. Arianwyn suppressed her smile and straightened her posture, refusing to look any of them in the eye. Though Jacaerys did try to catch her attention as he mounted. He’d been in a foul mood since dinner the night before. She didn’t have a single guess as to why, nor did she care to ask.

Once he and Lucerys were settled in their saddles, Rhaenyra approached, a sleeping young Viserys on her hip. She gave detailed instructions on how to get to King’s Landing and what they were to do from there, but Arianwyn did not listen. She did not even meet Rhaenyra’s gaze; instead, she focused on offering encouraging whispers to Emrys.

Why would she need instruction when she’d spent the last eight years dreaming of flying back?

Finally, Rhaenyra made her way toward the dock. She and Daemon would not fly to King’s Landing while she was heavily pregnant. Instead, they were to sail on the ship with their two young sons – Aegon and Viserys – and the servants and cargo.

Arianwyn was grateful for it. The last time she had flown across the Blackwater, Caraxes had nearly driven Emrys to madness for how close he followed. Today, they would fly free.

The sight of the shining red roofs of King’s Landing brought more comfort to Arianwyn than she had anticipated. How could simple tiles bring forth such a feeling of home?

While Vermax and Arrax dutifully flew straight for the Dragonpit, Arianwyn led Emrys in a wide circle before she landed, wanting to soak in as much of the city as possible before she was stuffed in a carriage with her stepbrothers. The sun was infinitely warmer than on Dragonstone, and while there was still the smell of salt coming off the sea, it was far more inviting than the fishy, wet brine she’d endured for so long.

The moment they landed, Emrys let out a joyful roar, overcome with excitement to finally be home. The Dragonkeepers never had the chance to take his reins, for as soon as Arianwyn dismounted, he scampered into the mouth of the Dragonpit, seeking his long-lost companions.

One of the young female Dragonkeepers allowed Arianwyn to use her room to change into her gown and stayed to help adjust the folds of the silk, straighten the braided silver and bronze chains of her necklace, and release the wind-blown tangles from her silver curls.

But when she finally climbed into the carriage, her stepbrothers were not impressed by her appearance.

“We’re going to be late because of you,” Jace complained, pounding the ceiling to signal their departure as he glared at her.

Arianwyn ran her eyes over his attire – a worn gray gambeson that made him look more like a squire than a prince. Luke wore the same. She shrugged and curled her lips in a saccharine smile. “At least I will look presentable when we reach the castle.”

He scoffed, “What do clothes matter? I am the future King, no matter what I wear.”

“What you wear can send a message,” Arianwyn replied, perhaps more curtly than was necessary. “For those of us who cannot speak so freely as a ‘future King,’ we must rely on more subtle methods to convey our opinions.”

“And what message does this dress send?” Jace asked with more venom than she’d heard before. He reveled in teasing her but had never truly sounded hateful toward her. Why did he do so now?

Luke repeatedly banged his forehead against the carriage window.

Perhaps Jace was angry because he understood the message she was trying to send and wanted her to say it aloud so he could have something to report to Daemon.

The elaborate, flowing gown was made entirely of the finest black and bronze silk brocade, with hundreds of tiny round beads made of blackened steel stitched into the bodice and sleeves, evoking the appearance of a set of pauldrons. Her jewels were entirely set in bronze, save for the single silver chain woven into her necklace – the same necklace Aemond had chosen for her on her thirteenth name day.

The ensemble practically screamed her message: I am not one of them.

But she could not say that. Not to Jace, who would immediately report what she said to Daemon. So she pursed her lips and gave a pretty lie, “It sends the message that I am a beautiful and civilized young woman. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Jace scoffed again and turned away from her, watching the pale stone of the city rush past them. For the rest of the ride to the docks, Arianwyn wore a self-satisfied smile, though she fiddled nervously with one of the stones on her necklace: a single, tear-shaped sapphire.

The mood in the carriage lightened significantly once Rhaena joined them. She was the only person who could ever create peace between Arianwyn and Jace.

She had not been permitted to bring Morning with her, as the long journey would have been difficult for the still-young hatchling. So, she talked ceaselessly about how much she missed the little pink creature, worrying that she would somehow miss all of his youth in the few days they would be gone. The others sympathized with her, and all tried to cheer her with stories of their dragons’ adolescence.

But silence fell once more when they rode into the courtyard of the Red Keep to find it all but empty. The king was not there to greet them, nor the queen, their children, or even any of the Small Council. Only Ser Steffon Darklyn was there to receive them.

“All hail Rhaenyra of House Targaryen,” he announced to no one but the regularly stationed guards and a handful of scattered servants, “Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne, and her Royal Consort, Prince Daemon Targaryen.”

As she exited the carriage behind her siblings, Arianwyn watched the confusion on Rhaenyra and Daemon’s faces melt into anger. Obviously, the princess had been expecting something far more grand. Perhaps she expected it still, as she ordered the children into formation with a tilt of her chin.

Being his eldest child, Arianwyn should have been positioned just behind Daemon, with her younger half-sisters behind her. But she knew her true place. So she stood in the back, Rhaena and the two babes ahead of her.

But it did not bother her. Soon, she would be with her true family once more.

After long, awkward minutes of waiting in the chilly courtyard, the doors to the Red Keep finally opened. Only one man emerged, a lord that Arianwyn did not recognize. He approached Rhaenyra and gave a swift bow before taking her hands.

“Welcome back, Princess,” he said.

Rhaenyra stared back at him in disbelief. “Lord Caswell. Has something happened?”

They all glanced around the pitiful courtyard before Caswell answered. “I am afraid not, princess. Please, come with me.” He stood aside with a hand gesturing back toward the door. With a hefty sigh, Rhaenyra followed him into the Red Keep.

Arianwyn’s heart soared as she entered the familiar halls. Some things had changed, yes. New paintings and tapestries hung on the walls, and the Seven-Pointed Star had been carved above many thresholds. But still, it was home.

Lord Caswell brought them to a halt at the foot of the Grand Staircase. “Your petition shall be heard tomorrow, I am told,” he said. He leaned closer to Daemon and Rhaenyra, whispering something Arianwyn could not hear.

When he withdrew, Rhaenyra turned to her children. “Your father and I are to go see the king. We will meet you in our chambers later in the evening. But, for now, you have leave of the castle.”

Daemon stared directly at Arianwyn as he added, “I expect you will all behave yourselves and stay out of trouble.” She did not reply but held his gaze until he turned and went up the steps with Rhaenyra.

Rhaena ran off to find her sister. For a moment, Arianwyn did not know where to go. Her old rooms? The library?

But her choice was made when she heard Jace whisper to Luke. “Let’s go to the training yard. I want to see if that hole in the wall is still there.”

Of course, the training yard. Arianwyn’s heart skipped a beat as she shook off her shock at being in the Red Keep again. Where she wanted to go was not a place but a person. But the training yard would do for now.

For she knew that was where she would find Aemond.

It was difficult for her not to sprint down the hallways for her eagerness, but she kept her pace slow and herself far enough behind her stepbrothers that they did not notice her and eventually, their presence faded from her mind. A lightness spread through her body, and her fingers tingled ceaselessly until she clasped her hands together and squeezed.

Though it had been eight years since she had seen him, she still had letters from Aemond every day. He kept her appraised of everything that happened in the Red Keep so thoroughly that she sometimes felt as though she had never left. So why did she now find herself so nervous to see him?

She brushed off the question as she emerged into the light. Jace and Luke were already halfway down the stairs to the training yard proper while she continued straight on the rampart to the viewing platform where she and Helaena had always sat with their Septa and the King.

Her eyes were drawn downward when she heard the clanging of steel on steel, but she was left disappointed when she only found two identical men, whom she assumed to be the Cargyll brothers sparring. The yard was more crowded than she had ever seen, with dozens of lords and ladies gathering to watch the men practicing. Curious, she had rarely seen ladies below the ramparts before.

Before Arianwyn could consider it further, a flash of white caught her eyes. Her breath caught when she, at last, saw him.

Aemond.

Though he was turned away from her, she would know him even in darkness. But there he was, leaning over a display of weapons. In his letters, he had told Arianwyn that while he could hold his own with many different weapons, the simple longsword remained his favorite. Indeed, he forwent all the maces, hammers, and axes on the table before him and drew his sword from his belt.

Picking up a wooden shield, he stalked across the yard to meet Ser Criston, a crowd immediately gathering around them. Not wanting to lose sight of him, Arianwyn ran across the wall to get a better view.

Gods, he was truly a man now.

He stood several inches taller than Ser Criston, and though he was quite lean, an undeniable width to his shoulders revealed a great strength. But what most drew Arianwyn’s admiration was his face.

Beautiful was the only word Arianwyn could think of to describe him. The line of his jaw was severe, running parallel to the sharpness of his cheekbones. His nose was long and stately, and his lips seemed to hold a permanent mischievous grin. There was an intensity in his one eye, which was only amplified by the harshness of the scar that still ran across the left side of his face and the black leather patch covering where his eye had once been.

Arianwyn’s chest stung slightly not to see her sapphire, but it was quickly brushed aside when Aemond jumped up and down several times before crouching in an offensive position. Ser Criston mirrored the motion, and the fight began.

Cole moved first, swinging his morningstar at Aemond’s head. Arianwyn’s heart jumped as it came down, but Aemond had already moved, and the weapon crashed against his shield.

She hardly breathed watching them fight, at once terrified to see Aemond hurt and yet thrilled by the warrior he had become. He moved with the remarkable swiftness of a Dornish adder and the deadly grace of a Qohorik tiger. It was entrancing.

Arianwyn fought the urge to shout when Ser Criston once more brought his morningstar down on Aemond’s shield, shattering one side and forcing him down on one knee. But Aemond only tossed his shield out of the ring and rose, swinging his blade around the Kinsguard’s head twice.

When he feinted another swing, Cole fell for the bait, swinging wildly and throwing himself off balance just as Aemond spun out of the way and behind him. Cole was angry now, frustrated that he could not match his opponent’s speed. Aemond twirled his sword in a taunting flourish as the knight stalked around him, assessing his next move.

Cole struck left, and Aemond dodged. Cole followed the momentum of his heavy weapon and came back around to his right, but Aemond dodged again. Cole swung again and again, but each time, Aemond dodged him with ease.

When Cole began to shout as he raised his weapon to bring another wild swing down on the Prince, Aemond brought up his sword to meet it. The morningstar pulled Cole to the right, exposing his chest and neck. Aemond spun around him, keeping his good eye on his opponent, and brought the tip of his blade against Ser Criston’s neck.

Arianwyn shivered as an unfamiliar feeling swept through her and settled low in her stomach. It was nearly like the rush she felt whenever Emrys took a steep dive, but somehow different. After taking a moment to collect herself, she joined in on the applause.

Ser Criston dropped his morningstar and began to clap too, murmuring something Arianwyn could not hear atop the wall. Nor could she hear Aemond’s response as he lowered his sword back to his side and faced his nephews.

A shout came to open the gates, drawing the attention of all in the yard – except Aemond and Arianwyn. Neither noticed as Vaemond Velaryon strode in, surrounded by bannermen, giving a withering look to Lucerys as he passed. Aemond did not even notice the servant approaching to offer him a new shield.

For he had turned to look up at the wall, and there he found her.

As Aemond gazed upon Arianwyn for the first time in years, he thought that, surely, no other man had ever felt such joy. When she looked down on him from the rampart and blessed him with her glorious smile, he was certain of it.

He was a drowning man at last breaching the surface and taking a life-giving gulp of air. He was a man dying of thirst at last feeling the sweet taste of water upon his lips. He was a man whose heart had been bleeding for years without ceasing, healed in an instant simply by the holy sight of the woman he loved.

When he had first heard that Rhaenyra and the rest were coming to King’s Landing, he had not allowed himself to hope that Arianwyn would be with them. For if he had, and she were left alone on Dragonstone, he would not have been able to stop himself from flying to her rescue.

But thank the gods, he did not have to. She was here. She was safe. And she was perfect.

Her beauty far surpassed anything Aemond had been able to imagine. Her curling white hair fell in a wild, wonderful cascade down her back. Her plump cheeks and full lips were the deep, enticing pink of the finest Tyrell roses. And her eyes were as bright as polished silver, sparkling with their characteristic gleam.

Aemond brushed aside a servant who had approached him and ignored Cole’s attempts to begin another round of sparring entirely. Sliding his sword back into its sheath, he pushed through the gathered crowds toward the stairs. Seeing him approach, Arianwyn ran across the ramparts to meet him.

Even as he came to a halt a step below her, Aemond stood at least a head taller. He did not say anything as he faced her, breath heavy from both his fight and his rush up the steps. Then, lowering his eyes to her neck and her jeweled chain, he reached out a hand as if to grab it but stopped mere inches from her skin.

What if she wasn’t really here? He had imagined her beside him so often. What if this was just another illusion? What if he tried to touch her and only felt cold air?

“Aemond…” she whispered, for only him to hear.

Gods, he wanted her to be real. He wanted to kiss her. To take her in his arms and carry her to the Sept and wed her without hesitation. But he could not do that. He could not even move for the intensity of the hope and elation racing through his veins.

But he did not have to. Swifter than he could realize, Arianwyn threw herself into his arms, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck as she pressed her cheek to his. Real. She was real, and she was here.

Slowly, as his body remembered how, he brought his trembling arms around her, at last running his fingers through her silver curls. It took all his strength to remain standing.

“Aemond,” she whispered again, her breath warming his ear. “Aemond, I’m finally home.”

[lualuabestningdungie]

Tomorrow x Together!

BOYNEXTDOOR!

Enhypen!

[wannaeatramyeon]

Lookism x Reader: "What are we?"

G/N. Relationship questions. Goo, Johan, Gun, Jake, DG, Samuel, Ryuhei. Masterlists

"What are we?" You blurt out. It gurgles up your throat and past your lips.

The question is unprompted. In truth it was something constantly running through your mind though you had never discussed it.

He stares, for a moment, like a deer caught in headlights before regaining his composure.

A sly smile slithers over Goo's face.

Even his glasses seem to somehow glint playfully in the light.

"What was that, sweetheart?" He asks, tilting his ear closer to you.

He knows that you know that he heard you perfectly yet he still likes to be difficult.

"Nothing," you mutter, rolling your eyes as dots of pink appear on your cheek.

His smile grows at your reaction. "Really, nothing?" You ignore him. "Didn't sound like nothing."

"..."

"Sound like you asked what we," he gestures at you and him, "are."

"Why are you being an asshole if you heard me then," you snap and he shrugs, unperturbed by your insult.

"Don't be like this," Goo purrs, slinging an arm around your shoulder and pulling you close, other hand adjusting his glasses. "You're mine, and that would make me yours."

Ugh. You had considered shoving him off until he said that. He always knows what to say to keep you sweet and you're an absolute sucker for his unhinged charms.

"Happy, cupcake?"

Yeah, you're very happy. But you still refuse to look at him, even as a smile settles on your face.

.

.

"What?" Johan asks.

"What do you mean what?"

"I mean what-" he abruptly stops and clears his throat, face flushed. He looks anywhere but at you. A fascinating spot on the wall, a stain on the floor, somewhere over the horizon that he's contemplating sprinting off to.

"What were you going to say?"

Mustering up all his courage, he manages not to run off. Instead, he mumbles something under his breath that you can't catch.

"What?" You ask and god, if you say what one more time, you're going to fling yourself into incoming traffic.

Johan looks physically pained, as if he would rather go ten rounds with Gun Park than repeat what he said. But he can do this. He isn't a coward.

... That doesn't mean he needs to look at you while he says it though.

"You're Eden and Miro's favourite person. We talk about getting more puppies together. We do everything together." His ears glow bright red. "You met my mom. She talks about you all the time. She keeps giving me advice-"

"Ok, ok," you grin, taking his hand. Bless his sweet tortured soul, because he hasn't really officially said you're together but you can take a hint. "I guess it sounds like you're my boyfriend."

With a sigh of relief, Johan turns to you wearing a soft smile. "Yeah. I guess I am."

.

.

"You're not clear?" Gun asks with an eyebrow arched.

He looks pointedly at you wandering half naked in his home, his shirt you're wearing barely covering your ass.

"I just-" you bluster, yanking the offering garment lower and likely stretching it but fuck it. "We never said."

Gun gives you a look. One when he thinks you're being particularly insolent or ignorant.

"Don't I spend all my spare time with you?"

"Yes but-"

"Don't I give you complete access to every part of me?"

"Yes-"

"Didn't I introduce you to Charles?"

"And Goo." You add with a grin as Gun's jaw tightens. The latter was unplanned and unwanted. Goo had practically stalked him to his date and then played a very chatty third wheel.

He ignores your comment, just like he tends to ignore most things to do with Goo. "I thought it was obvious I can't see a future without you."

"Oh." You feel the grin tugging at your lips.

"Now are you clear?" Gun asks, eyes warm and lips lifted too as you nod.

.

.

"We?" Jake gives you a full toothy grin.

"Us."

"Our relationship?"

"Yes," you press, giving him a fond shove.

"Well," he starts ticking off his fingers, "Somehow I think Jerry is more loyal to you than me. Brad thinks you're more fun. Jason prefers you as the boss. Lua just prefers you fullstop. And I'm sure Lineman is even more in love you with you than I am-"

Jake slams his mouth shut. His eyes widen as he realises what he just confessed.

He was supposed to joke around how you've usurped him as the actual boss of Big Deal and he's now your lowly peon doing your bidding.

Not that he’s in-

It should be obvious to anyone with eyes that you're together. That Jake is your boyfriend. It's nice, he guesses, to officially confirm that and put that little worried wrinkle between your brows to rest.

But it is far far too early for him to throw the 'L' word around. He's worried about scaring you off and burdening you with more than you can bear-

"Hmm," you cut in on his spiralling thoughts, tapping your finger on your chin thoughtfully "I dunno. I think Lineman is even more in love with my boyfriend than I am."

Your words sink in. Jake turns to you, grin on his face once more and presses a kiss to your cheek. "Sounds like we both have competition."

.

.

"About that," DG starts, and your heart sinks.

That surely isn't a good sign, right?

"What do you think?" He slides over a piece of paper to you and you find a press release printed.

Your eyes clock the picture of you two, looking very cosy and coupley - his arm around you and your head on his shoulder. It's a very flattering picture of him, although when is this guy not photogenic? It's not a bad one of you either.

Beneath it sits a few lines. You scan over the words. 'Relationship', 'Dating', 'Respectful', 'Privacy' stand out.

You glance up to find him staring intently back at you. Leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees and fingers steepled together.

It's a tell. You know him well enough by now to see that his nerves are flaring beneath the cool mask.

This is a big step for him, but an even bigger ask for you. To subject yourself to the limelight and his fans and accept who he is, the life he lives.

There was never any doubt.

"It's great." You grin, and he gazes at you, half lidded and with a small smile. 

.

.

"Whatever you want us to be," Samuel says with a smirk, and you internally frown at him, batting the ball so easily back into your court.

You suppose you only have yourself to blame.

You should know by now he would be avoidant when there's a lot to lose.  That overplaying his hand means showing you too much of his vulnerability.

Although you had really hoped by now it was obvious how you felt about him

"But-" he continues, curling himself around your back and wrapping his arms around you, "I think I've settled into the position of boyfriend well."

His lips, time and time again, is drawn to the sensitive spot on your neck.

"Don't you agree?" He asks before nipping at your skin.

You breath hitches and you stammer your agreement.

.

.

"I've been wanting to ask you this at a better time," Ryuhei scratches awkwardly at the back of his head.

“Ask me what?”

He mumbles to himself in his native tongue, as if praying for courage and trying to steel himself.

"Are you ok?" You ask, watching him fumble inside his long coat.

"Never better!" He says though he's now grown paler than you have ever seen and there's a sheen of sweat across his brow.

He lunges forward, landing on one knee with a painful thud as you take a step back.

Wincing, he snaps open a ring box with the biggest diamond you have ever seen.

"Oh my god, our first date was only two months ago!" You say at the same time as he asks-

"Will you marry me?"

[whatsnewalycat]

No Strings Attached

Dieter Bravo x OFC Louella - Psychomanteum AU

[ psychomanteum masterlist ][ ao3 ]

WC: 2.7k+

Tags/Warnings: lua 2nd person pov, ghosts, psychomanteum au where they were together in spring, set after chapter 2, bickering, alcohol, drugs, addiction, ethan, anonymous sex mention, a boat load of sweeet sweet yearning folks

Notes: This is a doc I just found in my Psychomanteum folder. I think this is what I was originally writing for Chapter 3, but changed direction. Some of these conversations and prose proooobably got recycled into different chapters, but I can't remember. ANYWAY it's cute so I'm posting it as a Psychomanteum AU Snackie Poo (i'msosorryforsayingthatohmygod)

-----

Since Katie’s party, the two of you have hung out a handful of times, mostly with Parker, going out to a bar and having a few drinks. Between whatever actor things actors do while they’re in the city, he’ll sometimes text you to see what you’re doing, and what you’re usually doing is baking. 

It surprises you a little every time he comes over. Why would an exciting guy like this want to hang out in your apartment while you work? Not that you mind. The company is nice. Most of the time he’ll chat with you while he sketches and happily disposes of any defective product. Sometimes it goes quiet while the two of you concentrate on your respective tasks, but it doesn’t feel awkward. 

This is the modus operandi when Dieter slides his pencil it into the spine of his sketchbook and studies you, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Out of breath from rolling out puff pastry dough, you look at him and pant, “What?”

“Ghosts,” he leans against the counter, pressing his thumbnails to his lips as he waits for your answer. 

You huff, setting your rolling pin down, and remember the picture frame on the spare bedroom floor. The face you imagined you saw in the mirror. Sometimes you hear noises in that room, but can’t bring yourself to investigate. The only time you enter the room is to get supplies, and even then, you speed run and don’t dare look up at the mirrors. 

“No,” you avert your gaze from his and turn around to wash your hands in the sink. 

“Wow, you’re a terrible liar.” 

You turn around and gape at him as you dry your hands, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“So you do believe in ghosts, got it,” he gives you a cheeky grin. You roll your eyes but don’t deny it. He leans forward onto his elbows again, “If I tell you something, will you think I’m crazy?”

“Dee, I texted you yesterday and asked if you think that Avril Lavigne is really herself or a body double. I don’t think I’m qualified to make any judgments on the sanity of other humans,” you toss the kitchen towel over your shoulder, then start folding the dough into layers. 

He tilts his head and frowns, then points at you, “I think you might be onto something there,” then shakes his head, “Ok, well…” 

His Adam’s apple bobs and his eyes flick to the spare bedroom door. You stop folding the pastry dough and stand up straight. A shiver runs down your spine. He gnashes his jaw back and forth, then takes a deep breath, “I see him sometimes.” 

You shake your head and search his eyes. Not out of confusion. You just don’t want him to say it. 

He slides his sketchbook across the counter, flipping it around so you can see what he drew. There, sketched in graphite on the creamy paper, is your husband. He’s standing in the open doorway of the spare room. The illustration is unruly, yet intricate. Your mouth falls open as you press your fingertips to his face, and you feel his sorrow. So much so, you flinch back and shake your head again, “Sorry, um, I–”

Dieter watches your eyes start to well with tears and his shoulders slump, “Fuck, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

“Is he still there now?” you whisper, meeting his big, sad, brown eyes. 

They flick to the door and back to you, and he gives you a nod. Your stomach drops to the floor and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. 

“I need to leave,” you announce, throwing the kitchen towel off your shoulder onto the counter, then take off your apron and drop it on the towel, “Right now. I have to leave.” 

He stands up off the stool, pushing it out behind him, pointing to the puff pastry, “Should–I, uh, should I wrap that up?” 

“Um, y-yeah, put it in the fridge, thanks,” you walk around the counter and past him to grab your purse, shove your feet into your boots, then walk out the door and wait for him in the hall. 

He emerges while putting on his jacket, then you lock the door and start toward the elevator. The hall is silent except for the rustling of their clothes and footfalls. You slap the down button on the elevator and cross your arms. 

“He was trying to talk to you,” Dieter explains. 

You shake your head, “I don’t care.” 

“You don’t care?” he challenges. 

“Mhmm,” you nod, hitting the button again, harder this time. 

“Terrible liar,” he mutters to himself, then stares forward at the elevator doors. And he probably thinks he’s being funny. But it’s not funny. You don’t react. 

Once the elevator dings, you’re inside, pressing the doors closed button before they even open all the way. He steps onboard. They accordion shut. 

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out,” he tells you earnestly. In the foggy reflection of the stainless steel doors, you can tell that he’s looking at you. 

“Well, you fucking did,” you snap, and wish you could take the words and shove them back into your mouth. He faces forward and his gaze drops to his feet. 

The doors open and Dieter pushes out in front of you, storming out of the building. By the time you make it outside, he’s gone. A pang of guilt stabs through your chest. The cool, dewy air sticks to your skin and makes you shiver. You regret not grabbing a jacket, but start off towards your favorite hole-in-the-wall bar anyway. 

O’Malley’s is a dingy dugout bar about a block away from your apartment. It’s so dimly lit in contrast to the bright afternoon sun, you have to squint and go off of muscle memory when you walk in the door. On a Tuesday, during daylight hours, when the temperature outside is finally warm enough to melt the gritty snowpiles that have been accumulating for months, the establishment is essentially empty. One sad sap sits at the bar, jacket hanging off the back of his stool, staring down at the lowball glass clutched in his fist. He’s leaning onto the bar with a ringed hand propping his head up. 

You approach and pull out the barstool next to him, droning, “Hey there.” 

Dieter casts a glance to you with a raised brow, then scoffs when he recognizes you. He lifts the glass to his lips and empties it into his mouth, then pushes his sweater sleeves up to his elbows.

Nick, the portly bartender you see here frequently during the week, approaches, “The usual?”

“Yeah,” you nod towards Dieter, “I’ll get his, too.” 

“You don’t have to do that,” he sits back and pulls a wallet from his pocket, then throws some bills on the bar top, “I was just leaving.” 

Fucking hell. 

“Dee–” you reach out and touch his arm, and he turns towards you and stares expectantly. You chew on your bottom lip, dropping your gaze to the floor before sighing, “Please stay. I’m-“  

Nick returns with a whiskey neat and vodka cranberry, sliding them in front of you and Dieter before asking you, “Tab?” 

“Yes please,” you answer with a polite smile, then turn back to Dieter, whose scowl has softened, “C’mon.” 

He sighs and his shoulders release, then he relaxes back into the barstool. Neither of you say anything as you take a sip of the drink, then you turn to him, “I know. Like, um. I know that he’s there sometimes. But I don’t—“ you shake your head, “I don’t want to know.”

He sits up and leans his elbows against the bar, turning to watch you. You chew on your bottom lip and watch the ice cubes clink together as you stir your drink. 

“What was he trying to tell me?” you ask finally. 

“I don’t know,” Dieter frowns, “I couldn’t tell.” 

You saw Ethan cross into the threshold. Through some kind of an otherworldly osmosis, he was absorbed by the membrane that met the two of you at the end of the silent, iridescent wormhole. 

“Why would he come back?” you whisper, mostly to yourself. 

“Why do any spirits come back?” Dieter shrugs and takes a big sip of whiskey, “Unfinished business.” 

All you can think is that it better be a fucking apology. He owes you that much. Ethan was so fucked up that night. Did he even know what he was doing? Or had he been planning it? 

The man that woke you up in the middle of the night on Christmas and made you get into his car with the intention of totaling it… that wasn’t the man you married. You wonder how much coke he had really been doing in the weeks, maybe even months, leading up to the accident. Towards the end, it became commonplace for him to be out all night without explanation. 

He would stumble in at 7am, talking a million miles a minute, a sharp sniff interrupting his monologue every 10 seconds, hands trembling like your grandma’s when she started showing symptoms of Parkinson’s disease. When he finally crashed, he’d go to bed and sleep until the sun went down, where he would isolate himself for a day or two. Then he would go out to run orders to your clients and not come back until 7am. Rinse, wash, repeat. 

One night, when big, fat snowflakes were fluttering to the ground outside in big, he was standing in front of all the order boxes ready to go, making sure he had everything. You came up behind him and wrapped your arms around to his chest, laying your cheek against the back of his winter coat, “Can you come home tonight? I miss you.” 

“Baby, I’m with you all the time,” he chuckled, placing a hand over yours, rubbing his thumb against you affectionately. 

“That’s not what I mean,” you told him quietly. His thumb stopped undulating and his body tensed. Your heart was pounding in your chest when you finally admitted out loud, “I’m worried about you, Ethan. I think it’s becoming a problem again.” 

You let go as he stirred beneath your embrace, turning around to face you. His body only became more rigid, shoulders tensed up to his ears, jaw gnashing, as he assured you, “It’s not a problem. I promise. I’ll come home after dropping these off, ok?” 

He pressed his lips your forehead, sealing his promise with a kiss, and you mumbled, “Ok.” 

He didn’t come home until the next morning. You weren’t surprised. 

“You ok?” Dieter nudges you. 

A lie waits, ready to roll off the tip of your tongue. Instead, what comes out is the truth. 

“No. I don’t think so,” you take a sip and look down at your drink, “But, what can ya do?” 

“Mmm, I think I have something that could help,” Dieter mutters in a suggestive tone. Your heart skips, then you look at him and realize he’s pressing a joint up between his lips, “Wanna go for a walk?” 

This brings a smile to your face, but you protest, “I didn’t bring a coat, it’s still chilly outside.” 

The joint bobs as he frowns and grabs his jacket, “Use mine. I’m fucking sweating, anyway.” 

—

The passersby barely pay the two of you any attention as you stroll at a leisurely pace through the park, passing the joint back and forth. His sepia fleece jacket hangs down to your knees and keeps you almost too insulated. 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, tasting the vapors of melting snow clinging close to the earth. The sunshine seems to melt away the foul mood you were in earlier. In your euphoria, you trip on a crack in the pavement, stumbling a bit. You steady yourself and giggle in embarrassment. 

“So glad you don’t have anyone following you with a camera right now,” you comment. 

Dieter plucks the roach from his lips, holds the intoxicating smoke captive in his lungs, and offers it up to you, “How do you know we don’t?” 

You scrunch your face up and make a full 360, scanning for any potential paparazzi, and shoo the roach away. He exhales and shrugs, then tosses it into a disintegrating snow pile, “I’m just kidding, I think I’m off their radar for the time being.”

“Yeah? Have you been a good boy, Dee?” you giggle. The way his whole body seems to perk up at the question is not lost on you. 

“Not so much that as I’m not the biggest shitheel in the media at the moment,” he smirks, looking you up and down through his sunglasses. 

You hum and nod, although you have no idea what he’s referring to, “Ah, yes. That one guy did that one thing.” 

He laughs, “There’s always another guy doing another thing. It never fails.” 

“Ol’ reliable,” you respond, then tilt your head in curiosity, “How is your divorce going, then?” 

“Boring, next,” he groans. 

“No no no, sir, you told me my dead husband is haunting my home today. Even the scales.” 

“Are you sure you’re not the press?” he raises an eyebrow at you. 

And, of course, it’s a joke. But that side glance gnaws at your gut the same way that Ethan’s narrowed eyes did. Looking at you like you’re an informant. 

‘I didn’t tell anyone about the ink, Lou.’

“What?” your shoulders slump. You come to a standstill, and stammer, “I wouldn’t–no, what?” 

He stops, too, and turns to you, “I’m just kidding, Lua.” 

“Oh,” you breathe a sigh of relief, “Ok. I’m not, um, trying to be snoopy.”

“You are way prettier than a cartoon beagle,” he smiles, then starts walking again. You catch up to him and try not to let the way your stomach flutters show on your face. It does. He smiles wider, then it fades to a frown as he shrugs and scratches his neck, “The divorce is going. Annie is staying at the house until it’s finalized, so I’ve been living out of hotels, which gets old,” a sly smile creeps across his face, “It is a little easier on the dating front, though. Living in hotels, that is.”

“Why’s that?” 

“Sex is just better in a bed. A little more room to work with than the bathroom of a club or the backseat of a car, you know? Plus, then they don’t feel like they have to leave right away.” 

“That’s probably why I prefer those places. Don’t have to stick around afterwards.” 

He grins at you, “Is that right?”

Something sparks at the middle of you when you look over at him and shrug, then he licks his lips and nods, looking ahead. 

“So you’re dating people?”

“I don’t think dating is the right term,” you frown, “More just, um… casual sex, I guess.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, “Since when?” 

“Does it matter?” you tuck your hair behind your ear and look down. 

“No, not at all,” he nudges you, so you look at him and see the good will on his face. “I just… Well, I’ll really kick myself if I could have been begging you to sleep with me this whole time.”

Your mouth is all of a sudden very dry. You blush and chuckle, then shake your head, “I’m looking for no-strings-attached situations.” 

“I am all about no-strings-attached,” he touches his fingertips to his chest and grins, peaking his bloodshot eyes over the rim of his sunglasses. 

“Mmm, no, see, we have strings,” you sigh, then count each of the following points on your hands, “I don’t fuck clients. Or friends. Or celebrities going through very public divorces.” 

Or people I have a big, giant, throbbing crush on.

“My heart,” he clutches the front of his shirt theatrically. 

You giggle at his reaction. The conversation dies momentarily, and the sounds of the city fill the cool air between you. You feel compelled to elaborate, “I’m not ready. With the dead husband and all that. I don’t want a pity fuck, or a goddamn significant other. I just want to get off, then I want it to be over. No strings.” 

He nods, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his pants, “No judgment here, m’dear.”