#Hazy Shades of Spring | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wayeasier · 17 days ago

Text

COUNT TO TWENTY-TWO — part seven

⋆˙⟡ robert (bob) reynolds x reader (thunderbolts*)

summary: Alive or not, you're now facing your biggest fears and memories. A voice guiding you forward to your lost ghost with your history laid out for you and Bob to sew together. Some things are just supposed to happen and meant to be found. Even the silly ones.

warnings: canon-typical violence, swearing, depressive and suicidal thoughts, death, thunderbolts* spoilers (obviously)

author's note: english is not my native language, so i apologize for all grammatical errors / mistakes in my writing (if there are any!)

author's note 2: remember when i told you that i'd remind you all about the card with two ghosts in a future chapter?!?!? well...... now it's the timeeee BIG WINK WINK

The darkness had changed.

It was still there. It clung to you like a shadow. Endless and dark. It no longer felt like the death. It was lighter now, in a way that didn’t make sense even to you. The darkness that had consumed you as death differed from the darkness you were now in. It looked softer, brighter. It was dark, but not as dark as death was.

It felt strange. It felt strange saying that the darkness became a less dark. The darkness had a spring of color in it. Not a real color, it was just a shade of something else. Not just the darkness itself. It looked like the darkness you see when you close your eyes. Not the darkness that consumes you when you die. There wasn't any sound either, but there was something small. It sounded like a small noise, a hum. Or an echo of something in the darkness. Death didn't have sound, it was dead quiet, only silence.

You were not dead.

Or maybe you were.

Maybe this was what came after. You never got that far in dying. You didn't know where you were. If you were stuck in the actual afterlife, or if you were stuck in a nightmare. Or just dead.

But there was a certain feeling. It told you to move. To try. Your eyes felt odd. It didn't feel like you were gone with the death, it felt like you were just resting. Sleeping, maybe. It felt like you just had your eyes closed. Like you had the will to open them. Then, your eyelashes twitched against your cheek, and you could feel them brushing against the skin. The weight of your lids was heavy, like you had been asleep for too long. The instinct told you to wake up, to open your eyes and see what you need to see.

So, you opened your eyes.

You blinked away the darkness and then you were suddenly standing. You didn't remember rising, it felt like you were laying this whole time. You hadn't sensed moving at all. But you felt awake, felt real. You didn't know if this was actually death or just a burst of your imagination.

The room was quiet. You finally aligned your eyes with the dim but not dark interior of the room you were standing in. Your eyes adjusted slowly. The corners of the room were hazy, soft, and blurred as if it were a painting or a dream. But the center was clear. Too clear.

In front of you sat a child.

On a chair too big for a child that small. The child wore a long black hospital gown, and the child's small feet swung back and forth over the high chair. Almost as if the child was on a swing. The child's frame was hunched over, head hung low, staring at a certain item that was in those tiny hands.

A bright, pink birthday card.

The child read quietly in the mother tongue in which the words were written in. Not in English. It was Sokovian. A language you recognize too well. You watched from the side, standing just a few steps to the left of the small child, your stance angled subtly toward the scene unfolding in front of you. You couldn't pull your eyes away, you remembered the whole scene so vividly.

The little child was you.

Then, a door to your right creaked open. You turned your head at the sound, and you already knew who was coming through the doorway. Through the doorway stepped a red-headed woman. Her steps were graceful and elegant, her posture straight. She wore a smile that stretched on her lips like it was painted on. It glowed on her face. Her back was straight, chin lifted up. And in front of you, the child lit up, beaming at the sight of the entering woman.

"Mama," Mum, the child breathed out, "dziekujem za rodenodnevne želanie," thank you for the birthday wish, the child said sweetly in the soft native tongue. The child's whole face opened with joy.

The woman didn't speak, she just stepped forward to the child. And then she reached out. Her hand moved slowly, fingers outstretched to the child's thinner wrist. The red-headed woman's fingers locked around the tiny arm.

"Why do I need to see this again?" you said out loud, your voice rasping as if it didn't belong to you. It stung at your throat when the words left your mouth. You closed it when you asked the second time, your throat tingling. No matter how much your instincts screamed to look away, you couldn’t. You couldn't pull your gaze away. It was almost like your eyes were stuck, glued to the scene as if you hadn't seen it before.

You remembered it all, you felt it all. You lived through it.

The woman’s smile only deepened as she held the small child’s thin wrist in her hand. Then, the red-headed woman grabbed her other arm and reached into her belt, under her shirt. You knew what she was reaching for before you saw it.

She took out a gun. A loaded gun.

The small child blinked, the eyes catching a sight of the sleek handgun in own mother's hands. Still holding the pink birthday card in the other hand which was not being held by the red-headed woman. The child's smile wavered, cracking down.

"Mama?" Mum? the small voice barely made a sound, the child's voice trembling slightly, "što robiš...?" what are you doing...?

No answer came from the red-headed woman. You, the older version of the child, stepped forward, your expression furrowing as you stared at the scene you vividly remembered from your childhood.

The red-haired woman didn't respond to the fragile child's small distressed question. She guided the small hand of the child towards the weapon. Her own fingers wrapped gently around the child’s as she placed the gun carefully into the tiny palms of the child. Then together, they both lifted it like they were holding a medal. And then their moving of the gun stopped just beside the small child’s temple. Pressed softly against the skin there. The child stared at the mother with wide, searching eyes.

“Mama?” Mum? The child said again, more urgently now, "mama, mama, mama, što—” mum, mum, mum, what—

Then sounded a single shot.

Splitting through the small, grey room. The child’s small body jolted from the force. The pink birthday card slipped from the small child's fingers, fluttering and landing on the floor. It landed before the child did. Then the body of the small, young, child dropped from the tall chair. The small figure of the child twisted as it fell, limbs bending as the force of the shot made it jerk to the side. A small, lifeless body of a young child laid helplessly dead on the floor beside its own standing mother. Her own child. The tiny fingers she had just held, now open and limp against the cold, grey floor.

"Fuck—" you breathed out, your throat stinging and so did you eyes. They burned. You didn't want to cry over your own memory. You blinked the tears away.

But the second you blinked, the room twisted and changed in that second. And there you were again, in the same room with the child before you. The child was untouched. No blood anywhere, the pink birthday card in the tiny hands. The small legs swung back and forth as though time had never stopped.

Everything was back to the start.

It was a loop.

The moment, the memory was playing out again. And then she came in again, the red-headed woman with elegant posture and a beaming smile that brought comfort to the small child. You knew what she was reaching for before her hand even dipped beneath her shirt. But this time, you moved. Fast. You caught her wrist in your hand just as her fingers brushed against the grip of the gun hidden under her shirt. You pressed hard against her wrist, keeping her away from hurting the younger version of you.

The red-head's eyes flickered to you when your fingers wrapped around her wrist. Her eyes widened and her smile stretched even more, "moje dziev—" my gir— she began softly, her smile wide like she had seen her best gift. But your face hardened and your fingers tightened around the wrist of the woman.

“I’m not your girl anymore,” you hissed back in English. She didn��t deserve your language. Didn’t deserve your blood. She didn't deserve to hear the language she had taught you, the language that was called a mother tongue to you. She winced at your grip.

“I know,” she muttered, her language switching to English too. Her Sokovian accent thick in her sentences, “you never really were. You were just a subject for our—”

The small child before you cried out.

You turned your head instinctively. Your eyes snapped to the small face. The small child whimpered, staring at the red-headed woman with tears in eyes, "mama..." mum...

But the redhead didn’t look at the small teary-eyed child that she called hers. And that was your mistake. A mistake you once again overlooked. Because while your gaze lingered on the trembling child, the red-headed woman moved quickly. With her other hand, she dropped the child's wrist and yanked the gun from under her shirt. You barely saw the flash of metal before the gun was pressed to your temple and a shot rang out.

She shot you. Instead of the younger version of you, the small child.

Then it began again.

The child was perched on top of the high chair again, head bowed as the child read the Sokovian words written in the pink birthday card. Then, a door to your right creaked open. Through the doorway stepped the familiar red-headed woman.

“This is insane,” you hissed between clenched teeth, staring at the woman in the doorframe. You didn't waste time this time. You didn't need to see your nightmare being played once again, repeating like it was a television show.

You stormed towards the woman. Her mouth opened to call out to your older figure when you came just in front of her. Your hand went under her shirt faster than she could react, right to the spot where she was hiding the cold metal of the weapon she had used to kill you once with.

You ripped it free from there and the woman gasped loudly. She was not expecting this.

You were quick to raise it, aiming it down at her feet.

The bullet ripped through her foot. Shooting twice, once at the left one and once at the right one. Both feet shot through. The woman screamed and stumbled forward, deeper into the room, collapsing forward onto her knees as she couldn't stand still anymore. She let out a pained noise as her body stumbled onto the grey concrete floor of the small grey room, right in front of the small child perched on top of the high chair. But you didn’t stop to watch the woman, whom you used to call your mother, fall down in pain. You darted just past her, shoving through the door she had just entered from multiple times before. The one you recognized too well.

You ran through in a second.

The moment you flew through the room into the hallway, the entire world exploded in white. Burning white, so bright.

It slammed into your face. It pierced its ends into your eyes and face. You staggered backward, stopping your run, and your hand flew up to shield your eyes from the blaring brightness. You blinked a few times behind your hand, trying to adjust your vision. Then, when your vision cleared into something more natural you noticed that the entire space around you had changed. You were not inside a building anymore, there were no grey walls surrounding you from all sides. You were not locked up anymore. You were almost somewhere that you could call a freedom.

You were outside now.

There was a cold maliciously biting at your face liek you were a lunch for it. Wind was screaming against you. Pushing you around, making you stagger backwards. As if it wanted you to turn back and get back inside. Then, you realized your boots were drenched in cold. You were buried ankles deep in a thick, cold snow. You could feel your knees tremble, the cold pushing at your body. The cold was slicing at your cheeks like small cuts from blades' tips.

The world around you was so bright, so white. You couldn't tell where you were. The cold was terrible.

"Follow your fears."

The voice did not come from anywhere near you. Not from behind you nor from above. It was almost like it was in your head, like you were imagining it. You staggered, one hand flying to your temple. The voice was almost like a night terror, a deep noise. A rasping, hollow sound of a nightmare that made you want to crawl and hide somewhere.

“Where do I follow them?” you asked out loud trying to make your voice be heard over the gushing of the strong snowy and cold wind. The cold was so sharp.

"To me."

The sound of the voice almost hurt. The words were too loud to be called a whisper and too quiet to be called a yell. It almost sounded like it erupted in your mind, like a pressure pushing against your skull from the inside. It hurt.

You recognized it. The voice, the sound. You don't know how, but you did.

You nodded, or at least tried. The cold is biting at you. You took a step forward and then another. Then you went into a run, your boots sinking into the thick, cold, and crunchy snow beneath.

You kept moving, each step felt even more colder. Boots sinking into the snow and becoming even more colder and wet. Devouring you. The cold kept biting at your skin. Like you were its last meal.

And then you heard it. Just a small bit of a noise.

An engine. Tires against the crunching snow. There was a truck. It looked blurry through the veil of snow in your vision. But it was there, moving forward. Headlights lighting its snowy path in front of itself.

You moved forward, squinting at it, "I'm here! Wait! Please!" you shouted as loud as you could. The cold wind whipping the sound of your voice away like it was just a little piece of another snow.

You stumbled forward, your boots sinking into the snow. You nearly fell with each step, and your legs felt sore from the cold. Stinging frost at your eyes.

"Please!" you ran, harder and faster than you could. Feet burying into the snow with each taken step. Your muscles cried and so did your whole soul.

And so did the silhouette before you.

Just a few steps ahead, you haven't noticed the figure before. It was a teenager, maybe sixteen. They wore tactical pants with pockets empty, and their boots were frozen and buried in the snow. Then a shirt that was far too big for the teenager's frame. A plain t-shirt in the freezing cold. Own thin arms wrapped tightly around own chest, arms trembling violently in the coldness surrounding the figure. The head of the teenager was bowed slightly, looking like the figure was asleep, but standing still.

You stepped slowly forward, the cold raging wind whipping around you. The figure pulled you to them, maybe you did. You wanted to know why the figure was there, who the figure was. There wasn't supposed to be a teenager in a snow blizzard in the middle of nowhere, wearing just a pair of tactical pants with a t-shirt.

You stopped just a step away from the teenager, "are you okay?" you had to shout over the snow. The figure didn't respond at first, just kept the head low and trembled. Then the teenager lifted up head.

And your breath left you. Not from the cold.

But from the recognition.

Because those eyes that looked up. They were yours.

You found yourself gazing at the same person. You were staring at yourself. The younger version of yourself. Maybe, sixteen. Those eyes that were looking into yours were yours, you recognized them from anywhere. It was you. Almost reflexively, you came closer, your legs slow with coldness that was all around you. And the look the teenager gave you was one of the deep, quiet knowing ones.

The teenager's cheeks were raw and their eyes, your eyes, brimmed with tears. Maybe, just snow. But they were yours.

“Are we going to die?”

The teenager asked you and everything inside you had screamed to lie. To lie to the younger self. To say no. To shield them from the truth you’d grown used to carry with yourself like a friend. But you couldn't lie to yourself. The teenager has to know and will know later on.

"Yes. We will eventually die."

The teenager had nodded like they already knew, but needed to hear it from someone. From you. From themselves. The teenager looked out into the blizzard in front, looking at something unseen.

“Why do they like hurting us?” the teenager asked quietly, not looking at you this time, "what did we do wrong?”

"We didn't do anything wrong," you responded to the teen's question. Stepping closer to the trembling figure. They were shivering completely. Bare arms tucked in around own torso. The too-large shirt and tactical pants soaked through. Cold seeping in like a snake.

The teenager then turned their head towards you. The voice cracked when they asked, almost hesitantly, "can you… can you stay with me? Until I… until I leave?”

That made a tear in your heart. Aching.

"I will stay,” you whispered to the teen version of you.

You then opened your arms and the teenager collapsed into them like their legs were not working anymore. Almost as if the teen was waiting for your arms to be held out their whole life, like you were the teenager's missing piece. You held your younger self as tightly as the cold would allow, their thin body trembling against yours, just holding against your own chest, bent like a child. You let your head bow, lips against your own, but a younger head. Your tactical grey suit was already soaked through, but you felt the tears flow from the young you. Seeping into the cloth. Just tears running down cold faces in a world that never stopped hurting.

"You need to let yourself too," the words left the teenager's lips. And then the trembling in their limbs went still. The shoulders stilling and the small hands relaxing against your chest almost the next moment. The body fell at a dead weight on you. You remained upright, holding the fragile body against yourself.

Then, you sank down, lowering yourself until you lay on your back in the cold snow. The snow above you was flying like it was playing an act in a theater. The flakes of snow flew around like stage actors during a performance. You laid still, watching them fall.

You cradled the teenager, your younger self, against your chest. Snow gathered on top of the teenager's hair like a decorative flowers, flakes landing on their lashes too. Not melting in the cold. Your arms curved protectively around them, staring up with snow falling over your face.

The teenager laying limp in your arms was still you. But different, younger. This version of you, the younger one, won't be coming back as soon as you usually do. Twenty-two minutes before death, over and over again... That part wasn’t always there. You were not yet the one to be called Twenty-Two. You were just a broken thing learning how to live again through the wreckage of what had been done to you. This body didn’t know the rules yet.

So you lay back.

You had to let yourself too.

You closed your eyes. The snow welcomed you. It wrapped around your body. The snow kissed around your body, piercing your face. You dipped your head back until you felt it cold. Really cold, almost painful. Like a terrible migraine. Let the snow land against your face. You let yourself go, but not the teenager in your arms. Your arms remained looped tightly around the smaller figure.

You let the cold take you. Your breathing slowed down and you let your whole body be still. Your breaths grew shallow and hard. Hurting.

Then your chest stilled, your consciousness slipping slowly away. Your body stuck with the frost just like the younger version of you. Both of you closed in with the snow and coldness. Like you belonged together, to fall in the snow.

And then you were gone.

And your arms felt empty. A shift in the weight, the coldness was gone. You opened your arms slowly, confused at first. Grasping at nothing but air. An empty space. No fragile body of the younger version of you against your chest. No teenager slipping their consciousness away in the snow and cold in middle of nowhere.

"The pain only gets worse. You can't die here," the voice that was almost like a night terror sounded out again. Ripping at the air around you and your head. Almost hurting. A rasping, hollow sound that sounded right around you.

"You will ache. You will bleed... But not from your wounds. The light awaits, at the end of everything—" it wasn't just a sound. It was a voice, but it was something else too. Almost like a pressure that hurt.

So, you opened your eyes.

You weren’t in the snow anymore. You were standing in the center of a room in an old apartment. Wooden floor underneath your boots.

Right in front of you was a mattress thrown on the floor and on top of it sat a hunched-over person. Legs bent to their chest, arms thrown over their knees. Head bowed low, almost hiding their face. Broken beyond repair.

You didn't move at first. You very well recognized the person sitting on the mattress and the apartment that you were in. It was one of the first weeks in Bratislava. Just a few days after you were finally let free from Sokovia and your so-called hell. It was one of the first places you were ever truly alone. Not alone as in locked up in a cell alone. But alone, trying to take care of yourself.

You took one slow step forward. The wooden boards of the floor groaned under your moving boot. The figure on the mattress flinched at the new sound, their head snapping upward. Almost terrified. Under those terrified eyes were blooming dark shadows from not much sleep. The figure's face was so familiar, yet so painfully distant.

The figure's eyes were so wide. Awaiting your next move. The older version of you took another step forward, almost like you did not want the younger you to flee away or be scared away. Their eyes were searching. For something hidden within the older version. Eyes bruised with exhaustion.

"This apartment is better than the whole Sokovia, don't you think?" you said quietly to the person on the mattress who was so curiously staring at you. You took another slow step forward and tilted your head, looking around your old apartment.

The younger person didn't answer. Just stared wide-eyed back at you.

“Have you visited the Medic garden yet?” you asked, your gaze moving across the apartment, remembering your stay there. Every inch of the apartment was familiar to you, but not to the younger person on the mattress on the floor.

“No,” the teen rasped, voice so dry and so hoarse. It sounded just painful just to speak.

“You should,” you replied, a faint smile tugging at the edge of your mouth, "I... We used to go there every other day... when we were still here. It was a safe place in all this chaos."

Your steps slowed as you neared the person on the mattress, stopping just a few feet in front of the mattress. The younger version of yourself sat motionless, but staring straight at you.

“I don’t understand the language,” they whispered, trying to find a reason not to go out. Not to get out from the apartment.

“You will,” you said gently, kneeling down so your eyes could meet theirs, "eventually, you will know just enough to start a conversation."

There was another moment of silence between you and the younger you. Almost like you both were picking out the words. Then, the younger you furrowed their brows tightly at you and a snarl went out from their mouth.

“I don’t wanna go out. I want to die.”

The words twisted in your insides. Even though the words weren’t new to you. It was still you who spoke them.

You finally crouched just comfortably in front of the younger self, staring into a face you knew too well. Into your own, but younger.

“I know,” you said softly.

The younger you dropped their head again, letting it hang low between their hunched shoulders. You watched the figure tremble slightly and then they whispered something. Too quiet. You didn't catch the words.

You furrowed your brow and leaned in closer. But not too close. You had to keep your distance, you were so fragile and emotional back then. You could do things youu'd never do now, "what did you say?” you asked, your voice low to not startle your younger self.

Then, the person opposite you lifted their head, slowly until their eyes met yours. Your own eyes staring into yours.

You didn't even have time to jump back into your thoughts. One moment, you were looking at yourself with those sad, almost empty eyes. Then the next moment, out of nowhere, the younger you lunged almost as fast as a cheetah at you. You barely had time to widen your eyes or yell out at yourself before they crashed into you with the full weight of themselves. Tackling you backwards. Your back slammed into the wooden floor, your head striking backward into the floor with a loud noise. Your teeth clenching together at the pain rising at the back of your head.

Then their arms were around your neck. Just like you had yours around Valentina before. Choking you, fingers digging into your skin. Your own hands were wrapped around your own neck, but it was the younger you strangling the current you.

You just choked, your legs flailing and kicking underneath the body of the younger self. Your boots sliding on the wooden floor completely uselessly. Almost like they were designed not to be helpful.

Your hands clawed at your younger hands. Trying to pry them off your throat as fast as it was possible. But your younger self only tightened their grip.

“This is all your fault!” the younger version of you screamed and their fingers dug into your neck. Your younger face above you was twisted into something raw, rage-filled, a hint of sadness and pain flooding it. There were tears clinging to the corner of their eyes—of your own, but younger, eyes.

"It's—It's not our fault—" you gasped out, your throat crushed under your own hands.

"I want to die!"

"I want to die—please! I don't want this. I need to die! I don't want to keep doing—" they screamed and screamed. Trembling above you, shaking almost like they could never stop. Like you could never stop.

And then, all at once, it all broke down.

Your younger arms gave out suddenly, the pressure around your throat released, and their body collapsed onto yours. Tangling together. The younger you letting out a heap of breathless, never-ending sobs. Their hands, once shaking and cruel, trying to kill and hurt themselves, now fell limp around your neck. Your younger fingers wrapping around the cloth of your grey tactical suit. Their legs folded into yours, almost in desperation to not be let go.

The younger you broke down completely in that moment.

Gasping sobs escaped the younger person's chest like they had been kept there for years. Your younger face buried in the curve where your shoulder met with your neck, hiding yourself into you. Almost shameful. Shivering like a small, lost fawn.

“I know,” you whispered, "I know…”

You wrapped your arms around the fragile person slowly. Carefully slowly. You didn’t speak again, there were no words needed now. No words could overcome whatever is going on now. The silence is the key. You just held them, held yourself, through the breakdown. Letting the past you drown in you and your pain. The younger you wailed, sobbed, and cried. Tears are soaking the side of your neck. Their cruel grip from before now turned into a desperate hug of comfort. Like they were seeking the needed help. Pulling it from you.

You laid there with your younger self tangled over you for minutes. For such a long time, unmoving, letting the pain drain. You didn't move, you just held the younger self close. Let the younger one sob and shake. You didn’t tell the younger person to stop. You didn’t try to shush yourself, to not wake the neighbors. You let them, the younger you, fall apart the way you had once needed someone to let you.

Eventually, the sobs slowed and eased. Then they completely stopped.

The younger you shifted slightly, your breath still hitching now and then. A small whisper escaped their lips, "is it true?”

You tilted your head slightly, your younger face still hidden in the curve of your shoulder. Your hand absently smoothing up and down the younger self's back, "what is?”

"That we found our ghost."

The words hit you unexpectedly. You forgoten about that. You haven't thought about that since you left Bratislava. Your eyes closed and you puffed out a breath, “I forgot we still believed in that card…” you whispered out.

The younger you slowly peeled away from your chest, untangling their limbs from yours. They sat on the floor just beside you, you were still laying flat on your back on the wooden floor of your old apartment. Staring right above at the ceiling.

“But did we?” the younger you asked with a quiet voice, pulling their knees up to their chest.

You let your head fall to the side, your eyes falling onto the younger version of yourself.

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly, "I don't know if he is our ghost..." you chuckled softly at the word ghost. It was a silly thought that you had in your mind since you were a little kid. Since you've got that card from the only nice person in that Sokovian facility. The doctor who cleaned your wounds. He was the only nicest out of them. You were not allowed to call anyone by name back there, he only whispered it once when you were terrified for one of the experiments. His name was long forgotten to you, and you couldn't really remember the correct spelling of his name anymore. He was Sokovian, his name was something similar to Svetoslav, if you recall it right. It had been too long since you last thought about him. He was the closest to what you could call a friend, or someone that you could trust back when you were in Sokovia. He used to tell you about the two daughters he had waiting for him back home, the books he used to read. He told you he once wanted to be an author, but he couldn't leave this work. It was his whole life. He told you all that while he cleaned the wounds that the scientists made on you with their weapons and experiments.

He gave you that card.

That card with those two little ghosts.

"I—We may never see him again. I don’t know if I can get out from…” you paused, then motioned vaguely around the room, you still don't understand or know what this is. Where you are stuck at, "from here. From whatever this is."

The younger you watched you for a moment, then gave a shaky little nod, looking around the apartment.

"I can help you."

The younger you start to stand up, pushing themselvesed off the floor. You stood up quickly with the younger self. Reaching your arms forward when their knees buckled. Your arm slipped instinctively around your own back.

Then, the younger you reached into the pocket of their worn, baggy jeans. Dirty from all things you could imagine. It was a pair you used to always wear. Their fingers fumbled and trembled, then pulled out a small paper.

A card.

Its edges were creased, the paper worn from being touched too often. You used to carry it with you at all times. You recognized it before they even handed it to you. It was so familiar that it nearly stung at your eyes. The younger you placed it in your palm gently.

You turned the card over. Your heart tugged at the sight.

Two small, not scary-looking, but childlike sweet looking, sweet-looking ghosts. Faded colors adoring its own beauty. A faded orange-pink heart floated between them. Their forms almost looked like they were dancing together in love. You hadn’t seen this card in years. You haven't seen those two ghosts for years. You haven't even thought about them. Haven't thought about the missing ghost to your ghost.

“I used to believe in the saying,” you murmured, eyes locked on the card in your hands

“You still do,” the younger you said.

Above the round head of one of the ghosts, barely visible now, was a small, playful boo! After all, it was a card for children. Your eyes moved lower, to the line of text written there. It was written elegantly, old-fashioned like. Like the text you'd find written as a title of a storybook.

Count to twenty-two and you’ll be mine too!

The words curled like ribbon on the bottom of the card. You used to believe that it was destiny. That it was written for you and your own future. After the many, many experiments you've been through, they told you that no matter how many times they would kill you, or how they would kill you. Your body would reappear twenty-two minutes back from wherever it had its life ended earlier on.

Always twenty-two.

You held on to that number like it meant something. It meant you. So, you found comfort in the card. In the two ghosts. One of them was you. You decided that early on. Just a few days after the only sweet and caring doctor gave you that card and they told you about the twenty-two-minute curse you had been given by the scientists. There was another ghost out there. Someone you haven't met yet. Someone who would understand you, someone cursed like you, maybe. One to be the the one next to your ghost, right under the faded orange-pink heart.

You called them your ghost. And you used to look out for the other ghost. For the missing piece that was left to you.

“Keep it,” the younger you said softly with a quiet voice, pulling you from your running thoughts.

You looked up at the younger you. You noticed how their lashes still kind of clung to their cheeks when they blinked, from the tears holding there.

You unzipped a pocket on your tactical vest and slid the ghost card into the opened pocket, the one closest to your chest. Closest to your heart. You then zipped it back up and lifted your head to look at the younger self.

“How do I get out of here?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, looking around the apartment you were in.

"Close your eyes and go."

"Go?" you echoed back, confused by the choice of words. By such a simple words. The simplicity of it all.

“You’ll know,” the younger you said, staring up at you with their, yours, slightly still red eyes from the tears, "just… close your eyes and let it take you.”

You nodded a few times, acknowledging the words. Then, you took one last look at the younger self. The younger, hurt, living picture of yourself. You didn’t say goodbye. There was no need to say. You were always with this person. It was you. Stuck with you forever.

You closed your eyes. And you let go. You didn't know what would happen, you didn't know what would take you or wherre you would be taken to. But somehow, beneath the uncertainty lingering, you trusted it. Trusted yourself.

You left your eyes closed for a while, letting your whole body loose, the tension slipping away.

Then you felt it. A slight shift. As if you were moved.

You heard a gasp. But it wasn't yours, though. You snapped your eyes open at the sound quickly. And there he was, sitting on the floor. The only person you were looking and longing for. He was breathing and right in front of you like nothing ever happened to him.

Bob.

You were next to gasp. Your knees nearly gave up from underneath your weight.

He was right there.

Cross-legged sitting on the wooden floor on a rug inside an old wooden attic. He was surrounded by many trinkets and items, there was a Rubik's cube on the floor beside him too, with colors uneven, almost like he tried to solve it but gave up halfway in the time. His blue eyes were wide, stunned. Unbelieving to the sight. His mouth slightly parted in disbelief. He looked at you like he remembered every detail of his life. He looked almost as if he did not believe his own eyes. Like you were a flicker of his imagination. An unreal thought in his mind.

He had seen you die. He remembered that. He remembered you dying. He remembered that part so well.

“Twenty-Two?” he breathes out, so much disbelief lacing his words. His voice trembles too. He doesn't believe or trust his eyes at this moment. Almost as if this whole situation was impossible.

You stare at him back, frozen in place. You take his sight in for a little bit longer and then you take a slow step forward, like you don't want him to run off.

“What is this?” you ask quietly, barely above a whisper. Your voice low and unbelieving, so confused, "how are you—”

By the next few slow steps, you're standing just before him, ends of your boots touching the old worn-out rug he's sitting cross-legged on.

He looks up at you, his eyes wide and soft. There is something swimming in them, it's not the golden hue you saw back when you were still alive at the fight. It's something soft. As well as guilty and aching. Almost like he seeks a comfort and finds himself the reason to not get it.

“I can explain…” he whispers, blinking up at you with those aching blue eyes full of miracles, "I promise.”

And at those promising words, you slowly lower yourself to the floor right. You sit beside him on the dark red rug that is much thinner now. Your knees are nearly touching each other.

He’s not wearing the golden suit anymore. You notice that at first. He isn't sporting a useless long blue cape anymore. None of that armor remains. Instead, he’s dressed like he’s just a person. Like a human being.

He’s wearing corduroy pants, a caramel brown that looks softer than anything. The pants themselves look baggy and worn. Something he's wearing for the comfort, not for the look. On top, a dark blue crewneck hangs off his torso. The crewneck itself is deep navy blue with horizontal stripes so close to the blue shade that they’re almost identical to the actual colour of the top. The ends of the sleeves fall just over his palms, one of his fingers playing with the end. Most likely not realizing so. On his feet, a pair of old beaten, and scuffed Nike trainers. They looked loved enough by the boy. The laces are unevenly tied, slightly hiding under the corduroy pants. The shoes look like they have been walked in for a long time. They were being loved for a long time. And are still being loved. Just like he should be.

He’s hunched slightly forward. His crewneck covered elbows resting on his knees, shoulders curved inward like he was carrying something so heavy on his back. But he looked comfortable.

"The blond hair is gone," you murmur, lifting your head up and catching the sight of his now not bleached hair. The brown curls back at adoring his head.

He follows your gaze, raising his head up trying to catch a sight of his own hair on top of his head. Almost like he hadn’t noticed the change, "oh—yeah,” he breathes out. Then his eyes drop back to you.

"You are alive," he says, almost like a whisper. Like he doesn't want to jinx the statement. Disbelieving the words, he saw you die. He remembers you laying on the floor.

"Am I really?" you breathe out the question. You don't know if you really are alive. If this still isn't your mind being twisted after death, "I really don't know what this is. A dream, my afterlife… some cruel in-between part of those? I don’t know. I just—” your breath catches at the words, “—I just suddenly appeared. Face to face with my younger self. More versions of myself from before and with… with everything I tried to leave behind myself. Things that were long forgotten."

"My worst memories.”

He doesn’t blink, just stares, like he gets what you meant by your words, "you're alive,” he says again, “you're here.”

“But how?” you whisper, your voice sounding different than before, “Valentina... she killed me. The right way. There was no coming back. I knew it and she did too. She made sure of it..."

"I was dead.”

He is still looking at you. His eyes were glued to yours, like he couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere else. He then starts to say with slight hesitation drawing at his words, "I have a feeling…” he starts, opening and closing his mouhh to a few times before continuing, "I have something in my mind. I feel like I know how you’re alive but—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head, letting his hair cover the front of his face. There is a silence for a while, an understanding one. A one that doesn't need to be filled in with useless words.

"When I was back there... I heard someone speaking," you murmured after a while, "it wasn't you. It wasn't me either. Just someone else, I don't know—"

Bob’s head dropped lower, the shaggy curled ends of his brown hair falling just over his forehead, "yeah,” he whispered out, “that’s what I mean. That’s why I feel like I know how you’re alive.”

"What do you mean?" you asked while your eyes tried to find his through the fallen hair hiding his face. You shifted slightly and your knees bumped into his again.

"There is someone else," he swallowed and said, "he is the reason you're alive. The reason you saw those... memories."

You listened, unmoving. Letting him talk while your eyes watched his fingers tremble under the blue sleeves of his crewneck.

"It's not me... Well, it is. But it's not just me. He's different," his voice dropped again, his fingers twitching under the ends of his sleeves, looking like he was gesturing at something.

"He lives inside me. When I'm at my lowest. He is there. He seeks to be let out at my worst," he exhaled out, his voice trembling and he opened his mouth again.

"The Void."

The word was deep. It showed pain, the name he gave out was almost hurting him. He shuddered at the mentioned name, his shoulder rolling.

"The Void?" you echoed his words back.

Bob nodded at your echoed back name, "is he there?” you asked him.

Bob then shook his head a few times, then he stopped and nodded a few times. Like he didn't know the answer too, "this is him," he said without lifting his head, "the memories, those nightmares and fears... That's all him. He's out right now. He's terrorizing everyone outside, while I'm stuck here. Trapped in my own memory."

"He is bringing everyone into their worst shame. Their fears," he continued, his voice dropping again.

“This is your—” you began to ask him if this attic was his memory. A fear of his, or a nightmare that terrorized his history.

A sound of shattering plate cut through the floor beneath you. Loudly. Then came the unmistakable sound that you too well recognized. So did Bob beside you. Skin on skin.

A slap.

Then another and another.

You looked down from where the sound came from. Just at the edge of the rug was the wooden floor slightly sagged, there was a small hole peeking. Through it, you could see straight into the kitchen below you where the sounds came from.

Bob saw where you were looking from where he had his head bowed down.

He didn’t even try to stop you from seeing his childhood memory, "don't mind them…” he whispered, "they're just—” he paused, swallowing in his throat, “it’ll end soon.”

"This is the nicest room out of all... The other rooms are much worse," he whispers out and lowers his head in almost shame.

You turned to look at him slowly. His hands were shaking, gripping the edges of his sleeves. You noticed his fingers trembling and gripping the ends of the blue sleeves. You didn't even think or hesitate about your next move. You just reached forward. Your fingers brushed the edge of his fingertips first. Then they wrapped around his fingers that were peeking out from beneath the worn cuffed sleeves of the blue crewneck. His fingers were cold, much colder than yours. Almost like he was the one to be in that snowstorm that you were in moments before.

At your sudden touch, his head snapped up. His eyes, glazed with kept and unshed tears met yours. They were wide. He wasn't expecting you to reach out at him and touch him. But he didn't pull away, he didn't move his hand away from yours.

His trembling then slowly stopped. He let your hand lay against his, now not not-trembling hand. And then, slowly he curled his hand into yours. A shudder left his chest, like a small cry of fear. Like your touch of your fingers against his broke something deep inside him that he couldn’t try to put into words. His hand stayed in yours.

"Say that again!" someone, an angry man, yelled from downstairs which made you turn your head towards the small hole in the wooden floor again. A furious sounding command.

You caught a glimpse of a man standing up at the table, in front of a young boy. His shoulder high in defence, but he still looked scared. He stood in front of woman, blocking her from the view of the angred man before him.

"Don't touch her—" a child, a young boy, stated firmly to the man before him. The young boy planted himself before the man marching towards the woman. Most likely his mother.

"Oh, yeah. He speaks up!" the man speaks out with angred mockery. He then pushed nearly all food off the table as he neared the boy who was standing in front of the woman. The clattering sound echoing off the kitchen walls. Almost like the boy was protecting her from the man.

"Mum..." the boy gasps out as the man nears him and his mother. The older man closed the distance between himself and the younger boy, who remained glued to the spot. Desperately standing straight to protect the woman behind him.

The mother stays put and yells out with a sharp voice, but a kind of voice that doesn't make anyone flinch or move, "stop!"

"A hero, Bobby!" the man barked mockingly and pushed another items off the kitchen table, all of it going across the kitchen onto the floor.

"Bob, sit down," the woman suddenly snapped at the younger boy, cutting with her voice through the chaos of the argument, "you're making it worse."

You felt Bob beside you start to tremble again, just slightly. The grip on your hand hadn't loosened, he tightened it. As if he didn't want you to vanish or be let go.

“I’m sorry…” he whispers again, his head dropped with his hair covering his face again. His chin nearly meeting his chest.

You tear your gaze from the crack in the floor at the edge of the rug and look back at him. He's hunched over, his head dropped like he is hiding and his hands is tightly holding yours in almost a silent prayer. You see in between his hair and see that his eyes. Teary. His blue wells full of water threating to spill.

“Bob—” you begin with your voice barely a whisper. But your words are cut off by Bob speaking.

"Do you have a card?"

You still at that question. Your mouth hangs open, no words coming out. Your mouth hangs open for a few seconds and then you close it, your brows knitting together, "what?"

You had to ask. You know what he means. You know that he means the small card in your pocket of your vest. You know exactly what he means. But you don't know how he knows about it.

“I had a dream,” he says quietly, his finger grazing over tours again, "you… you had a card. We were there... like this. Sitting next to each other. You held a card in your hands," his voice trembles slightly, "there was a drawing—”

"Of two ghosts."

You both speak at the same time. Your eyes are wide and his head lifts up, his eyes catching yours like a magnet. You reach for the pocket of your vest without thinking. You unzip it and your fingers find the creased edges of the card in instant. You pull the card out and hear Bob let out a long deep exhale. His eyes are already on it by the time you pull it out and he stares like it’s not just a piece of an old paper, but like it’s a real prophecy.

You don't see it, but his lips are parted. He doesn't believe the fact that his dream was somehow real.

You hold it in your palm, staring down at it without looking up at the man sitting next to you. He looks down at it too.

He sees the drawing, the complete exact drawing of those two sweet-looking ghosts from his dream. There are those two familiar small ghosts, floating toward each other like they're almost looking like they're dancing together. That faded orange-pink heart between them. The same creased edges, right at the same spot where it was in his dream. The same everything.

He nearly chokes when your fingers graze and trace the drawing of the card. Right over the two ghosts there. The same way you did in his dream. Like it was repeating. As if you had seen that dream too and had to react to it whole. To the single detail. Except the fact that instead of the Rubik's cube in his hands, there is yours holding his.

He then notices the writing now. The line of text. Finally. The symbols that he couldn't make out when he was dreaming. Like that piece did not belong in that sream, like he was supposed to find out himself. Not by the dream and thoughts. But with you by his side. The part that the dream refused to give him. The letters that blurred each time he tried to read them.

Count to twenty-two and you’ll be mine too!

His heart tugs. At the text. The part that the dream did not want to give it to me. Something inside him ached. He understands that text, that's why the dream did not want to give him that part. It would be too easy. His fingers, still curled around yours, squeezed once, "I think,” he started to say but a breath caught itself in his chest, “some part of me was waiting for you.”

"I had a similar one... I remember similar text on it," he whispered and his gaze stayed on the card in your fingers. Looking at the two familiar ghosts floating around.

You tilt your head and stared up at Bob. Your fingers tracing his fingers that are held around yours. Then, you looked down at your intervening fingers and that's when you saw it.

A familiar edge of a card that was peeking out from beneath the Rubik's cube.

Your heart lurched against your ribs the second your thoughts ran straight, "Bob—” the word came out strangled, gasped out, "under the cube—”

Bob's brows pinch together at your words. Confusion ran up his face. His gaze drifts to where yours is locked, right where he remembers where the colorful cube was. The second his eyes catch the sight of the cube, he gasps out just like you did.

He then reaches for it, for that one creased edge that's peeking from underneath the cube. He picks it up slowly, pulling it from underneath the colorful item. His breath quivers as it gets pulled free. It’s nearly the same paper. The edge of a familiar type of paper creased just like yours. Nearly the same card. This version isn’t like yours. Not exactly.

Bob holds the other card gently between his fingers, staring down at the faded drawing of the same two ghosts that were on your card. You’re already leaning closer, eyes locked on the small creased card in his hands. It’s not the same as yours. Not quite.

The ghosts on his card aren’t dancing like the ones on your card.

They’re sitting.

Just like the two of you now. Side by side on a floor colored the same colour as the rug you are sitting on. They have their ends, where their arms are supposed to be, held together. Almost like the two of you are doing now. One of the ghosts leans slightly towards the other, just like you are leaning towards Bob now.

Above the ghost on the left, the one that is leaning, is a pink heart.

Above the one on the right is a soft orange one.

Those two hearts mixed would make the one on your card. Almost like they were each other's future or history. It’s almost like whoever drew it had seen this moment before it happened. Maybe it was meant to.

Bob swallows and his voice barely breaks through the air, "they're not dancing like on yours… they're sitting.”

You nod slowly, still looking at the small card in his hands. It doesn't make sense but also makes huge sense.

“They’re us,” he says with a small chuckle and you let out one too, “this isn’t like your card. It’s… before. Before your card."

“Before the ghosts found each other,” you whisper quietly, your eyes lifting up and his as well. Staring into each other's eyes.

"They were never just ghosts,” Bob softly said and then he looks down back at his card. His finger traces over the line of text on his own card. You look down too, noticing the text as well.

Counted to twenty-two and I thought you’d feel it too!

Your heart nearly drops and so does Bob's. Your own fingers tighten slightly around the edges of your card. You both fall silent, your matching cards resting in your hands.

Bob lets out a low, unsteady laugh after a few moments, "I found this in a book. I stole the book... um, from a library when I was just a kid."

You chuckled at that. You'd never imagine Bob as a book thief. It's almost hard to believe. Your eyes flicker between him and the card in his hands, "you found the card inside?”

“In between the pages,” he nods slowly, "the card just fell out when I opened it. I remember thinking it was weird card. But I kept it as a bookmark."

“What book was it?” you let your finger graze over his, you once again heart the same shattering noise of plates from beneath you. But you tried to let it fall silent against your ears, so did Bob. Completely ignoring the scene below you.

"I can't recall the name of the book, but the author was…” Bob says, thinking about the name for a second, “Svetoslav Staríjski.”

You feel the world slow around you. Like it was suddenly stopped. You then whisper back when you hear that name, "Svetoslav Staríjski..."

Bob turns to you, staring up at you with those blue eyes of his, "you know him?” he asks.

You nod shakily, "um... The doctor who used to take care of me after... all these experiments. He—He that gave me that card."

You stayed silent after. A silence taking over your surroundings. Your knees touching Bob's while you both hold hands tightly, like either of you could vanish in a moment. Bob is the first to break your comfortable silence.

"Do you think he knew?” Bob asks softly, "do you think he meant for us to find each other?”

"I'd like to think so," you smile softly at him. Bob does the same, he looks back down at the card in his hand and then he slides it into his pocket of his corduroy pants, keeping it safe there. You do the same, but zip it up into your tactical vest's pocket near your heart. Keeping it safely hidden. His eyes stay on you again, like he is glued to you. Two ghosts with hearts.

"So... You are my missing ghost," Bob smiles at you with a curved smile, his eyes soft and deep. You look at him back, the same smile on your face, "and you're my missing one."

Two cards, two ghosts, two people.

A silence stretches on for a moment, both of you staring at each other. Then Bob’s voice, quieter this time asks out, "so, what now?”

"We should find a way out of this memory," you glance down at where your knees met and where your hands are holding each others. Bob then squeezes your hand and that makes you look up, he is staring at you. Wide-eyed and waiting.

"I feel like... I need to do something," Bob says, voice trembling slightly, hesitating maybe. You tilt your head, watching him, waiting for him to elaborate. His eyes are wide, something urgent swimming in his eyes. He’s staring at you like the moment might vanish if he blinks, so wide-eyed, "if we don’t get out... I need to—”

“What do you—” you start, but he cuts in quickly before you finish your question.

“I need to kiss you,” he says so quickly that he nearly stumbles over his own words. The sentence rushing out of his lips like a flash of lightning. Those wide, startled blue eyes don’t leave yours.

You don’t speak. You just look at him. But after a moment, you shift, just enough for your knee to nudge his again. His eyes are blown and his cheeks are red. He looks like he’s barely holding himself together. Then, just as you do, he leans in too.

Just as your lips draw close, the entire attic shudders violently. Like an earthquake approaches. Like it's about to shatter underneath your feet.

Bob then suddenly yells out.

Before you can even react, his arms slam around your shoulders, pulling you towards him, hiding your head down. Tucking your head beneath his chin, his body shielding yours. Something wooden, you don't catch sight of what, crashes against your back. The floor trembles beneath you, objects rattling and flying around. Another chair hurls itself at Bob from behind him. Bob is quick to raise his arm and hide his face behind it, the chair breaking as it makes contact with his body. Objects are flying from all the shelves and boxes. Papers are scattered into the air and everything is almost in like a rapidly rotating and growing whirlwind.

You scramble to your feet, Bob rising with you quickly too. Both of you dart away from the flying objects, and you back up until your back is pressing against the wooden wall of the attic.

But then, a sudden force tugs on your shoulders from where you lean against the attic's wooden ceiling-wall. Pulling at your shoulders with invisible force, absolute pain shoots through your shoulder and you cry out. Bob lunges for a nearby wooden stick from a box nearby. He grips it tightly, ready to defend.

You were kinda worried he'd swing the stick at you.

Before he can even strike, another object flies straight at him, slamming into his side with force that sends him falling onto the floor of the attic.

You somehow kick yourself off the wall of the attic that was pulling you and rush to Bob’s side. Your hands wrap his crewneck-covered arms as you help him up back onto his feet.

“Who’s doing this, Bob?" you yell out as you hold on to the man's arm. His eyes were darting around the room. Like he was looking for whoever was doing this, like the Void was hiding somewhere there.

Just then, another, thankfully wooden, heavy object smashes into the back of his head, staggering him forward, "I think I am!” he shouts at you.

Before you can even say anything, another chair flies right towards him, striking him in his back with unexpected force. Bob stumbles into you, and your arms wrap around him to keep him from hitting the floor once again.

Just then, from behind you, a window curtain whips itself from where it was hung. One of the ends wraps itself tightly around your neck, the other wrapping the same way around Bob’s. A choking the breath escapes from your lips. Your vision breaking as it cuts you slowly off. Bob’s mouth hangs open, a line of drool escaping as he gasps for air right at the opposite end of the curtain. Both of you tremble, struggling against the grip.

Both of your hands claw and try to rip off the curtain from the grip on your necks. Then suddenly, your savior bursts in.

Ava suddenly appeared out of complete nowhere. Almost like a miracle.

In a swift slash of her blade cuts through the curtain, freeing both you and Bob from the unforgiving grip of choking. You gasp loudly, the air flooding back into your lungs. Bob’s breath came out instantly as ragged.

From behind Bob, Bucky storms in and rips apart a flying couch that was hurling straight towards the two of you. John follows next and kicks away a speeding object that almost catches at your head. Yelena is there next, kicking away a heavy filled-up box of scraps that was aimed straight at the man in corduroy pants.

Then, Alexei is the last. He rips apart, into two pieces, a pillow that wasn't even moving, "stupid pillow!" he yells out in his thick Russian accent.

You double over, gasping for breath as you pull off a curtain that was clinging to your neck.

"Twenty-Two..." John is the first one to speak, he comes forward and puts a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"We saw you die—" Yelena starts, moving to you too. Her face twisted, almost like she was about to cry. She comes closer to you and stares at you with her longing eyes. Her eyes almost shine as she looks at you. John is next to you too, his hand still on your shoulder, almost like he believes you'd die and vanish if he lets go.

"You were gone!" Yelena finally reaches out, placing her palm so gently on your arm.

"But I'm here now," you tell her and give her a small, comforting smile, and put your hand to where hers is. Right over hers, you give her a small squeeze. Your face then twists, realizing they must have seen their memories as well to be there with you, "what did you see? Are you all okay?"

"Oh, I'm fine. I have a great past, so I'm totally fine," Bucky is the first to answer and gives an awkward smile to you. You don't really know the man, but you're pretty sure that the man in no way had a great past when his whole arm is completely missing.

"Yeah. This place is messed up," John nods and his hand falling off your shoulder. He steps away, looking around the attic you're in. Bob next to you wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at the new additions in the attic.

"We're here together," Alexei says, nodding at you and his daughter. Then stares at the others around too, "that's what matters."

"Thank you, guys," Bob says from beside you, nodding at everyone, "really..."

"Of course. Here we are, Shane's elite electronics, Thunderbolts," Ava says with humour in her voice but with a stone-like facial expression. You smile weakly at her and Bob next to you shuffles closer to you, his hand making slight contact with yours. Bucky turns to her, and he looks kind of confused but smiles.

"It's not Shane!" Alexei mutters from where he is standing, stretching his arms out.

"Aha, okay. How—How do we get out of here?" John turns to the brown-haired man in corduroy pants and asks him the main question that lingers in everyone's head. You turn towards Bob too, staring up at him. He doesn't turn towards John, but turns his head at you, as if you had asked that question.

"As far as I know it's just... endless rooms," he looks down at you as he explains what he knows about this place.

"Wait. You said that this was the nicest room that you've found. The others were way worse, right?" you turned towards Bob with your whole body, thinking of his past words he told you when you were alone in this attic, sitting close on the worn-out rug.

"Yeah," Bob softly says, his eyes staring down at you.

"Okay, well..." Yelena says from beside you, also staring at the man in blue crewneck, "show us the worst."

You nod at Yelena and then you look at the man beside you. He's still staring down at you without turning his gaze at anyone else in the room. Your hand finds Bob’s, almost without thinking, "you've got to show us the worst one. We will all be there with you, Bob."

He swallows and looks at the others. At everyone in the attic. Then he nods a few times, "alright... I'll show you."

The attic's door creaks open when Bob opens it. Bob shows the stairs downstairs and you are the one to go first down. The others follow in close behind you, Bob on your feet, just a step away. Like he doesn't want to lose you. Again. His eyes constantly flickering to the back of your grey suit covered with the black tactical vest and on the back of your head. The steps creak loudly beneath your feet as you descend down the stairs, you once again hear the same repeated sound of dishes breaking and a man yelling. You don't stop as you reach the bottom and head for the kitchen where the yelling is coming from.

"Where do you think you're going, Robert?" the angred man, most likely Bob's father, yells at Bob, who is just a step behind you. John is the quickest to jump in and smashes his shield against the head of the man, knocking him out cold onto the floor. His reaction was immediate.

"Oh, he seems nice!" Ava commented sarcastically as she stepped over the unconscious body on the floor.

The room then starts breaking down and you're quick to follow Ava, who's moving for the way out. Plates rattled off the table, glass cracked from the windows and the walls started breaking and falling. You all jumped through a closet that you hadn't even caught sight of. Bob just suddenly shoved you into that closet.

You then felt yourself falling down. As if the closet had a hole in the floor. You hit the ground with a groan and clothes started flowing form the sky too. From the closet you came from.

Before you could even stand up and push yourself up, an unexpected object slammed right into the middle of your face. Sending you falling back down. You looked back up and squinted at the figure that hit you. You thought that you might have just gone insane.

A chicken.

Or rather, someone in a ridiculous, oversized chicken costume with his yellow ruffled skin of feathers. Its beak turned into a smile and its face was something that would make a child cry in fear. In the chicken's hand was a twirling sign with some advertisement of Alfredo's Bail Bonds. Whatever that was.

“What the fuck—” you gasped out, but before you could finish, the chicken suited person brought the sign down again, slapping it hard against your head and sending you back down on the floor.

The chicken caught Alexei with the sign, sending the Russian man tumbling away. Alexei crashed against the wall nearby. John stepped forward next, trying to block the chicken's chaotic, but violent swings wih an advertising sign. The chicken was quick to notice and hit the shielded-man with the sign.

Alexei, who was very quick to recover, charged at Bob who was helping you up from the ground. He grabbed Bob firmly by the shoulders, shaking him slightly as if he wanted to get some sense into him, “Bob, if you hit me with that sign one more time—”

Before he could finish, he turned around to charge at the chicken but the twirling sign whirled through the air and smacked him hard across the face. Alexei staggered back. Bob took a step backwards, almost hiding himself behind his own arms, "I was on meth!" he screamed out wildly.

The chicken raised the twirling sign up again, now aiming at Bob. Chicken-suited Bob now trying to attack normal Bob. It charged at Bob witht some wild,chaotic energy burst. Bob barely had time to turn his head away, but Bucky moved fast.

He lunged forward, sliding in front of Bob just in time to have his fist connected with the chicken’s face. The chicken crumpled backward, falling hard onto its back.

"This way!" sounds out from behind you from the Russian man. He is standing by opened basement-like doors. You all run towards him, going down into the hole while Alexei stands and urges you all to go. He is the last to enter, closing the door behind all of you. Off to the next room of Bob's memories. The way the man in corduroy pants shakes slightly when he enters tells you that the next room may be the worst one.

The final chapter of Bob's memories is waiting just in front of you. But this time, Bob isn't alone. He isn't alone to fight his own fears. Together, you’re ready for whatever may come. Whatever the room before you holds. You all will face it as one. Because you’re here for each other. Just like Alexei said, you're here together and that's what matters.

You’ll get out of this nightmare alive. You have to.

hope you liked this! if yes, comments and feedback are very appreciated! <3

this chapter is definitely one of my favourite ones!!!! i put my whole imagination into work when i thought of some sad :( memories that twenty-two could've had. also oooh the backtoback-past-to-future-destined-to-be-together card i pulled out??? IM PROUD OF THIS sorraaay for yapping bye

TAGLIST: @qardasngan , @one17 , @ren-ni , @werewolfgirl1995 , @mysticdelusionengineer , @lauryn2theelectricboogaloo , @mewmew222 , @badbishsblog , @lovely-foxes-exe , @funkyfable , @melvin333 , @sunflower-0180 , @witch-of-letters , @articel1967 , @kazamys

288 notes · View notes

kathlare · 1 month ago

Text

miss possesive

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie navigates the subtle tensions created by Magui's presence, firmly establishing her place by Lando's side and with his family.

Wordcount: 10.3 k

Warnings: smut

full masterlist // request over here!

May 25th, 2025 - Monte Carlo, Monaco

The hum of morning was soft and golden as it poured through the slats of their bedroom curtains, casting sunlit stripes across the bed where Benny was curled into a loaf at the foot and Björn lay dramatically sprawled on his back, belly up and legs askew like the little menace he was. The scent of sea air mixed with freshly brewed espresso from the kitchen drifted through the slightly cracked window, and somewhere outside, seagulls squawked over a yacht.

Amelie stood in front of the vanity mirror, slipping a dainty earring through her lobe, her hair still slightly damp from her quick shower. She tilted her head, fixing a loose curl and adjusting the charm necklace Lando had gotten her last week in Milan.

And then she saw it — the silhouette in the mirror.

Steam billowed faintly from the en suite bathroom door as it opened, and out stepped Lando, towel slung low around his hips, another in his hands as he rubbed it over his wet curls. His skin glowed with the kind of sun-kissed tan that Monaco always blessed him with, and droplets of water slid down his chest, carving paths through freckles and faint scratches that probably came from wrestling with Björn or her nails last night. Probably both.

But that wasn’t what made Amelie smirk.

No, it was the neck.

His neck.

Covered in varying shades of red and violet—blossoms of her handiwork. Hickeys trailed from his jawline down to his collarbones like a path of breadcrumbs, bold and utterly unapologetic.

Amelie arched a brow, catching his reflection through the mirror.

—Well, well, well,— she purred, turning slowly with a crooked smile. —Looks like someone got mauled last night. Should I be worried?—

Lando didn’t even flinch. Just sighed and kept drying his hair, curls springing into unruly chaos with each swipe.

—I warned you,— he said casually. —Told you I had media stuff today.—

—You told me,— she echoed, stepping toward him, eyes glittering with mischief. —You just didn’t stop me.—

He let the towel fall from his head, dropping it lazily onto the chair by the dresser. His eyes met hers in the mirror — hazy, amused, still warm from sleep and water. And trouble. Always trouble.

—You really think I was in any position to stop you?— he asked, voice still gravelly, that morning rasp that always made her knees go a little weak.

Amelie crossed her arms, biting back a grin. Her gaze flicked again to the evidence staining his skin. One near his collarbone was particularly dark. She was proud of that one.

—Well, you’re definitely gonna make headlines today,— she teased, sauntering closer until she stood just behind him, her arms wrapping loosely around his waist. —“Norris debuts new sponsor: Girlfriend’s Teeth.”—

Lando snorted, leaning back into her touch. Her hands skimmed over his stomach, slow and teasing, fingertips brushing low, just above where the towel clung dangerously to his hips.

—They should be grateful I’m not charging for ad space,— he muttered, lips twitching. —Monaco real estate isn’t cheap. Especially when it’s on my neck.—

She giggled, pressing a kiss to the back of his shoulder. —You’re disgusting.—

—You love it.—

She didn’t argue. Just grinned into his skin.

Then Lando turned, suddenly, catching her waist and pulling her flush against him in one smooth motion. The towel stayed put — barely — but it was the smirk that made her heart stutter. That smug, post-mischief glint in his eyes.

—Speaking of love,— he said, voice low, —do you have my victory reward planned yet? You know… just in case I bring home a little something shiny this afternoon.—

Amelie blinked, trying not to laugh as her hands flattened against his chest.

—You're already angling for sex and the lights haven't even gone out yet? You’re disgusting and cocky.—

—Confident,— he corrected, dipping his head to mouth lazily at her neck. —And very, very motivated. Did you see the lap I put in yesterday? That pole position wasn’t luck, baby. That was pure, uncut “my girlfriend is gonna wreck me if I win” energy.—

—You’re impossible,— she whispered, shivering slightly as his teeth grazed the spot behind her ear.

—Tell me again tonight when I’m holding a trophy and your thighs over my shoulders.—

Amelie slapped his chest with a scandalized laugh, cheeks flushed and heart racing. —Lando! You’re a menace!—

—You love that too.—

God, she really did.

He dipped again, this time kissing her collarbone gently — reverently — his fingers spreading across her back like he couldn’t quite let go, even just to go get dressed. The towel had definitely slipped lower now, but neither of them moved to fix it.

Benny gave a bored meow from the bed, tail flicking once in disapproval. Björn snored upside down.

—You need to get dressed,— Amelie whispered eventually, though her fingers were still tracing circles against his ribs. —You're gonna be late for the driver's parade.—

—Mmm. Five more minutes. Or just cancel it. Monaco’ll understand.—

She arched a brow. —You want to cancel the biggest race of the year because you’re horny?—

He leaned down, brushing their noses together.

—Not just horny. Horny and in love. Big difference.—

That earned him a kiss. Soft. Slow. And full of all the things they didn’t always say out loud before races.

She pulled back first, gently nudging him toward the closet. —Go. Before I distract you again. I’ve got makeup to finish, and you’ve got a grid to dominate.—

Lando winked, finally releasing her. —Fine. But you better be waiting here later with nothing but that necklace on.—

Amelie smirked, eyes following him as he walked away.

—Only if you bring me champagne to go with it.—

—Deal.—

And with that, he disappeared behind the closet door, towel still barely hanging on, the bruises she'd left on full display like a signature.

Amelie turned back to the mirror, cheeks warm and heart lighter.

Let them all see.

He was hers.

-------------

liked by lanmelieupdates, ferrarigirlieee, and others

lanmelieupdates: Lando pulled up early to the paddock solo this morning, but don’t worry besties — queen Amelie arrived a bit later with his parents 😭💕 like!!! wife behavior??? we won today and the race hasn’t even started

View all 87,095 comments

chaoticwags: lando locking in p1 just bc he saw her walk in with his MOTHER 😭😭 → gridgirl420: @chaoticwags bro was like “wife and mom in one place? let me impress” 😭💍

drsdrama: nah be fr is that a HICKEY on his neck or am i hallucinating → lanmelieslut69: @drsdrama you’re not. she left her mark and i support it. → ameliesburnttoast: @drsdrama that’s not a hickey it’s a statement 💋

paddockrat: lanmelie entering their soft launch marriage era i fear → norrisnation: @paddockrat hard launch next week i’m manifesting

wifeymelie: she showed up with his parents and he’s walking around with her love bites… guys we LOST → pitwallprincess: @wifeymelie we lost but also we won???

f1gfthings: everyone shut up i’m still screaming at the fact his mum was with her and not him 😭 → ameliesimpact: @f1gfthings mama norris said that’s my daughter-in-law now

chaoscorner: lando walking around like he doesn’t have a whole crime scene on his throat 💀

gridgirlie: HIS NECK??? BE SERIOUS → pitwallclown: @gridgirlie you saw the hickey too right ok i’m not crazy → lanlover44: @gridgirlie she clocked in overtime last night 😭😭😭

ameliesburner: she walked in like she pays for mclaren’s engine upgrades → landozaddy: @ameliesburner babe she does it’s called ✨motivation✨

wagsunited: lando’s parents arriving with their daughter-in-law like it’s totally normal 😭 → lanmeliee: @wagsunited give it 2 months max before we see a rock on her finger

paddocktea: lando acting all focused meanwhile his neck looks like a vampire got him → ameliecore: @paddocktea SHE ATE. LITERALLY.

glamgridf1: NOT THE HICKEYS ON HIS NECK 😭😭 → lanmelie4ever: @glamgridf1 AMELIE SAID “HE’S MINE” LOUD AND CLEAR 😭💅 → paddockbabes: @glamgridf1 and she let him walk in like that knowing magui was there… a silent slay if you ask me 😌

-------------

The McLaren hospitality buzzed with the familiar rhythm of a race weekend—engineers moving with purpose, media people rushing around, and the subtle scent of fresh coffee mixing with heat and rubber. Amelie arrived through the back entrance, a step behind Lando’s parents, Adam and Cisca, her hair tucked behind her ears and sunglasses shielding her eyes even though she was indoors.

She smiled tightly, thankful for the calm presence of Lando’s mum, who instantly reached out and squeezed her hand.

—You okay, sweetheart?— Cisca asked, her voice always warm.

—Yeah. Just nervous,— Amelie lied. It wasn’t just tiredness. Her stomach was knotted, not from nerves but from her. She hadn’t even fully stepped into the room before her gaze landed on Magui.

She was standing by herself near the corner, a perfect picture of awkward elegance, like someone who didn’t quite know where to stand or who to talk to. She wasn’t talking to anyone. Not even pretending to scroll through her phone. Just... lingering.

Amelie could’ve ignored it. She wanted to ignore it.

Instead, she turned her head and followed Lando’s parents to their usual table. Adam pulled out a chair for her and she offered a quiet, grateful smile before settling in, right between them, like some kind of neutral zone. Cisca began chatting about their flight and the weather in Monaco, and Amelie did her best to follow, nodding and replying when appropriate. She even laughed a few times, forcing herself to breathe, to ground herself.

But her peripheral vision kept betraying her.

Magui was still standing alone. Like a lost puppy. Like she didn’t know where she belonged. And Amelie hated it. She hated that she cared. Hated that her stupid human empathy kicked in when what she really wanted to do was stand up and yell “get the fuck out of here, you don’t belong anymore.”

She didn’t owe Magui kindness.

And yet...

She glanced over. Just a glance. Barely even that.

And Magui looked up.

Shit.

It was the wrong glance. It felt like an invitation. A look Magui clearly interpreted as, hey, come on over and ruin my day.

Amelie tried to look away, but it was too late. She watched as Magui pulled a chair from the next table—scraping it loudly against the floor—and brought it beside her. Adam and Cisca went quiet. Amelie internally groaned.

—Hey,— Magui said sweetly, that fake-ass smile plastered on her face.

—Hi,— Amelie replied, tight-lipped, eyes flicking to Cisca, who raised a brow ever so slightly.

There was a pause. An awful one. Long enough to feel the tension wrap around the table like cling film.

—So... you came with Lando’s parents? That’s sweet. It’s so nice that they still let people from the past come around. Nostalgia’s cute like that.—

The air dropped ten degrees.

Amelie smiled, sharp and polite. —Yeah. It’s nice when you don’t burn every bridge you cross.—

Adam coughed. Cisca’s lips twitched.

Magui didn’t stop.

—I just think it’s so charming how quickly everything changed after Miami. Like one win and suddenly... bam! Everyone’s in love. Must be exhausting to keep up with, right?—

Amelie clenched her jaw. She could feel her skin prickle, her throat tighten, her fists curl under the table. This bitch.

Before she could even open her mouth to reply...

The door swung open.

And there he was.

Lando.

Hair still damp from prep, fireproofs clinging to his frame, the top half of his race suit tied at the waist. He stepped in with that lazy, focused swagger—eyes scanning the room in a split second.

And the second his gaze found her, everything in him shifted. His entire face lit up. His feet moved on instinct.

Amelie swore she heard Magui’s breath hitch.

—There he is,— Adam muttered under his breath, smiling.

Lando beelined straight for their table, ignoring everyone else. Ignoring the way Magui subtly shifted in her seat, adjusting her posture like she was on a goddamn Vogue cover shoot, as if he’d so much as glance in her direction.

He didn’t.

Not once.

Instead, he went straight to his mum and dad, giving them each a tight, warm hug.

—You good, mate?— Adam asked, patting his back.

—Yeah. Feeling it today,— Lando said, pulling away. His voice had that pre-race grit to it, laced with adrenaline and focus, but there was something else too—something softer when he turned to her.

He leaned down, hand already finding the back of Amelie’s chair, thumb brushing the fabric of her shirt just above her spine.

—Hi, baby,— he said low, like she was the only person in the room.

Amelie’s heart squeezed.

—Hi, Lan.—

And just like that, she stood slightly, arms looping around his waist, nose brushing the cotton of his fireproofs as he bent down to kiss her—slow, deliberate, just a moment longer than polite. His hand cupped her jaw, fingers grazing the ends of her hair.

When they broke apart, his forehead pressed against hers for a beat longer than necessary.

It was a quiet declaration.

And Magui saw every fucking second of it.

Amelie didn’t need to turn her head to know—she could feel it. The tension radiating from Magui’s side like heat off tarmac.

She bit back a smile. Fucking hell, that felt good.

Lando finally pulled back, still holding her waist as he sat down beside her, dragging a chair from another table to be closer.

He didn’t acknowledge Magui once.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. Not even a twitch of recognition.

If anything, he leaned into Amelie more, legs bumping hers under the table, his knee pressed to hers like it belonged there.

And Magui… Magui looked like she wanted to peel her skin off.

Still, she tried.

—You’re looking focused, Lando,— she said, sweet like syrup.

He didn’t look at her.

—Thanks,— he replied shortly, eyes on Amelie as he reached for her hand under the table, giving it a quick squeeze.

Cisca raised her glass of water in a faux toast. —Well, we certainly know who’s fueling the good vibes this weekend.—

Adam chuckled. —I’d say it’s the breakfast, but yeah, might be something else.—

Amelie laughed quietly, cheeks warm. Lando just smirked and dropped his head to her shoulder for a second, pretending to yawn into her arm, the picture of casual affection.

Magui cleared her throat.

—It’s just... funny, isn’t it? This dynamic,— she said vaguely, swirling the water in her glass. —You used to be so private, Lando. All hush-hush. And now... this.—

Lando tilted his head, finally glancing toward her. For a second, Amelie thought he might say something sharp.

But he didn’t.

He just grinned, boyish and infuriatingly smug.

—Guess I was just waiting for the right person to show off.—

Magui blinked.

And just like that, she was done.

Not officially—she kept sitting there, but she was done. The attention wasn’t on her. The pull wasn’t on her. She could feel it, the gravity of the room shifting around Amelie. People passing by to say hi, some smiling, some clearly just trying to get close to Lando, but still—they gravitated toward her. The little nods. The curious glances. The subtle touches of admiration and envy.

This was her place.

Her chair.

Her table.

Not Magui’s.

Never again.

Lando leaned into her again, brushing his knuckles against her thigh under the table.

—You okay, Ames?— he murmured.

—Better now,— she whispered back.

He smirked, leaned in to press a kiss to her temple, and then said under his breath, —You look really fucking hot today. I kinda hate I have to go drive a car right now.—

She bit back a grin. —Go win the thing. Maybe I’ll reward you after.—

Lando’s eyes flickered with heat. —Define reward.—

—You’ll know when you earn it.—

Magui finally stood up.

Chair scraping. Awkward. Sharp. She mumbled something about needing to check on someone and left without waiting for a response.

No one stopped her.

Lando barely noticed.

The moment she was gone, he turned to Amelie, face softening completely. —You sure you’re alright?—

Amelie nodded. —Yeah. She doesn’t matter. You do.—

His fingers laced through hers again. —Damn right I do.—

—Cocky bastard.—

—Only for you, cariño.—

She rolled her eyes and leaned in to kiss him again, brief but firm. —Now go make me proud, Lan.—

He stood up with a grin, fireproofs rustling, hair tousled and stupidly perfect.

—Always do, Ames. Always fucking do.—

And with that, he walked off—shoulders straight, head high.

And Magui?

She was gone. Out of the frame. Out of the story.

Where she fucking belonged.

-------------

liked by gossipsquad, mclarenqueen, and others

paddockvibes: Amelie holding it down at McLaren Hospitality today with Lando’s parents 👀💕 Nothing like family support vibes on race day!

View all 103,208 comments

paddockbuzz: lando seeing amelie with his parents like “yep she’s mine” 😭💯 → thewagscoop: @paddockbuzz that hickey on his neck says it all lol

racedayvibes: ames flexing at mclaren today, magui who? 😂 → lanmeliesupport: @racedayvibes facts, no competition when love is this real 💖

fastlane_fan: when bae watches qualy at ferrari but chillin w/ fam on race day 👀👑 → lanmelieforever: @fastlane_fan lowkey strategic moves, gotta keep everyone close 🤫

f1queenbee: amelie showing up to mclaren like “not today magui” 👑🔥 → lanmelie4life: @f1queenbee facts sis, she’s here to claim her king 👑💥

speedsterz: Amelie showing up at McLaren like “Magui who?” 🤡🔥 → lanmeliefan44: @speedsterz facts, she came to claim her man and the whole hospitality 😍 → fastlane20: @lanmeliefan44 queen energy only 👑

racecarbabe: Amelie + Lando’s parents at McLaren = family goals on point 🙌 → simpracer: @racecarbabe clan vibes too strong, we stan the real power couple 💥

vroomvroomvibes: Lando locking in P1 just cuz he saw Amelie roll up like that 👀💯 → lanmeliefan44: @vroomvroomvibes manifesting podium kisses & race day PDA, yessss 🙌

curvesandcorners: She ain’t playing, today she’s the boss at McLaren 👏💅 → speedsterz: @curvesandcorners CEO of his heart, no cap ❤️‍🔥

paddockvibes: amelie lowkey sending magui vibes: “not today sis” 😤 → lanmeliesimp: @paddockvibes lando got his queen back no cap 👑❤️

fastlane_fan: lando better bring home that W for miss perfect sitting with his fam 💯 → f1queen: @fastlane_fan facts, team vibes 100/10

sundayracevibes: magui who? lanmelie just took over hospitality real estate 👏 → lanmeliesimp: @sundayracevibes they’re basically the power couple of the paddock lol

gossipsquad: hickeys on lando’s neck = claiming territory 101 🔥 → lanmeliesimp: @gossipsquad Amelie’s way of saying “mine, back off” lol

tracktalk: lando walking on clouds knowing amelie’s holding down the fort 💯 → norisimp: @tracktalk he better be, that hickey on his neck says it all 👀

mclarenqueen: watched qualy at ferrari, today she’s showing who’s boss at mclaren lol → lanmeliegang: @mclarenqueen exactly, she’s making it clear where the heart is ❤️‍🔥

-------------

Lando Norris is the Monaco Grand Prix winner.

The words exploded through the speakers as the checkered flag waved over glittering asphalt, and the roar of the crowd was drowned out by a more intimate, more immediate sound—Amelie’s own sharp breath, caught somewhere between disbelief and joy. Her knees gave out before the realization even settled in.

He did it.

He fucking did it.

Cisca’s arms wrapped around her just as the sob burst free, wracking through her chest like a quake. Amelie clung to her like a lifeline, tears streaking down her cheeks, breath coming in jagged gulps as the weight of it all hit her.

Her Lando.

Her boy.

Monaco.

People were screaming around them, orange shirts bouncing, mechanics throwing fists into the air, but she couldn’t see any of it. She couldn’t hear anything past the ringing in her ears and the sound of her own heart threatening to burst through her chest.

Lando Norris. Winner of the Monaco Grand Prix.

Someone said her name—Lily, probably—but Amelie didn’t hear it. Didn’t care. She didn’t look back. She broke free from Cisca’s embrace with a whispered apology and pushed forward, blindly following the wave of McLaren crew and staff making their way toward parc fermé. She weaved through people she didn’t recognize, ignored cameras shoved in her face, nearly stumbled on the stairs as she rushed down to the barricades.

By the time she reached the line of marshals holding hands to block the entry, she could barely stand still. Lily was next to her, equally breathless, tears in her eyes too, laughing in awe. Amelie grabbed her hand tightly, shaking, her nails digging into Lily’s knuckles.

The McLaren garage had erupted into chaos—Oscar was pulling into third, Charles in second, but no one cared about that.

Because Lando had won.

And there he was.

The papaya blur rolled to a stop, and Lando stayed in the cockpit for a second too long, helmet still on, hands frozen on the wheel. Then he slowly unclipped everything with shaking fingers, as if the gravity of what he’d just done was only just sinking in. He reached for the column where he was meant to place his helmet and stood on top of it, his arms thrown into the air like a goddamn king of the world.

Amelie sobbed harder.

Then he jumped down, steady despite the height, and finally yanked off his helmet and balaclava.

And began searching.

His hair was a mess, curls damp and sticking to his forehead, his eyes scanning the crowd with frantic urgency. He found Adam first—his dad pushing through the line, both arms open. Lando didn’t hesitate. He grabbed him in a crushing hug, burying his face into his shoulder. Adam grinned, eyes glinting, whispering something into his ear.

Next came Cisca—already crying, arms open, her lipstick smudged on his cheek the second he bent down. She cupped his face, whispering something only a mother could say, and Lando’s expression crumpled just for a second.

But then he looked up again. Searching.

Searching.

Amelie wasn’t in the first row. She wasn’t near the McLaren engineers, or with the team photographers. She was further back, behind the marshal line, her body shaking with sobs, clinging to Lily’s hand, the sea of orange in front of her keeping her apart.

And standing directly in front of her, stone-faced and intentional, was Magui.

She wasn’t celebrating.

She wasn’t even pretending to.

She stood like a wall, back straight, arms crossed, blocking Amelie’s view—and path.

Lando’s eyes locked onto her next.

Not Magui. Amelie.

He saw her.

Saw her crying.

Saw the way she tried to stand on her tiptoes, like her body couldn’t physically handle the separation another second.

And he moved.

He reached out, his arm stretching across the barricade, hand extended like he could pull her to him by sheer will. The crowd noticed. People started shifting. They understood.

But not Magui.

She stepped forward instead, eyes on Lando like she had something to say—like this was her moment too. She grabbed his outstretched hand before Amelie could.

Lando flinched.

Her lips moved, forming words he couldn’t hear, and frankly, didn’t care to. His face twisted in disbelief, and then, without ceremony, he yanked his hand free, snatching it back like her touch had burned him.

Magui reeled.

He didn’t look at her again.

He only stretched his arm further, fingers reaching, desperate—and this time, the people around understood. The McLaren crew, the PR staff, the photographers—they moved. They stepped aside.

And the marshals?

They saw it too.

Saw the emotion, the rawness, the way Amelie was trying to get to him like the world depended on it.

So they let go.

The line broke.

And Amelie ran.

She didn’t walk. Didn’t push. She ran.

Straight into him.

He caught her like he was made for it, arms wrapping so tightly around her that she lifted off the ground for a second. Her legs nearly gave out again, but it didn’t matter. She collapsed into him, fists gripping the back of his racesuit, her face buried in his chest as sob after sob tore free.

Lando held her. Swayed with her.

Let her cry.

—You did it,— she whispered, voice shattered.

He laughed, breathless, still high on the win and dizzy from the way she clung to him. —I told you I would.—

She pulled back just enough to look up at him—eyes red, cheeks streaked with tears, lip trembling. Her hand cupped his jaw like she didn’t believe he was real.

—You’re my Monaco winner,— she said, trying to smile.

Lando bent his forehead to hers, nose brushing hers as his voice cracked around the lump in his throat.

—Only because of you.—

The crowd kept cheering.

Cameras kept flashing.

But for them, the world narrowed.

To hands on faces.

To tears on cheeks.

To a moment they would never, ever forget.

And Magui?

She was nowhere to be seen.

Because this was Amelie’s ending.

This was her love story.

And her boy had just won the crown jewel of Formula 1—his arms around her, tears mixing with champagne dreams.

Monaco belonged to Lando Norris now.

And so did she.

-------------

liked by lanmelieslut, drs4lanmelie, and others

lanmelieupdates: amelie watching lando on the monaco podium with tears in her eyes and the proudest smile ever… she’s so real for that 😭🏁👑 we all won today.

View all 189,936 comments

f1lvr44: bro won monaco and her heart again on live tv 😭 → lanstans: @f1lvr44 he been won it let’s be fr 😭😭

chaoticwags: lando winning just to make his crybaby gf proud is SO real of him → norrisimp: @chaoticwags she cried so he wouldn’t have to 😭 team effort

gridgf: she looked like she was gonna explode from pride omfg

lanmeliebrainrot: the way he looked for her the SECOND he got out the car 😭 → wagsonwagsonwags: @lanmeliebrainrot soulmate behaviour don’t @ me

gpfairy: she cried FIRST so i wouldn’t have to 😭 → pitlaneprincess: @gpfairy her mascara was fighting for its life and i respect that

lanmelieslut: not her looking at him like he just hung the moon 😭 → helmetwhore: @lanmelieslut SHE’S IN LOVE UR HONOUR!!!

wagsupreme: bro lando saw her crying and IMMEDIATELY got teary too like?? soulmate shit

gridgirly: lando really said “this one’s for my girl” without saying it 😩 → lanfan44: @gridgirly he might as well have held up a sign that said “i love amelie”

softforlanmelie: every race win from now on is gonna be a romcom finale i fear → dnfangel: @softforlanmelie i will be SEATED every sunday

lanmeliepropaganda: monaco is THEIR city now. sorry i don’t make the rules. → formulaheart: @lanmeliepropaganda literally the prince and princess of the paddock👑

f1simpclub: she was crying??? oh this is LOVE love 😭😭 → lanfan44: @f1simpclub someone said she whispered “that’s my baby” i’m gonna pass out

chaoticwags: she saw him lift that trophy and said “yep. worth the stress”

monacobabe: Lando winning MONACO with Amelie crying in the paddock??? Netflix couldn’t write this → danisdaisies: @monacobabe season 7 of drive to survive is about to be EUPHORIC

paddocktea: magui who???? amelie cleared and claimed her man like a queen → gridgremlin: @paddocktea hickeys AND tears in one weekend?? historic behavior

lanmelieforeverrr: that proud gf energy?? unmatched. she BEEN knew he was built for this

f1moms: amelie wiping her tears while lando popped champagne was so cinematic

drs4lanmelie: you KNOW he looked for her first up there 😭 → pitlaneprincess: @drs4lanmelie you could SEE the heart eyes from the podium → lanlovesmelie: @drs4lanmelie he’s so whipped it’s almost spiritual

monacowags: the way she was sobbing and his parents were hyping her up 😭 → chaosinsector3: @monacowags full family moment… i’m crying in the club → lanmeliesgf: @monacowags they better frame that screenshot in the papaya HQ 💐

-------------

The ballroom shimmered in gold and champagne light, every surface of the Prince’s Palace adorned in a way that screamed tradition, elegance, and the kind of old-money glamour Monaco was built on. Amelie looked like a fucking dream.

Lando honestly thought she might’ve been sent just to torture him tonight.

She wore a sleek, gray sparkly dress that wrapped around her body like sin, a high slit grazing her thigh every time she so much as shifted in her chair. Her hair was down, soft strands falling around her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled under the chandelier light in a way that made Lando forget his own name for a second.

He was supposed to be celebrating. He’d just won the goddamn Monaco Grand Prix. His lifelong dream. A bucket list item checked off in style.

But all he could think about was how fast he could sneak her out of this ballroom and back into their apartment.

She leaned in slightly, brushing her hand over his thigh under the table as she reached for her wine glass. A simple fucking gesture, but it made him grip his own fork like a weapon.

—You okay?— Amelie asked, her voice low and teasing, that little smirk playing on her lips.

Lando checked his watch for the fifth time in ten minutes.

—Not even a little, babe,— he whispered back, leaning closer so only she could hear. —This is torture. Actual, royal torture. How much longer do I have to pretend I’m not thinking about fucking you senseless?—

She choked slightly on her sip of wine, laughing as she covered her mouth with her hand.

—Lando! Jesus, we’re at a state dinner.—

—Exactly! I’m being very diplomatic by waiting, you should be proud of me.—

She shook her head, biting her lip in that way that made his brain short-circuit.

He was halfway through fantasizing about pulling her onto his lap under the white linen tablecloth when a royal aide stepped up to the microphone at the front of the ballroom.

—Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the winner of this year’s Monaco Grand Prix… Mr. Lando Norris.—

Cheers erupted. Applause. Champagne glasses clinked.

Lando stood, smoothing his suit jacket — tailored perfectly, of course — and gave Amelie’s shoulder a light squeeze. She gave him an encouraging wink as he made his way to the stage, but he could still feel her eyes on him, burning.

He cleared his throat as he took the mic. The room settled into a hush, cameras flashing.

—Right… uh, thank you, Your Serene Highness, everyone at the Palace, and all of you for being here. This has been, truly, a dream come true.—

He paused, heart racing a little. This was more nerve-wracking than the race.

—Since I was a kid, Monaco was the race. The one I used to pretend I won with my Hot Wheels on the kitchen floor. And tonight, it happened. Still doesn’t feel real. But I know, one day, when I have kids of my own...— he paused and glanced directly at Amelie, locking eyes —with that beautiful woman over there…—

Amelie flushed immediately. Her face turned the same deep red as her dress. The room chuckled softly, but her heart slammed against her ribs.

—…I’m gonna sit them down and say, "Your dad won in Monaco, and he celebrated like a king." Because it’s not just the race. It’s the people. The history. And the person you get to share it with.—

Another round of applause. Lando gave a slight bow and made his way back down to the table, grinning wide but eyes only for her.

Amelie tried to hide her flustered smile, chewing her lip like she could somehow suppress the blush threatening to take over her entire body.

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.

—You’re such a fucking show-off,— she murmured, breathless.

—They should all know who I’m going home with tonight.—

She turned her face to him, eyes sparkling.

—Well, officially, I’m also very ready to leave this royal-ass place and go make some very bad decisions with my race-winning boyfriend.—

Lando groaned quietly, grabbing her hand under the table.

—You’re actually trying to kill me.—

—Only a little. You deserve it.—

They stayed through dessert, barely touching the crème brûlée, stealing glances and soft smiles like they were back in 2020 playing video games and pretending they weren’t hopeless for each other.

But now they were here. Older. Real. Public.

And Lando? He was on top of the world, with the girl he used to dream about in his bed every night.

-------------

liked by lanmelieslut, wagwatchdog, and others

lanmelieupdates: Lando and Amelie leaving the Prince’s Ball in Monaco tonight looking like a royal couple themselves 👑🧡

View all 97,015 comments

f1simpchronicles: they didn’t walk out… they floated out like a fairytale ending bye → lanmeliecore: @f1simpchronicles cinderella n her f1 prince 😭

gridgirlies: lando definitely had her heels in his pocket the whole night → softboystan: @gridgirlies and hyping her up like “you looked so hot back there” pls i’m crying → chaoticwags: @softboystan HIS HAND NEVER LEFT HER BACK HELLO??? possessive bf coded

wagwatchdog: amelie said “magui WHO?” with that dress → pettylanfan: @wagwatchdog she showed up and chose violence and i respect it

wifeyenergyonly: miss girl wore pink to the paddock, cried on the podium, and SLAYED the ball… triple crown energy → chaoticwags: @wifeyenergyonly and lando secured all three 😌👏

lanmemeie: lando holding her hand like she’s gonna float away if he lets go 😭 → gridwifeenergy: @lanmemeie he’s scared of monaco royalty stealing her tbh

f1gossipgirlie: THEY LEFT TOGETHER HE’S SO WHIPPED → softforlanmelie: @f1gossipgirlie she says “let’s go” and he’s already opening the car door

gridgirlcoded: the way he lets her lead i’m sobbing → dtsdramaqueen: @gridgirlcoded king of “yes babe whatever you want”

lanmelieupdates: lando couldn’t take his eyes off her the WHOLE time 😭 → ameliesleftheel: @lanmelieupdates he’s in a constant state of heart eyes

tracksidechaos: amelie in THAT dress??? she didn’t walk out… she floated → drs4lanmelie: @tracksidechaos lando was holding on like gravity failed

f1butmakeitfashion: THEY LOOK LIKE A DIOR AD 😭

pitlanepeaches: lando looked at her like he won monaco twice today → wagwatcher: @pitlanepeaches he’s one champagne shower away from proposing rn

paddockclowns: she said “you won the race, i’ll win the red carpet” and DID → brbcrying: @paddockclowns no losers in this household

wagscentral: bro was ready to fight the paparazzi if they got too close to her 💀 → ameliesleftheel: @wagscentral he’s on 24/7 boyfriend duty and taking it seriously

gridbabie: lando giving “my girlfriend’s hotter than yours” energy and honestly he’s RIGHT

pitlaneslut: imagine leaving the prince’s ball with your man AND looking like that → maxfewtrellfan69: @pitlaneslut she’s not winning she’s dominating.

-------------

Sass Café pulsed with a kind of late-night chaos Amelie hadn’t indulged in since… hell, maybe since the Grammys afterparty. She didn’t even know how they’d gotten here. One second, they were slipping out of the Palace, her hand in his, champagne still lingering on their tongues. The next, Connor was dragging them into a sleek black SUV, some of Lando’s friends—faces she didn’t recognize, all shouting and laughing—already halfway drunk in the back.

—Just for a little while,— Lando had said into her ear, the vibration of his voice curling down her spine.

Just a little while, her ass.

Now they were hours deep into thumping bass, neon lights, and overpriced bottle service. The VIP booth wasn’t exactly private—roped off in the corner, sure, but very much still in view of anyone with an iPhone and decent zoom. Not that either of them cared. Or noticed.

They were drunk. Dangerously drunk.

Amelie’s cheeks were flushed, hair messy from dancing, the silvery mini dress she’d slipped into post-dinner riding scandalously high on her thighs. Lando had ditched his blazer and undone the top buttons of his shirt, curls wild, chain glinting under the strobe lights.

They hadn’t stopped touching since they walked in.

She was on his lap, again, legs over his thighs like she belonged there. His hands were under her dress—on her waist, her thighs, sometimes slipping a little higher when he thought no one was looking (they were, oh god, everyone was). She didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Every time she leaned down to whisper something in his ear, it turned into a kiss. Sloppy, open-mouthed, fuck-we-shouldn’t-be-doing-this-here kind of kisses.

Lando tasted like vodka and that citrusy Monaco night air, and it made her feral.

They danced, or at least tried to—stumbling, laughing, clinging to each other as the bass pounded. At one point, he spun her around and pulled her back against his chest, hands roaming low, mouthing something obscene into her neck that made her knees literally give out.

Connor, who had been valiantly attempting to wrangle the group, gave up somewhere around the third bottle of champagne.

—Mate, public,— he muttered as Lando kissed a line down Amelie’s jaw. —People are filming you.—

Lando waved him off with the kind of nonchalance only the blackout-drunk and in-love could get away with. —Let ‘em,— he slurred, grinning as Amelie pulled him back into another kiss. —They’re just jealous.—

They were a disaster.

A hot, sparkly, sex-drenched disaster.

Amelie had no idea what song was playing anymore — it could’ve been a ballad or a car alarm for all she knew — but she was on her fourth (maybe fifth?) vodka-something, and her body felt like it was moving through syrup. Electric syrup. Lando’s hands were on her hips again, guiding her in time to the beat that pulsed through the floor, through her chest, through him. God, even drunk, even this drunk, he danced with intent. Like every grind of her hips against his was a fucking promise.

Her dress was definitely not rated for this level of friction.

—You’re gonna ruin it,— she slurred, tugging at the hem half-heartedly as it threatened to ride all the way up mid-dance. Her laughter hiccupped out of her as Lando dipped his head to her shoulder and groaned.

—Good,— he mumbled against her skin. —Burn it. I’ll buy you five more. Just… let me get my hands under it again.—

Amelie nearly choked on her drink.

She wasn’t even pretending to behave anymore. She’d tried for all of thirty seconds when they first sat down, smiling politely at the friend of a friend on Lando’s left, nodding at the others as they toasted to The King of Monaco. But then someone passed her a shot, and then Lando pulled her into his lap, and then his lips found the hollow beneath her ear and everything else blurred.

She should be worried. About the cameras. About the stories that would drop tomorrow. About the fact she had a flight in four—no, three and a half—hours to get to N ew York, where she was expected to rehearse for the AMAs and look like a functioning human being.

But instead, all Amelie could think about was the way Lando’s hands gripped her like he was scared she’d vanish. How his breath came fast against her neck. How his voice, low and hot, sounded like sin every time he leaned in to say something filthy she barely registered before dragging him back into another kiss.

He pulled her in again now, fingers slipping over the bare skin of her thigh with no shame.

—You’re killing me,— he whispered, voice hoarse and wrecked from yelling over the music and probably the champagne too.

She tipped her head back with a breathless laugh, rolling her hips lazily against his. —You deserve it.—

He groaned into her shoulder, and she felt it—felt it deep, felt it between her legs, and fuck, she was in trouble. She reached for another drink to distract herself, knocking it back and wincing.

Bad idea.

Everything tilted slightly.

Definitely too drunk.

Definitely too turned on.

Definitely too aware of the heat pooling between her legs with every touch, every drunken kiss, every stupid laugh that escaped from his mouth like they were the only two people in Monaco.

Lando kissed her again, slower this time, fingers brushing the side of her neck like he was trying to memorize it. She moaned into it, not even bothering to hide it, her hands fisting in his shirt like she’d fall apart if she didn’t anchor herself to him.

—Lan…—

Her voice cracked, rough and breathy, her forehead pressed to his as the lights swirled behind them like a fever dream.

He blinked up at her, dazed, pupils blown wide. —Yeah, baby?—

She shouldn’t say it. Shouldn’t let it out. But her restraint had been gone since drink number two and sanity had left the building entirely sometime around the third time he’d kissed her like that — like she was his last breath and first sin all in one.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling herself flush against his chest as her mouth brushed the shell of his ear.

—Please take me home.—

Lando stilled. Blinked. Pulled back an inch to study her, glassy-eyed and pink-cheeked, mouth parted, pupils dilated like she was drugged. With him. On him.

—Amelie...—his voice faltered, tight in his throat. He looked like a man hanging on by a thread. —You sure? We’re… we’re having fun.—

She whined. Actually whined, burying her face into his neck and pressing her thighs tight around his hips. —I know… but I can’t keep sitting on your lap and not have you fuck me, it’s... it’s cruel. I need you.—

And god, that word—need—broke something in him.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, lips pouty and eyes wet in that drunken, overwhelmed way she got when she was too far gone in it. In him. Her hands cupped his face, sloppily, palms warm and a little sweaty. He leaned into her like a fucking puppy.

—Lando, I’m begging. I can’t... I can’t wait. Please. I’ll do anything, I just need you now. Please, baby, please take me home.—

It was a whisper, a moan, a fucking prayer.

And it hit him like a sucker punch straight to the groin.

Lando was up before she finished the sentence, one arm wrapping tight around her waist as he turned to Connor, eyes wild.

—We’re leaving.—

Connor blinked. —It’s not even four yet.—

—Don’t care.—

Amelie was clinging to him, barely standing straight in her heels as she muffled a giggle against his collar. Her dress was riding scandalously high, lipstick smeared from too many kisses, hair an utter mess. She looked like the embodiment of bad decisions.

She looked perfect.

—Can you get the car?— Lando asked, barely hiding the urgency in his voice.

Connor opened his mouth to argue; then took one look at Amelie literally licking Lando’s neck, and sighed. —Yeah. Yeah, alright. Jesus. You two are menaces.—

Lando didn’t wait. He pulled her through the crowd, arm tight around her waist like he was shielding her from the world—or from the world seeing too much of what was barely concealed under her slipping dress. Her laugh was bright and hoarse, and she stumbled into his side, clutching at him like gravity was optional.

Outside, the cool Monaco air hit them like a bucket of ice.

Amelie squealed at the breeze, pressing herself closer as they waited for the SUV. Her lips grazed his jaw, nose nuzzling along his cheek. —I love when you’re bossy. Gets me all... mm, fuckin’ riled.—

He groaned, actually groaned, turning to crush her against the side of the building in the shadow of the awning, mouth on hers in a dizzy, messy, desperate kiss. Her hands slipped beneath his open shirt, fingers splayed across his chest like she was trying to claw her way in.

—You’re going to kill me,— he muttered.

—Not if you fuck me fast enough.—

—Jesus Christ, Amelie.—

The car pulled up just as her hand slid down his stomach and dipped below his waistband.

Lando yanked her off him so fast she squeaked. He opened the door, shoved her in, and followed, slamming it shut behind them.

The second it locked, she was on his lap again, legs straddling him this time, dress hiked up to her waist. The driver didn’t even blink. Probably had seen worse. Probably would’ve seen everything if Lando hadn’t yanked off his suit jacket and draped it sloppily over her back.

—Five minutes home,— he rasped into her ear.

—We won’t make it five minutes.—

She kissed him again. Clumsily. Hungrily. Like she’d starve without it. And maybe she would. Maybe they both would. It was fever and champagne and the kind of desire that didn’t ask, didn’t wait. Just took.

-------------

liked by lanmelieslut, wagwatchdog, and others

f1teaspill: Lando and Amelie were seen fully making out both inside AND outside the club at the Monaco GP afterparty tonight 👀🔥 Celebrating that win like it’s the only podium that matters 😭💋

View all 108,093 comments

lanmelieupdates: they didn’t even make it to the VIP table before starting 💀 → f1spicypit: @lanmelieupdates they said “PR who?” this is personal LMAO

chaoticwags: they celebrating that win like there’s no race next week 😭 → norisimp: @chaoticwags i’d kiss him like that too if he brought home a monaco trophy

f1slayqueen: amelie was marking her territory i fear 💅

wagsource: lando got champagne, the trophy, and the girl… he’s unstoppable rn → notmclarenadmin: @wagsource he’s in his lover boy + world champ arc

lanmelieslut4eva: she said “this win is mine too” and backed it up with tongue 😭 → pitlaneclownery: @lanmelieslut4eva she’s the real mvp and i fear not enough ppl are saying it

chaoticwags: bro saw her in that dress and forgot he was in public 😭 → norisimp: @chaoticwags he clocked P1 and PDA and i support both wholeheartedly

gridgirlfreak: lanmelie went from soft launches to hard launches to no launch just impact

daddylan4life: he really said “i’m gonna win and then make out with my girl like it’s a romcom finale” → yasmininfurla: @daddylan4life let’s be real she’s his prize and he KNOWS it

balenciagawag: someone check on magui she’s prolly watching through a burner rn → paddockmess: @balenciagawag nah she’s updating her stan twitter like the rest of us 😭

pitlaneprincess: they weren’t kissing they were COMMUNICATING with tongue 😭 → drs4lanmelie: @pitlaneprincess this is how F1 drivers debrief now actually

chaoticwags: bro clocked in, won monaco, then went feral in public 😭 king behavior → norisimp: @chaoticwags i fear this man is in his certified lover boy era

gridgirliez: they were making out like they just survived a war pls 💀

ferrariforwhat: her watching him on the podium crying then making out in a club?? like be fr i’d marry him → lanoszn: @ferrariforwhat she BEEN the wifey she’s just reminding y’all 💅

monacomental: the way they walked out of that club all messy hair and smug smiles?? love is so real → delulugirlie: @monacomental and they’re definitely going home to celebrate round two i fear 😭

-------------

The car barely stopped before Lando was hauling Amelie out, her legs tangling with his as they stumbled into the opulent lobby of their Monaco apartment building. Their doorman, a man who had clearly seen it all, offered a polite nod, his eyes pointedly fixed on some distant corner of the ceiling as Lando, with Amelie already halfway in his arms, fumbled with the key card.

—God, finally,— Amelie breathed against his mouth, her lips swollen and hot.

He didn’t answer, just kicked the door to their apartment shut with his foot, the click of the lock echoing faintly in the sudden quiet. His hands were already on her waist, pulling her flush against him, and her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan. The scent of her—champagne, sweat, and that heady, intoxicating perfume she always wore—was driving him absolutely wild.

—Can’t wait another second,— Lando rasped, his voice rough with a hunger that mirrored her own. He scooped her up, one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back, her legs automatically wrapping around his hips. She was light, impossibly so, and the sudden rush of her weight in his arms sent a jolt of raw desire through him.

He moved through the apartment, a man on a mission, bypassing the living room, heading straight for the bedroom. Amelie’s head fell back, a soft, breathless laugh escaping her as he pressed hungry kisses along her jaw, down her neck. Her dress, already a crumpled mess, rode higher with every step, her bare thighs warm against his.

He reached the bed, a king-sized expanse of soft sheets, and lowered her gently onto it, but not breaking the kiss. His body followed, pressing her into the mattress, one leg hooking over hers to keep her pinned. He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes dark and blazing.

—You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,— he muttered, his lips brushing hers. He moved lower, tracing the curve of her neck with his mouth, sending shivers through her. Her skin tasted like salt and something undeniably sweet.

Amelie arched into him, a soft whimper escaping her. —Do whatever you want, Lando. You deserve it. All of it.—

The words, so soft, so willing, hit him like a physical blow. He deserved it. Her absolute trust, her willingness to cede control, it drove him insane. He loved how she crumbled for him, how she begged, how she let him take charge. It fueled the possessive beast inside him, the one that wanted to consume her completely.

He dragged his mouth back up her throat, catching her bottom lip between his teeth before releasing it with a soft nip. —Oh, Amelie,— he breathed, his voice thick with unbridled desire. —You have no idea what those words do to me.—

He pulled back slightly, his gaze raking over her, from her flushed cheeks to the barely-there hem of her dress. With a deliberate slowness that was almost cruel, he reached for the zipper at the back of her dress. The silver fabric slid down with a soft whisper, pooling around her waist. He paused, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip, the delicate lace of her thong visible beneath.

—Get on your knees,— he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly growl that left no room for argument. His eyes, dark and dominant, were fixed on hers, watching for her reaction. He wanted her to understand, to obey. He wanted to see that spark of delicious submission in her eyes that always pushed him over the edge.

Amelie, without a word, pushed herself up, her knees sinking slightly into the plush carpet. Her eyes, still wide and dilated from champagne and desire, locked onto his as she slowly lowered herself, shifting until she was looking up at him, her lips parted in anticipation.

—Good girl,— Lando murmured, the praise a low rumble in his chest. He watched her, his breath catching as she knelt before him, a vision of intoxicating submission. —You know what to do.—

A slow, knowing smile curved Amelie’s lips. Her hands, delicate and precise, went straight for the buckle of his belt. The soft click echoed in the quiet room as she undid it, her fingers brushing against his jeans. Then, with a smooth, deliberate motion, she unzipped his trousers, the sound a sharp, intimate rasp.

As she worked, Lando was already shedding his own clothes. He unbuttoned his dress shirt, pulling it free from his waistband, the fabric rustling as he shrugged it off and tossed it aside. It landed with a soft thud on the floor, leaving him clad only in his boxers, the thin barrier of cotton straining against the undeniable bulge beneath.

Amelie’s eyes dropped, lingering on the undeniable evidence of his arousal. A low hum of pleasure vibrated in her chest as she slowly, tentatively, reached out. Her fingers brushed against the fabric, tracing the impressive length, and then she leaned in, pressing soft, tantalizing kisses over the taut cotton. She moved with a maddening slowness, drawing out the anticipation, her lips teasing, her breath warm against him.

But Lando’s patience had run out. Not tonight. Not when he was already teetering on the edge. He didn’t want to be teased; he wanted to be consumed. A growl ripped from his throat, and he reached down, his fingers clamping gently but firmly around her jaw, tilting her head back until her eyes met his.

—Enough, Amelie,— he rasped, his voice laced with a raw, impatient demand. His gaze was intense, burning into her. —Behave. And get on with it. Or you’re going to sleep needy as fuck tonight.—

With that, his free hand went to the waistband of his boxers, and he pulled them down, revealing himself fully to her.

Amelie didn't hesitate. As his boxers dropped, revealing him in his full, throbbing glory, her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before a predatory glint appeared. She leaned in, her lips parting, and enclosed him, her suction immediate and firm.

Lando groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through the room. —Fuck,— he gasped, his fingers tangling in her hair, not to pull away, but to hold her closer. Her mouth was pure heaven, an exquisite combination of soft warmth and firm pressure. She knew exactly what he liked, the perfect rhythm, the perfect depth, each stroke driving him further into a frenzy.

He gripped her hair tighter, his head tipping back as he rode the wave of pure sensation. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears, every nerve ending screaming. —That's it, Amelie,— he rasped, his voice barely recognizable. He wanted to guide her, to tell her what to do, but her instincts were already perfectly aligned with his desires. Still, he reached back, gathering her hair in one hand, pulling it into a loose ponytail to keep it from getting in the way, a subtle form of control even in the midst of his surrender. His thumb brushed her cheek, a faint tremble in his touch.

He was close, impossibly close. The intensity was almost unbearable. Just as he felt the precipice approaching, he pulled back, dragging himself from her mouth with a ragged gasp. He looked down at her, his vision slightly blurred with lust. Her lips were slick and swollen, a faint sheen of moisture on her chin.

His gaze dropped lower, to her thighs, pressed tightly together, a visible tremor running through them. He could see the effort she was putting into holding herself, into controlling the intense wetness he knew she was battling.

—Look at you,— he rasped, his voice heavy with triumph and raw desire. —Trying to hold it in.—

Lando’s eyes, still dark with a mixture of hunger and amusement, held hers. He reached out, taking her hands, and pulled her gently to her feet. Amelie swayed for a moment, her legs still feeling a little like jelly, but he was there, a steadying presence. He kept her close, one hand on her lower back, guiding her towards the bed.

—Come here,— he murmured, his voice a low coaxing rumble.

He laid her down on the soft sheets, his body following hers, hovering above her. He was about to dip his head, to resume his assault on her neck, but Amelie had other plans. Her hands rose, cupping his face, and she angled his head, directing his mouth firmly to hers.

Their lips met in a furious, hungry kiss. It was deep and desperate, a culmination of hours of denied desire. Lando’s hand, almost on instinct, found the soft swell of her breast above the lace of her bra. His thumb brushed over her nipple, and Amelie gasped, a soft moan vibrating into his mouth.

He broke the kiss, his eyes still locked on hers, the heat in them almost unbearable. —Help me with this,— he rasped, guiding her hands to the clasp at the back of her bra.

Her fingers, trembling slightly, fumbled with the tiny hooks for a moment before they finally came undone. Lando didn’t wait. He dragged the lace off her shoulders, tossing it aside, and then his mouth descended. He suckled at one breast, then the other, his tongue teasing and swirling, driving Amelie utterly wild. Her back arched off the bed, her fingers digging into the sheets as she whimpered his name, the sound lost in the dizzying haze of pleasure.

Lando continued his hungry assault on her breast, his mouth warm and firm, eliciting whimpers of pure pleasure from Amelie. But even as he suckled, his other hand began its deliberate journey. He trailed kisses and gentle nips across her ribs, down her stomach, lingering on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh as he moved lower, an undeniable magnetic pull drawing him towards her most desperate need.

He slid off the bed, dropping to his knees on the floor, never breaking contact. With a decisive pull, he gripped Amelie's legs, drawing her down towards the edge of the mattress until her hips were positioned perfectly above him. He eased her legs further apart, and the sight that greeted him sent a fresh wave of heat through his veins.

A dark, undeniable stain bloomed on the delicate lace of her panties.

—Fuck, baby,— he breathed, his voice rough with awe and immediate hunger. —You're so wet.—

His fingers, slightly trembling with anticipation, hovered for a moment before descending, pressing gently against the drenched fabric. He rubbed, slowly at first, then with more conviction, tracing the swollen curves beneath the lace. Amelie cried out, a broken sob of pure pleasure, her hips arching off the bed.

—Please, Lando,— Amelie sobbed, her voice a raw plea. —Más—

He heard the desperation, the absolute need in her voice, and it only intensified his own desire. With a low growl, Lando hooked his fingers into the waistband of her lace panties and, with a swift, decisive motion, dragged them down her legs and off. They landed in a crumpled heap on the floor, another discarded barrier.

Amelie’s hips bucked, anticipating his touch, but Lando did something she didn't expect. He pushed himself back from the edge of the bed and, instead of returning to her, he laid down on the mattress, positioning himself with his head at the very edge.

Amelie blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing her pleasure-dazed eyes.

—Get on top, baby,— Lando commanded, his voice dark and husky, his gaze fixed on her. —On my head. Let me eat you.—

The order, so unexpected, so deliciously bold, sent a shockwave of heat through her. A gasp escaped her lips, quickly followed by a shaky, breathless laugh. Fuck, that’s hot.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Amelie obeyed. She shifted, her knees sliding on the sheets, until she was straddling his face, her inner thighs brushing his ears as she lowered herself. The sensation of her wetness pressing against his mouth, his nose, was electrifying.

Lando couldn’t wait. He was a starving man, and Amelie’s taste was his addiction. His tongue lashed out, a hungry, immediate strike, and Amelie cried out, her back arching as she rode his head, instinctively finding a rhythm that drove them both to the brink.

Amelie was close, impossibly close. Her body was writhing, desperate for release, every muscle taut with the effort of holding back. —Lando, please,— she whimpered, her voice strained, —I’m going to come. Don’t stop, please!—

But Lando was a master of control, and he wasn't ready for her to shatter just yet. —Not yet, baby,— he murmured against her, his voice a low, firm denial that only drove her wilder. —You have to hold it.—

As he continued to feast on her, he slipped two fingers inside her, feeling the exquisite heat and the desperate clenching of her muscles around him. He could feel her teetering right on the edge, a breath away from climax. And then, with a slow, agonizing withdrawal, he stopped. He pulled his mouth away, the sudden loss of sensation a shock to her system.

Amelie cried out, a frustrated, needy sound. He lifted her gently, positioning her on her hands and knees on the bed, her ass high in the air. As she gasped for breath, trying to regain some semblance of composure, Lando reached for the nightstand, his eyes still fixed on her. He tore open a condom wrapper with his teeth, the crinkle of the foil a stark contrast to the heavy silence in the room.

With practiced ease, he rolled it on, his gaze never leaving her. And then, without another word, he knelt behind her, pressing himself against her, the head of his cock nudging her entrance.

Lando thrust inside her, a deep, full stroke that elicited a breathless moan from Amelie. He loved every position with her, but this one… fuck. That ass, high and tempting, was driving him absolutely insane. He gripped her waist, pulling her back against him, increasing the rhythm, faster and faster.

—Oh, God, Lando,— Amelie gasped, her voice already hoarse with pleasure, her hips responding to his every thrust.

—Fuck, this is heaven,— he muttered against her back, his body slamming into hers with desperate force. He could feel her tightening around him, her core clenching. She was coming. He could feel it in every inch of her.

He reached a hand forward, finding her clit, and began to play with it, stroking and teasing as he continued his relentless pace. —Tell me who won, baby,— he demanded, his voice ragged with his own nearing climax. —Tell me, Amelie.— He moved his thumb with agonizing precision, pushing her closer, closer. —You can come. Just tell me.—

Amelie was beyond words, her body convulsing with the sheer force of the pleasure. His hand on her clit, combined with his relentless thrusts, was pushing her to the brink.

—You, Lando! You won!— she screamed, her voice tearing, her body arching impossibly high. —Always you! Oh, God, Lando!—

Her world exploded, a shattering climax that ripped through her, leaving her gasping and trembling, utterly undone. She cried out his name again, a long, drawn-out moan of pure release as her internal muscles clenched around him.

Lando felt her come, the intense contractions squeezing him, and it was all the permission he needed. With a final, guttural roar, he emptied himself deep inside her, collapsing against her back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His hand remained on her clit, stroking softly as their bodies slowly, deliciously, quieted.

They lay there for a long moment, the only sounds their heavy breathing and the distant hum of the Monaco night. Lando pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder, his lips still tasting of her.

—Mine,— he whispered, a possessive murmur against her skin. —Always.—

247 notes · View notes

estcaligo · 3 months ago

Text

Sebek's scent

Sebek x reader, romantic A/N Another piece from the I Love Everything About You series. I tried to reference Sebek's 2024 Valentine's gift, which was an "honest aroma" fragrance spray. Very lightly suggestive.

Breathe in

It's so underappreciated - how deeply scent can shape your perception of the world around you. How it weaves itself into memory, places, people, emotions, creating a special bond, which affects your life.

You were surprised when you realized that the unfamiliarity of this place began to soften, when the strangeness of it all felt a little less daunting, was when his scent began to linger in your senses, grounding you. Such a simple and honest scent - yet so important.

Early spring evenings are still cold. The fireplace crackles softly, its flames flickering in rhythm with the wind howling outside. The familiar warmth of Ramshackle hall cocoons you, but your thoughts drift elsewhere.

Your fingers absentmindedly trace the rough pages of the book Sebek gave you. But you stopped following the plot long ago. Instead, you sink into a pleasant trance, carried away by the scent of old paper - warm, mellow, with hints of wood.

However it isn't just the book's scent that sends you dreaming. It's the way it now reminds you of him.

You've spent so much time together - reading, debating stories, exchanging books - that now, whenever you inhale that special scent, whether from crisp new pages or worn ones, it instantly conjures his presence.

Even when he isn't here, the moment you open a book, it's as if his ghost is summoned beside you, reading along in your shared silence. Or when you sit down to study, his stern expression flashes in your mind, strictly judging your effort.

And then there are all those bookmarks he gifted you - delicate, pressed with dried white flowers that release their own subtle fragrance. All these scents merge, making your head spin whenever you breathe them in.

Either way, the scent of books and white flowers - Is the scent of Sebek now.

Then, there's the smell of hot, sweet drinks. Spices too - cinnamon, vanilla - enriching but gentle and comforting.

Sebek always protests when you offer him such drinks. (He's training himself to drink coffee - so why won't you give him some?!) But after a moment, he averts his gaze and begrudgingly accepts. He takes the cup from your hands, a faint blush dusts his cheeks.

Sometimes, your fingers brush, and his face turns an even deeper shade of red. To hide his embarrassment, he lifts the cup to his lips, focusing too intently on the steam rising from it. You just smile. There's no awkwardness - only warmth in your chests. The rich, spiced aroma fills the air, soothing even someone as fiery as him.

Once the drinks are finished and his flustered state subsides, you lean into him, burying your face against his chest, breathing him in.

Sebek sighs, quietly scolding you about how easily warm drinks make people drowsy. But in the end, he hesitantly places a hand on your back, just barely, as if still embarrassed. Same every time.

You close your eyes, pressing closer to his broad frame. His breath, warm against your skin, carries his scent, and the heat of it only makes the fragrance more intoxicating.

Sebek smells like the forest - like oak moss and fresh pine, like the wind rushing through the leaves. But also like something untamed, something mysterious - of fae - hiding in that forest.

You nuzzle close and he growls deeply - a sound that reminds you that he does have some crocodile fae blood. As if reading your thoughts, his grip on you tightens. Images of swamps and majestic reptiles evoke in your mind, and you can feel some hints of damp soil and the faint musk of earth after rain too. All this electrifying symphony of his scents makes your mind hazy.

You trail your nose higher, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Here, the scent shifts - something herbal, something subtly sweet. Rosemary? Likely from his hair gel.

You press a light kiss against his skin and he jolts, stiffening. Chuckling softly, you brush your fingers over his burning cheek.

"Human-" he grumbles, voice rough with flustered protest, yet making no move to pull away. Instead, he rests his head against yours, his jaw now rubbing instinctively against your temple.

"Sorry… I just can't resist" you whisper, inhaling deeply, as if you want all his essence to sink into you, let it fill you all from within. But you also wish to wrap yourself in it, the way you so often wrap yourself in his soft cardigan after you-

The smell of comfort and love, even in this strange unfamiliar world.

Now your Wonderland smells like books and white flowers, like mossy forest air and hot spiced drinks.

Like the sweat of training, after which he still joins you for tea as promised.

Like his rosemary hair gel.

Like the stables, where you spend your days sometimes tending to the horses, helping him.

Like firewood crackling in the hearth when you rest against him after his long hours of serving his... your king.

Like smoked salmon he brings to share, boasting of his fishing skills.

Like the leather of his gloves, as they wrap around your wrist when you tease him too much.

Like the chill of his breath when he leans in close to whisper words meant only for you...

Such simple, honest words.

Just like his honest scent.

Breathe out.

#I love this so much I'm crying #twisted wonderland #twst #sebek zigvolt #twst sebek #sebek x reader #sebek zigvolt x reader #diasomnia x reader #twst x reader #caligo's stories

201 notes · View notes

diamonddaze01 · 7 months ago

Text

The Somerset Affair Chapter 3: Promises Bathed in Moonlight

pairing: lsk x fem!reader genre: Bridgerton AU, friends to (?????) to eventual lovers, brother’s best friend, SLOWWWW BURNNN chapter wc: 8.8k warnings: alcohol consumption, societal expectations, crying, mentions of a panic attack (not being able to breathe), eventual smut, more to be added a/n: sorry sorry i know ch 3 took forever too lol // as always, ENORMOUS thanks to indi @wongyuseokie for this GORGEOUSSSS banner // and to my lovely betas shu @welcometomyoasis lou @tusswrites haneul @chanranghaeys

summary: maybe you really are well and truly alone.

comment to be tagged when chapters are posted, or join the fic taglist here! series masterlist

The First Year: Summer Age 19

The first season after that fateful night was like a hazy dream. When you returned to the social scene, the whispers followed: why had Lord Lee disappeared from your side, so abruptly and publicly, leaving you to stand alone in the wake of his departure?

You endured it with a forced smile, accepting dances from any man who offered. Seokmin, when you saw him, was always nearby yet achingly out of reach, just beyond the edge of the crowd, his gaze never straying to you. Minghao, perhaps sensing the fraught silence between you, would draw you into conversation whenever he could, his manner protective, his eyes wary.

The estate gardens were nothing short of stunning in the late spring. Bursts of red and yellow tulips stretched toward the sky, their vibrant hues softened only by the ivy draping from the nearby trellis. The whole scene was picturesque, brimming with life and warmth. Yet, to you, it held only shadows, echoes of laughter from a time that now felt far away.

You’d meant to pass by quickly, perhaps even avoid the gardens altogether, but the pull was magnetic, the memories nestled there too insistent to ignore. This had been your sanctuary, your haven of whispered secrets and boundless dreams. You had spent countless summer afternoons here with Seokmin, lying on the grass, watching clouds drift lazily by as he teased you with nonsense riddles and ridiculous tales. He’d always made you laugh—those moments had seemed to stretch endlessly, filled with the certainty that nothing would ever change.

But change it had.

Now, as you stood among the tulips, their bright faces tilted toward the sun, you felt as if you were the only one left in shadow. Each flower seemed to mock you, as if asking why you had come back when he was no longer here to share it with you. You could almost hear his laughter in the rustling leaves, a phantom sound that made your heart ache.

You allowed yourself one indulgent moment of memory, one small surrender to the warmth of the past. In that instant, you could almost feel his presence beside you, could almost hear him sigh as he lay back against the grass and urged you to do the same. Tulip, he’d called you once, likening you to the flowers here—delicate, bright, full of life. His voice drifted through your mind like a warm breeze, and you closed your eyes, feeling the bittersweet pang of loss settle deeper into your chest.

Then, a sudden sound cut through the quiet, and you froze. It was the low murmur of a familiar voice—Seokmin’s voice—wafting toward you from the entrance of the garden. You barely made out the words, some easy greeting exchanged with Minghao as the two approached. The cadence of his voice was softer now, more mature perhaps, but unmistakably his. In an instant, the fragile calm you’d managed to summon evaporated, replaced by a panicked urgency to flee.

You turned on your heel, lifting your skirts as you hurried toward a narrow, shaded path, heart pounding as if you were a trespasser in your own sanctuary. You slipped behind the thick ivy-covered trellis, your fingers clutching the delicate lace of your gloves as you pressed your back against the rough wood. There, hidden from sight, you held your breath, willing your heart to quiet, afraid he might hear it even from a distance.

He paused at the garden’s entrance, his voice carrying lightly on the breeze, mingling with the chirping of birds and the gentle rustle of leaves. It was a voice you had known too well, one that had once woven a thousand dreams in these very gardens. But now, standing there alone and concealed, all you could feel was the sharp edge of those dreams turned to dust.

You dared not look, dared not even breathe until his voice faded and the crunch of gravel beneath his feet grew distant. Only then did you step out from your hiding place, the scene around you as unchanged and pristine as ever. But it felt different, achingly empty. He was gone, and so, you realized, was something inside you.

Your shoulders slumped as you turned away from the gardens, swallowing against the emotion lodged in your throat. You would not come here again—at least, not alone.

That first year passed slowly, the memory of him shadowing you at every event, every garden, every dance, leaving you both haunted and empty.

The Second Year: Autumn Age 20

As autumn arrived, the weight of that lost season faded slightly, turning to something colder, something sharper. You found yourself no longer seeking him out at every ball. Instead, you steeled yourself, donning an unapproachable mask that suited you better with each passing day. Your brother had chosen to spend the season traveling, claiming that the sea salt of Grecian air was calling him. The absence of his protection meant that you had to sail the rough shores of that season alone – Minghao’s letters were frequent and welcomed, always ready to provide words of assurance from thousands of miles away.

Your second season was to be markedly different—by your design and no one else’s. The naive enthusiasm of your first season had faded, replaced by a wariness that had hardened around you like a shell. Suitors still called upon you, though they were fewer and far between, and the gentlemen of impeccable standing, those your mother deemed suitable, grew distant with each passing event. They would approach with polite intentions, murmuring some pleasantry or another, only to bow and make haste to another part of the room where more receptive young ladies waited.

Yet, for all the polite avoidance and empty conversation, there was Lord Yoon Jeonghan, the Viscount of Hastings. He was different—not at all the cold and detached nobleman that society often produced, nor the vapid fop more concerned with his cufflinks than his conversation. He was witty, charming even, and his remarks would often spark a laugh that you could scarcely suppress. A flicker of intrigue would alight in his eyes every time you spoke, as if you were unraveling a particularly delightful mystery, and for those brief moments, he made you almost forget.

Almost.

You felt his gaze often, lingering in the spaces between words, and sometimes, if you were honest with yourself, it was almost enough to ease the ache that had taken root in your chest. There was a certain warmth to his presence, a lightheartedness that let you slip free from the burdensome weight of the past. Your mother, ever vigilant, noticed his interest immediately. She seized upon his attentions with thinly veiled glee, her gaze often flickering between the two of you at gatherings, assessing, calculating. She would arrange you beside him at dinners, leave you in his company at the slightest opportunity, her encouragement subtle yet unmistakable.

Jeonghan would lean in close, his words laced with humor, often turning some mundane observation into something absurdly funny. And for a fleeting second, the laughter would come easily, a balm to the bruised and hidden parts of yourself. You allowed yourself to think, Maybe this could work.

But the quiet, hollow ache lingered, a constant reminder of the ghost you could not quite shake. And that ghost was Seokmin.

Seokmin, who watched from across the room, his gaze burning, perceptive as ever. He was polite, distant even, but his presence was always there, like the flicker of candlelight that neither dimmed nor died. You could feel it most keenly when you danced with other men, swirling across the floor to the strains of violins and cellos. Once, as you stepped onto the ballroom floor with Jeonghan, you felt Seokmin’s gaze settle on you from across the room. The intensity of it was enough to make your skin prickle, and suddenly you were painfully aware of every step, every turn.

The first misstep was subtle—a slight stumble over the Viscount’s foot. But as you met Seokmin’s eyes, his brow lifted ever so slightly, a smirk hovering just on the edge of his mouth. That subtle, amused expression set your pulse racing in a way you would never confess. And in your distracted state, you stumbled again, this time nearly losing your balance. Jeonghan chuckled, mistaking your lapse for some charming display of nervousness, too oblivious to realize the true reason for your faltering steps.

Seokmin’s gaze, however, saw straight through you. His smirk was knowing, almost taunting, as though he could see past every mask, every effort you’d put into your newfound resolve. It was maddening—the way he could still get under your skin, the way he seemed to enjoy watching you unravel, even if only for a second. The lingering effects of that look stayed with you long after the music ended, clinging to you like perfume.

And so, you spent the season caught between two worlds. Lord Yoon, with his charm and his lightheartedness, who could ease the bitterness that lay thick upon your heart if only for a while. And Seokmin, a relentless presence, haunting you from across every ballroom and garden, his gaze a tether you could never quite sever. It was a delicate dance, one you performed night after night, hoping, in vain, that one day you would not feel his eyes on you at all.

The afternoon sun angled low over the estate, bathing the drawing room in a cool October light that poured through the high windows, softening the sharp edges of the day. Minghao had just returned from his travels and had brought back a novel he thought you would enjoy—Jane Eyre, by a Miss Brontë. The air was thick with the quiet thrill of this gift, the promise of evenings spent lost in its pages, and you had just begun to express your excitement when Minghao, with his usual calm, announced that Seokmin had accompanied him.

You schooled your face to remain pleasant, though your pulse quickened at the mention of his name. And indeed, there he stood by the door, his posture polite yet tense, hands clasped behind his back, and eyes dark with some unreadable emotion. He offered a slight bow, his gaze fixed on you even as you looked firmly at your brother.

"Did you know," Minghao began, oblivious to the tension in the room as he handed you the book, "that the author published it under a man’s name? Some say it’s because she thought her work would be dismissed otherwise."

You managed a small smile, allowing yourself the momentary reprieve of this topic. “Thank you, Minghao,” you replied, fingers grazing the embossed cover. “I’ll cherish it. It sounds wonderful.”

Across the room, Seokmin shifted, clearing his throat. "Do you find time to read often these days?" His voice was tentative, a hint of hope or maybe familiarity clinging to the question, as if reaching for a bridge long burned.

Your reply was smooth and immediate, though you kept your gaze firmly on Minghao, as if Seokmin had merely been a ghost in the room. "I make time, yes. It’s quite necessary, given the, ah… limited options for conversation."

A faint hint of color rose to Seokmin’s cheeks, but he quickly smothered whatever response he had been about to make. Minghao glanced between you, his eyes narrowing slightly as he pieced together the simmering tension, the edges of a puzzle he hadn’t been around to see formed.

There was a brief pause, heavy as stones, before Seokmin tried again. "Do you still ride out to the southern fields? I remember…" He hesitated, his words trailing off before he finished. “The views from the hilltops there were always lovely in the fall.”

It was a simple question, a nod to a pastime you had once enjoyed, but the memories it evoked—the two of you racing across the meadows, laughing breathlessly under the open sky, sharing quiet moments on that hilltop he spoke of—all felt too sharp, too close. You tightened your grip on the book, the rough binding grounding you in the present.

"Occasionally," you murmured, as if speaking to no one in particular. Your tone was clipped, devoid of warmth, and you let the silence stretch, long enough for the weight of his words to fade. After a beat, you forced yourself to stand, smoothing the fabric of your dress as you prepared to excuse yourself. “Please, if you’ll excuse me.”

Seokmin’s face barely shifted, yet the flicker of disappointment that crossed his features was unmistakable. "Wait, please—" he began, his hand reaching out as if to stop you. “I… wanted to know if you might—”

You looked over at Minghao, not giving Seokmin the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. “Thank you for the book, brother,” you said softly. “I’ll look forward to discussing it with you when I’ve read it.” And with that, you turned, leaving the drawing room before Seokmin could finish his thought.

You could feel his eyes on your back, a silent, unyielding weight as you retreated, but you pushed down the churning emotions in your chest.

Later, your mother found you in the library, a faintly exasperated look in her eye. "What has possessed you to act so sharply towards Lord Lee? He is a friend of your brother’s, and a gentleman. I hardly think it was necessary to snub him quite so… thoroughly."

"I simply wasn’t inclined to entertain him," you replied, not lifting your gaze from the book you had barely managed to focus on since leaving the drawing room. “It was not my intention to be rude, Mother.”

She pursed her lips, eyes narrowing. “He asked after you very kindly. And if you cannot manage the simple courtesy of conversation, well…” Her sigh was laden with disappointment, tinged with the faintest trace of resignation. “It does make things rather difficult for you, don’t you think?”

You didn’t respond, clamping your lips shut and focusing on the words of Jane Eyre as if they might hold an escape. What could you say? That politeness was a currency you could not afford to spend on him? That every pleasantry only made the knife in your back twist a little deeper?

There was nothing to be done, and so you said nothing at all. The book lay heavy in your lap, unread, as your mother’s gaze lingered a moment longer, her silence more cutting than words.

The Third Year: Winter Age 21

The winter air nipped at every inch of bare skin as you stepped out of the carriage and into the towering, grand hall where that night’s ball was being held. Snow blanketed the world outside, a thick layer that muffled everything it touched, leaving only the crunch of footsteps and the soft murmur of the wind. The frost bit through your gloves, but it was nothing compared to the cold lodged deep within your chest. You drew yourself up and stepped into the hall, a practiced smile on your face as you greeted the hosts and exchanged pleasantries.

Inside, the ball was already in full swing. Laughter and music filled the air, weaving an intoxicating tapestry of distraction. You navigated through clusters of guests with practiced ease, inclining your head and making idle conversation that barely skimmed the surface. You had come to know the routines well, slipping into this role as though it were armor: a mask of charm, a shield of grace. It kept you safe, even as it kept others at arm’s length.

But then, just as you were making your way toward a friend by the window, you spotted him—Seokmin, across the room. He was surrounded by a small group of gentlemen, his laughter carrying over the din as he shared some amusing story. His cheeks were flushed from the warmth, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way you’d once adored. For a moment, a whisper of memory drifted to you unbidden—those nights by the garden, his laughter mingling with the soft hum of summer crickets, a harmony you’d taken for granted. The sight of him now, seemingly unaffected by the hollow ache that had lodged itself so firmly within you, twisted something in your chest.

As though he could feel your gaze, his eyes turned toward you, catching you unprepared. His laughter faded, and for a moment, the room seemed to still. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of recognition, regret, perhaps. Or something more resigned, an acceptance of the chasm that had grown between you. He made no move toward you; there was only a slight nod, a silent acknowledgement of… something. You couldn’t name it, and you didn’t want to try.

It was his easy return to conversation that undid you. The way he turned back to his companions, laughing once more, as if nothing had changed, as if the years you’d spent trying to bury the echoes of that ball could be erased so simply. The laughter that once filled you with warmth now rang hollow in your ears, a reminder of all that was lost and all that could never be reclaimed.

The walls of the ballroom began to feel oppressive, the cloying warmth of bodies and perfume suffocating. You pressed a gloved hand to your temple, feigning discomfort as you turned to your nearest acquaintance. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well,” you murmured, a faint tremor in your voice that you hoped was undetectable.

“Oh, my dear, are you all right? You do look rather pale,” she said with concern, her eyes scanning your face. “Perhaps some fresh air?”

“Yes,” you managed, barely holding together the thin fabric of your composure. “Yes, that may be best.”

With a polite smile and promises to catch up at the next event, you drifted toward the doorway, slipping through the crowd as unobtrusively as you could. The cold air in the entry hall was a shock, but you welcomed it, letting it bite into your cheeks and ground you.

Soon enough, you found yourself in your room, finally alone. The silent darkness enveloped you, and for the first time that night, you let yourself drop the mask. You sank into the nearest armchair, clutching the armrests as if they could anchor you. Outside, snowflakes drifted lazily past the window, catching the moonlight like shards of glass. There was no warmth, no comfort in the scene, only the lingering shadows of a memory that refused to fade.

You had no energy to reach for a book, nor did you bother lighting the fireplace. Instead, you sat, letting the silence swell around you, filling the empty spaces that had been left in Seokmin’s wake. Your gaze lingered on the frost etching delicate patterns across the glass, and for a moment, you wondered if he was still at the ball, still laughing, still untouched by the winter that had settled so deep within you.

It felt almost foolish to mourn something you had lost so long ago, but as the hours slipped by, you couldn’t bring yourself to shake the feeling.

The bitterness reached new heights that year. Your relationship with Minghao, however, began to shift. He sensed your resolve, noticed the way you shrank from any mention of Seokmin, and quietly took up the role of your champion. He became your shield at social gatherings, a polite, steadfast presence whenever your mother hinted at your dwindling prospects or a suitor left you standing alone. Your mother’s eyes, ever watchful, lingered upon you with a barely hidden concern, her gaze darting to the eligible gentlemen nearby and then to you with that familiar, expectant look.

“You know,” she began in a low voice, “if you were only a touch more… approachable, it might encourage the young men here to consider you more seriously.”

You forced a small smile, the words heavy and stale from years of repetition. “I’ll do my best, Mama.”

But before she could respond, a familiar voice joined the conversation.

“Ah, I see my sister is charming everyone tonight,” Minghao remarked smoothly as he appeared beside you, offering a short bow to your mother. “May I borrow her for a moment?”

Your mother’s gaze softened—she had never worried over Minghao as she did with you, and his title afforded him some measure of leniency that you could never claim. She nodded, though her expression remained faintly expectant as she watched you both step away.

Minghao led you toward the edge of the ballroom, his arm steady around yours as you wove through the crowd. Once there, he turned to you with a look that spoke of both amusement and concern.

“You looked ready to flee,” he observed, a trace of a smile in his eyes. “Would you like a few minutes’ reprieve?”

You sighed, grateful for his intervention. “I was beginning to feel like a prized cow at market,” you replied, tone dry. “Thank you for sparing me.”

He chuckled softly, but his expression grew more serious as he studied you. “I noticed Mother watching you rather closely. And I know her remarks can be… persistent.”

“Persistent is a kind way of putting it,” you replied, your voice just above a whisper. “She insists that my chances dwindle each season, that—” You cut yourself off, pressing your lips together to hold back the frustration that threatened to spill over.

Minghao’s gaze softened, and he sighed, reaching out to adjust the lace of your cuff in a gentle, brotherly gesture. “You’ve nothing to prove to her or to anyone else here,” he said quietly. “If you feel uncomfortable, I’ll be here to see you through the night.”

Despite the stifling heat of the ballroom, his presence felt like a breath of fresh air—a lifeline against the unrelenting pressure of society and its expectations.

“And if any gentleman dares to turn his back on you tonight,” he added, his voice adopting a playful lilt, “I shall personally see to it that he regrets it.”

The corners of your mouth lifted into a small, appreciative smile. Minghao’s protectiveness was a comfort you rarely admitted to needing, but tonight, you couldn’t help feeling grateful that he saw past your composed exterior to the worry lingering beneath.

The music shifted to a slower waltz, and he extended his hand with a knowing smile. “Shall we dance, sister? A waltz is far more agreeable than enduring Mother’s lectures, I assure you.”

You accepted his hand, letting him lead you to the center of the room. As you twirled together, the swirling silks and laughter around you faded into the background, leaving only the familiar warmth of his presence.

After a moment, he leaned in, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “And for what it’s worth,” he murmured, “you have no need of any of these foppish gentlemen. They should consider themselves lucky if they could win even a passing glance from you.”

The sincerity in his words soothed you, and for a brief moment, the ballroom was no longer a daunting place, nor its occupants a source of anxiety. Minghao’s quiet strength steadied you, his steadfast support as dependable as the rhythm of the waltz beneath your feet.

Yet, even with Minghao’s silent support, Seokmin’s laughter ringing through the ballroom haunted you, echoing a reminder of what you once had and what you had lost.

Across the room, your gaze flickered to a familiar figure, the Lord Viscount Yoon, the lightness of his presence breaking through your somber thoughts. He had been different—his clever banter had a way of making even the most mundane topics feel lively and engaging. When he spoke, it was as if he was inviting you into an exclusive circle of shared secrets and laughter, making you momentarily forget the weight of expectations pressing down on you.

Even now, he stood amidst a group of gentlemen, engaging in light banter that sent ripples of laughter through the crowd. A flicker of intrigue would alight in his eyes every time he caught your gaze, but he looked away just as quickly, as if your newfound prickly attitude was enough to scare him away.

Over time, your disinterest had made him less willing to approach you. Though he had shown interest the previous year, the glow in his eyes now held a tinge of uncertainty, as if he had begun to doubt whether your heart remained open to him. Your mother, ever vigilant, noticed his hesitance, her gaze flickering between the two of you at gatherings, assessing, calculating.

“Perhaps if I were a bit more approachable,” you murmured to Minghao, who nodded thoughtfully, his gaze drifting toward Jeonghan.

“Sometimes, it takes more than just approachability,” he replied quietly. “He is a good man, but the more you withdraw, the more he may think he should step back.”

You let the thought linger in your mind, but it was soon drowned out by the sight of Seokmin across the room, leaning in to laugh politely with another woman, a vision of laughter and ease that made your heart twist painfully. The vibrant atmosphere of the ball blurred around you, filled with the laughter of others while your own heart sank, caught between the past and the possibility of a future—one you feared might never be yours again.

The Fourth Year: Spring Age 22

Spring came late that year, but the blossoms in the garden were the most vibrant you had ever seen. Tulips, bright and full of life, lined the path outside your drawing room window. Their sight brought an unwelcome reminder of Seokmin, as if they were mocking the pain that had dulled over the years but never truly healed.

One fateful morning, Seokmin arrived at the estate again, waiting for Minghao in the drawing room. You entered the room unaware of his presence, intending to retrieve a letter you had left on the table. The shock of finding him there, standing alone, was enough to root you to the spot.

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of regret and longing. “How have you been?” he asked, breaking the silence, his tone formal but softened by something more vulnerable.

“I try to stay busy,” you replied, refusing to meet his gaze, your own fixed on the tulips outside the window, as if they alone could fortify your resolve. The way they leaned toward the glass, reaching out, seemed a cruel reminder of what you could never reach. You clung to your indifference, fearing that one look at him would undo you.

“Ah,” he replied, his voice barely a murmur. “I see.”

The silence was unbearable, stretching long and wide between you, filled with all the words you had left unsaid. For the first time, you could sense his unease, as though he, too, felt the weight of everything that had come between you. You imagined he might say more, but instead, he fell silent, unwilling or unable to breach the chasm.

When Minghao finally entered the room, his gaze shifted from Seokmin to you, sensing the tension immediately. He offered a warm, lighthearted greeting that brought some relief, yet you felt exposed, as though Seokmin could still see every last flicker of pain beneath your carefully controlled exterior. Minghao’s easy conversation filled the room, and you seized on it as a lifeline, grateful that the moment had passed.

But as you left the drawing room, something inside you felt irrevocably changed. The wound you thought had healed now ached anew, as raw and fresh as ever.

Age 22

The season has turned again, and as you step into the grand ballroom, you are met with a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds that fill the air with an electric energy. The chandelier overhead sparkles like a constellation of stars, its crystal droplets refracting the warm glow of candlelight that dances across the room. The polished wooden floors gleam underfoot, reflecting the vivid hues of the gowns that swirl around you like petals caught in a gentle breeze.

After five seasons on the market, the whispers of society have cast you in the role of a spinster. No longer the young debutante brimming with promise, you now find yourself almost a chaperone to the eager, wide-eyed debutantes navigating their first seasons. Your newest charge, Sohee, is a whirlwind of youthful exuberance, her bright pink dress adorned with intricate floral appliqués that seem to bloom against her pale skin. The bodice sparkles with tiny beads, catching the light as she twirls, her laughter ringing like bells. You can see the nervous energy in her movements, the way her hands flutter as she points out various gentlemen across the ballroom.

“Oh, look at Lord Lee—what a fine dancer!” she exclaims, her voice bubbling with excitement as she gazes at Seokmin. His deep navy jacket contrasts sharply with the pristine white of his shirt, and the cravat around his neck is tied with an effortless elegance that only enhances his charm. The way he carries himself, relaxed and confident, seems to draw the attention of everyone around him.

You try to mask the bitterness rising within you as you observe him. Seokmin entertains Sohee’s infatuated chatter with polite smiles, his eyes sparkling with amusement. For a fleeting moment, you are grateful that she has captured his attention, but then the weight of your own feelings crashes over you like a cold wave. The ache in your chest deepens as memories flood your mind—long summers spent chasing fireflies, laughter echoing through the fields as he playfully pursued you with a worm on a stick, or the way he would reward your sharp tongue with that unguarded, carefree laughter.

As if drawn by some invisible thread, Seokmin’s gaze suddenly shifts, catching yours from across the room. Your heart leaps into your throat, a jolt of surprise and embarrassment coursing through you. Mortified that he has noticed your lingering stare, you quickly avert your eyes, but the warmth of your cheeks betrays you. You want to disappear into the vibrant crowd, to escape the intensity of your emotions that seem to swell with every passing second. Yet, even as you force yourself to engage with Sohee’s exuberant chatter, you can feel the weight of Seokmin’s gaze resting on you, a silent reminder of everything you’ve lost and the connection you once shared.

It is a cruel twist of fate, standing on the sidelines while young girls like Sohee chase the dreams you once held so dear. You find yourself in this role, a guide for the naive and hopeful, all the while wishing that you could feel that same thrill of possibility. The grand ballroom, alive with laughter and music, feels both enchanting and suffocating, each dance a reminder of the joys that have slipped through your fingers.

As the music swells and couples begin to sway across the polished floor, you catch glimpses of Sohee and Seokmin amidst the swirling gowns and dapper jackets. They move with an innocent delight that contrasts starkly with the weight of your unspoken feelings. Sohee beams up at him, her laughter bright and infectious, and for a moment, the sight softens the edges of your heartache.

Just then, you feel a presence beside you, and when you turn, you find Viscount Yoon Jeonghan standing there, a knowing smile dancing on his lips. His appearance is as striking as ever; his tailored coat hugs his frame perfectly, and the delicate embroidery along the cuffs catches the light, giving him an almost ethereal glow. His hair falls elegantly around his face, framing those sharp features that always seem to hold a hint of mischief.

“They make quite a pair, do they not?” he murmurs, his voice smooth and warm as he gestures subtly toward the young couple. His eyes sparkle with a mix of humor and curiosity, and for a moment, you’re reminded of the lighthearted conversations you once shared, the way he could lift your spirits without even trying.

You glance back at Sohee and Seokmin, your heart twisting at the sight of them. “It seems so,” you reply, your tone nonchalant, though the bitterness seeps through. “She is quite taken with him.”

Jeonghan’s gaze lingers on the two, but then shifts back to you, an amused glimmer in his eyes. “And yet, I believe it’s Seokmin’s charm that keeps her so enchanted. He has a way of making everyone feel special, does he not?” His words are light, but there’s an underlying sincerity that pulls you in.

“Especially the younger ones,” you add, your voice tinged with a hint of sarcasm. You cross your arms, an instinctive barrier against the swell of emotions threatening to break free. Jeonghan tilts his head, studying you with an intensity that makes you self-conscious.

“Ah, but don’t let that dampen your spirits,” he says, a teasing lilt to his voice. “I suspect that there’s still magic left in your own waltz.”

You scoff softly, trying to hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. “I’ve had my dance, my Lord. It’s only right that I help guide the next generation.”

He nods, as if he understands more than you’ve revealed. “But it doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a little bit of the spotlight yourself, does it?” His gaze holds yours for a moment longer, an invitation hanging in the air between you.

Taking a deep breath, you accept his invitation with a gentle nod. Jeonghan extends his hand, and with a sense of determination, you place yours in his. The moment you step onto the dance floor, a familiar spark ignites between you. As you move, you find the rhythm of the waltz is an intoxicating escape from the weight of the evening.

His touch is confident yet gentle, guiding you with an ease that sends warmth through your veins. You laugh softly at his playful quips, the way he effortlessly spins you and twirls you beneath the glimmering chandelier. The surrounding laughter and chatter fade into a soft background hum as the two of you lose yourselves in the moment.

But just as you begin to forget the lingering ache in your heart, a commotion draws your attention away. You glance over to find Sohee in an animated conversation with Seokmin, her eyes wide with excitement. She appears to be swooning—her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink as she clutches her fan, fluttering it in the air as if to cool herself.

And then it happens. As the waltz concludes and the music reaches its crescendo, Seokmin leans down to retrieve Sohee's fan, which had slipped from her grasp in her flurry of emotion. The way he effortlessly picks it up and hands it back to her is undeniably charming. She gazes up at him with unrestrained adoration, and in that moment, it’s as if the entire ballroom falls silent, the air thick with their connection.

Your heart sinks, the joyous moment turning into a bitter reminder of your own unfulfilled longing. You feel the weight of your own feelings crashing down, suffocating the lightness of the dance you just shared with Jeonghan. The innocence of Sohee’s crush, her delight at Seokmin’s attention, stabs at something deep within you, twisting the knife of your heartache just a little deeper.

“Lord Lee is such a gentleman,” Sohee breathes, her eyes sparkling with admiration. You try to smile, but the corners of your mouth feel heavy, the happiness you should feel for her overshadowed by the ache in your chest.

“Quite the pair, indeed,” Jeonghan murmurs beside you, his tone shifting slightly. You glance up at him, but the amusement in his eyes has dimmed, replaced with a knowing sympathy that only intensifies your discomfort.

“I should—” you start, desperate to escape the scene unfolding before you, but Jeonghan catches your gaze, his expression serious yet gentle.

“Are you alright?” he asks quietly, concern lacing his voice.

You swallow hard, nodding even though you can feel the tears threatening to brim. “Yes, of course. It’s just… a reminder of what I’ve lost.”

Jeonghan’s eyes soften, understanding radiating from him. “Then let’s step outside for a moment, shall we? A breath of fresh air might do you good.”

You nod again, grateful for his presence, and together you slip away from the dancing couples, leaving behind the laughter and music, hoping the cool night air will ease the weight on your heart. As you step outside, the crisp night air envelops you like a silken shawl, drawing you away from the swirling gaiety of the ballroom. The coolness is a welcome reprieve from the warmth of bodies and laughter, and you relish the soft caress of the breeze against your skin, bringing with it a gentle rustling of leaves that whispers secrets from the garden. The scent of blooming jasmine and sweet honeysuckle mingles in the air, heady and intoxicating, wrapping around you like a lover’s embrace.

You move to the stone balcony, where the moon hangs low in the sky, its silvery glow spilling over the manicured gardens below, illuminating the delicate petals of the flowers that sway gently in the evening light. The grass is cool beneath your feet, a delightful contrast to the warmth of your silk gown, and you can feel the slight dampness of dew beginning to settle on the earth, a reminder of the approaching night.

Fidgeting with the lace hem of your gown, you feel the fabric whisper against your ankles, the soft silk cool to the touch. Your heart races as you catch sight of Jeonghan stepping out to join you, his tall frame silhouetted against the glow of the moonlight. He regards you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You love him,” he states matter-of-factly, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I beg your pardon?” You turn to him, surprise etched across your features. Your fingers tighten around the delicate lace, twisting it nervously as if it could shield you from his piercing gaze.

“It is nothing to shy away from,” he continues, his tone surprisingly earnest. “I have observed the two of you for years, engaging in this delightful dance around each other. You love him. That is a fact. Do not shy away from it—love is a beautiful thing, even if it is tinged with loss.”

You force a laugh, the sound almost bitter. “You sound as though you speak from experience.”

“And if I am?” Jeonghan counters, his brow arching slightly, inviting you to delve deeper into the conversation.

“Why, then,” you reply, your heart racing with a mixture of intrigue and dread, “it cannot be that only my secrets are shared tonight.”

“Lady Choi,” he says, the shift in his tone unmistakable, as though he is unearthing a long-buried truth.

“The general’s wife?” you ask, the name escaping your lips with an air of disbelief.

His eyes darken, and for a moment, the lightness of the evening is overshadowed by the weight of his admission. “She was mine first,” he admits, his voice heavy with unspoken emotion. “But her father—he was a cruel man—wished to marry her off before I ever had the chance to court her properly, as adults.”

You draw a sharp breath, the air suddenly feeling thick and heavy around you. “Lord Yoon, it is a sin to desire another man’s wife,” you say softly, your fingers trembling slightly as they continue to play with the delicate fabric of your gown.

“And it is a sin to pine after what cannot be yours,” he replies, a note of melancholy creeping into his voice. “It seems we are both trapped in a most unfortunate dilemma, Miss Xu.”

You hesitate, the truth of his words resonating within you like the toll of a distant bell. You find yourself gazing at the garden below, the moonlight casting long shadows across the path. “I… suppose.”

His expression softens, the tension between you easing slightly as he steps closer, the distance shrinking as if the night conspires to bring you together. “I have an idea, if you are amenable to it,” he proposes, his voice low and conspiratorial.

You raise an eyebrow, curiosity piquing despite the tumult of your thoughts. “I suppose I have no choice but to hear it.”

“Let us… have an arrangement of sorts.”

Your mind races, the absurdity of the suggestion both ludicrous and strangely enticing. “An… arrangement?” you repeat, incredulous, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“A loveless marriage is better than none at all,” he declares, his eyes glinting with a mixture of seriousness and mischief.

You laugh, unable to contain yourself. “You jest. Have you indulged in more champagne than you can manage?”

“I assure you, I am as clear-headed as the sky on a summer’s day,” he insists, maintaining eye contact with a steady gaze that makes your heart flutter. “We are friends, are we not?”

“Friends? My lord, we have danced a few times, to my mother’s delight,” you reply, a teasing lilt in your voice, though your heart feels heavier with the weight of his words.

He feigns a look of mock hurt, placing a hand theatrically over his heart. “You wound me! We have enjoyed such spirited conversations! I do consider you a friend. And a marriage with a friend—a viscount at that—is nothing to scoff at. Have you given no thought to your future? What happens when your dear brother finds a wife and you are no longer his primary concern?”

The reality of his words settles over you, sending a shiver down your spine. You search the moonlit path, pondering the path that lies ahead. “Just… think about it,” he presses, his voice earnest, the night seemingly holding its breath.

The silence stretches between you, the world around you fading as you consider the proposal. You raise your gaze to his, a flurry of emotions swirling in your heart.

But as the moment hangs in the air, he steps back, creating a chasm of space between you once more. The hope in his eyes flickers like the stars above, illuminating the path of unspoken possibilities.

With a lingering glance, Jeonghan turns to leave, the quiet night reclaiming its stillness. Alone now, you stand beneath the watchful gaze of the moon, a companion that seems to mock your predicament, its light dancing across your skin like a playful breeze. The weight of the evening settles around you, the possibilities of what could have been lingering like a sweet perfume in the air. The garden around you, fragrant and alive, seems to echo your turmoil, the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft chirping of crickets a reminder that you are not as alone as you feel—but still, the loneliness wraps around you like a heavy cloak, suffocating and inescapable.

The Queen’s Garden is even more stunning at twilight, an exquisite tapestry of flora bathed in the soft, golden light of the setting sun. Lanterns hang from the branches of ancient trees, casting a warm glow that mingles with the fading daylight, creating a magical ambiance that enchants every guest present. Lush greenery and blooming flowers adorn the paths, their fragrant scents—jasmine, roses, and honeysuckle—drifting through the air like a sweet serenade.

As you weave your way through the throngs of elegantly dressed nobles, the cool evening breeze brushes against your skin, a refreshing contrast to the warmth radiating from the lively crowd. The sounds of laughter and spirited conversation wrap around you, punctuated by the delicate notes of a string quartet nestled among the trees, their melodies intertwining with the soft rustle of leaves overhead.

Amidst the gaiety, you scan the faces around you, searching for Sohee. Her absence hangs like a whisper, pulling at your awareness.

Just then, your gaze lands on Lord Yoon Jeonghan, standing across the garden. His tall frame commands attention, and as you meet his eyes, he offers you a teasing wink, a smirk dancing on his lips. He raises his glass in a casual salute, a playful reminder of the “arrangement” he proposed only weeks prior.

But as you turn to continue your search, you hear a soft rustle behind the curtains of the powder room. A frown creases your brow, and with a sense of trepidation, you pull the curtains aside.

What you find steals the breath from your lungs: Sohee, her dress slightly askew, caught in an intimate embrace with Seokmin, hidden from view. Time seems to freeze as you process the scene before you, the vibrant colors of the garden fading into a blur.

They don’t notice your entrance, the warmth of their laughter drifting toward you, blissfully unaware of the precariousness of their moment. A wave of urgency washes over you; you step back, the laughter and music of the ball dimming behind you, overwhelmed by the tension in the air.

The cool mask of indifference you wear feels like a fragile façade, barely holding up against the storm of emotions roiling within you. Every heartbeat thunders in your ears, a rhythmic reminder of the tension crackling in the air. You force yourself to breathe slowly, deliberately, the sweet scent of blooming flowers mingling with the sharp tang of night air filling your lungs.

You clear your throat, breaking the stillness that envelops the hidden corner where Sohee and Seokmin stand. Your posture is straight, your chin lifted, but your palms feel clammy against the lace of your gown.

“Sohee,” you say, your voice steady and cool, as though dipped in ice, “you should return to your Mama. If anyone else had seen you like this, it would ruin you.” The words hang in the air, each syllable heavy with consequence. You hold her gaze, your eyes fierce, willing her to understand the gravity of the situation.

Sohee’s eyes widen, vulnerability flickering across her face like candlelight. The flush staining her cheeks deepens as she processes your words, a mixture of mortification and gratitude washing over her. She nods, biting her lip, and you watch as she slips past you, shoulders squared despite the embarrassment, grateful for your discretion.

Once she disappears back into the sea of guests, the atmosphere shifts. It’s just you and Seokmin now, the weight of the moment pressing down like a thick fog, the sounds of the ballroom fading into a dull roar. For the first time in years, you stand alone with him, the years of silence and distance palpable between you.

You turn to leave, the flutter of your gown trailing behind you, but his voice stops you, soft and tentative, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Please, don’t go.”

You whirl around, disbelief etched across your features. “Why on earth? What are you doing here?” Your heart pounds, and your fists clench at your sides, the intensity of the moment clawing at your composure.

He takes a step closer, the distance between you shrinking, but the space feels charged with electricity. The use of that name—“tulip”—falls from his lips like a spark igniting a fire inside you. Anger bubbles to the surface, your fingers curling into fists. “You have no right to call me that anymore.”

His expression shifts, desperation creeping into his tone as he opens his palms, a gesture of vulnerability. “It’s been four years, and you still won’t give me the chance to explain myself.”

Your chest tightens at the memories, sharp and unyielding, a storm of emotions swirling within you. “So was it because Minghao told you to?”

His gaze darkens, the flicker of regret visible in his eyes. “Yes, but you need to—”

“Good evening, Seokmin.” The words slip from your mouth like ice, cold and final. You turn to leave, your back straight but your heart racing, and he reaches for you, fingers brushing against your arm like a whisper.

You jerk away, anger and hurt surging through you, the fabric of your dress catching in the air as you turn. “Please, stay,” he begs, his voice thick with emotion, almost desperate. “Stay and let me explain—”

You shake your head slowly, each word heavy with the weight of unspoken history. “You lost the right to that four years ago.” Your voice softens, but the resolve behind it remains, a quiet storm ready to break. In a flurry of lace and silk, you turn on your heel, the sound of your footsteps muffled by the thick grass as you leave him standing there, a distant silhouette against the vibrant backdrop of the garden.

The night air feels cooler as you weave through the crowd, your heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. You seek solace in the bustling ballroom, where laughter and music swirl around you, a cacophony that drowns out the echo of your heartache. The warmth of the candles flickers against your skin, the soft glow momentarily comforting amidst the chaos.

The crowd shifts around you, a blur of color and laughter, but everything feels muted—distant—as you navigate back toward the main hall. Your heart still pounds, each beat a reminder of the encounter that lingers, bitter as smoke. And then, across the room, a familiar pair of eyes finds yours: Jeonghan. His gaze is intent, assessing, and as he raises his glass to you with an amused smirk, his words from weeks before echo in your mind: “It is a sin to pine after what cannot be yours.”

The decision is instant, unbidden, like the snap of a thread pulled too tight. Steeling yourself, you weave through the crowd toward him, your mind clearing with each step. Jeonghan turns slightly as you approach, his attention shifting from the men he’d been conversing with. You stop just a breath away, feeling the weight of the moment settle around you, even as laughter and chatter fill the air.

“My lord,” you say, voice steady as a blade.

He raises an eyebrow, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, Miss Xu?” His eyes gleam in the low light, the gold of the candle flames reflecting in them. “I must say, you look rather lovely in this garden.”

“Yes.” The word is simple, yet it feels like a vow, a quiet certainty.

His smile falters for just a second, replaced by a glimmer of surprise in his eyes before he quickly recovers. He leans in slightly, his voice softened but no less intent.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” you reply, your voice calm but resolute. “I shall marry you.”

Jeonghan’s expression settles into something unreadable, a flicker of surprise replaced by the slightest tilt of a smile. He inclines his head, the elegant motion drawing him closer, as though sealing the moment between you.

“A wise decision, Miss Xu,” he murmurs, his gaze never leaving yours. The sounds of the garden around you blur into silence, the perfume of roses and night-blooming jasmine heavy on the air, and though the world presses on with its merriment, this quiet promise, made in the hush of the queen’s garden, feels irrevocable.

Tagging: @kibs-and-bits@moondustmemories@shinwonderful@ivehypnosis@gwend0lyne@thestoryofana13@mellowamour@blissedjoon@begentlewithme-please @xabsolutelynothingx @reiofsuns2001 @mngyulvrs @mooniewrld @archivistworld @lexyraeworld @ateez-atiny380 @walkinganxiety01 @lovecleastrange @uriguyeok @nenojaems @carefully325 @meowmeowminnie @ts19009 @flickhurstyles

119 notes · View notes

thelonelyarchon · 1 year ago

Text

📮RETURN TO SENDER ᯓᡣ𐭩

014 - his love letter

warning/s: alhaitham's actions being questionable, fluff? (his letter), grammatical errors

As you hit the “tweet now” button, you wait for the floodgates of questions and shocked replies to fill your notification bar. A chuckle escaped your lips as you twirled the letter by holding its ribbon.

You knew they were hungry for your reply. You could technically smell the desperation and eagerness of the people following you both, and you were glad to see that your instincts were right because after a few moments the comments on your last post had filled up with people oogling and frothing at the mouth.

“ALHAITHAM!?”

“THAT’S ALHAITHAM’S SIGNATURE!”

“So it’s true that Alhaitham sent her a letter!? HOW ROMANTIC!”

"I never thought that cold hearted model would like someone like her."

You let out a melodic laugh in response to their shocked reactions. You shake your head, your mind still hazy and your heart still pounding in your chest.

It’s been forty minutes since Alhaitham dropped you off your dorm and Hu Tao was there to greet you. She didn’t pry when she saw how your face was practically a shade darker with how flushed it was or how you were practically bouncing as you walked towards the mail box.

As soon as you arrived, you dove into the pile of letters on your desk. Most of them were from universities around Teyvat, but your eyes were locked on finding one.

Alhaitham’s letter.

“Aha!” You exclaimed as you found the elegantly wrapped letter. It even has a seal on it! He didn’t have to be so extra with it, but it made your heart swell. As a fan of love letters, his thoughtfulness and careful planning made it obvious that he valued this particular letter and your hands were itching to read it.

But you reminded yourself to remain calm. Carefully peeling off the seal and unraveling the ribbon that tied the envelope, you read his letter with a bated breath.

Dear [Name],

I am ashamed to write this letter for a reason which may come as a surprise to you. Before you begin to assume that I wrote this letter because I felt the need to write back to you after the one you gave me, I would gladly say it is not as I have already given you my reply to that particular letter. For this letter… I have written on my own accord to inform you of my intentions.

Truthfully, I do not know how to write a proper love letter. As you can see, my words are rather… stiff and too formal, is it not? I tried following your videos to see if it could help soften my tone when writing to you, but as you can see it hasn’t and you may have to deal with this hahaha.

I have written too much already. So I’ll make this quick.

[Name], admittingly I read your letter and replied to it without giving it a proper thought and I am well aware that I have hurt you unintentionally. Back then, I know you. But now that I have gotten a glimpse of you back at the show last spring, in the spirit of “first love’s” and whatnot, I decided to give you and I a decent shot.

I asked myself, “what am I afraid of trying?” I know that love isn’t my strongest pursuit, but with you, if you allow, I may understand myself a bit further and I may learn to give you that kind of love which you yearn from me.

Though I have to warn you… with the way that I am, whatever relationship we may create may be short lasting. However short lasting it may be though, rest assured that it will be worth your time. So please… I hope you consider this.

May I court you, [Name]? I would like to get to know you better.

Sincerely,

Alhaitham

P.s. Do you like my letter? I re-wrote this three times and asked Kaveh to help me. I hope you don’t mind that he knew of its content first before you. Also… I realized after writing this letter that I do not despise writing love letters. I simply did not have a chance to write one. I find that it’s my favorite way of correspondence. I do not mind receiving more of it, especially if it’s from you.

The edges of the paper have began to fray a little as your clammy hand held it as you read through its contents over and over again. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to sleep after this.

But one thing’s for sure is that Alhaitham has a way with words. Though he may seem too formal and stiff to your liking, there is beauty and eloquence beneath it that draws you in and makes your heart flutter.

You resigned to your doomed fate as you dramatically sigh and laid down on the couch. You were sure that the feelings you’ve long buried for Alhaitham have resurfaced once again.

prev | masterlist | next

TAGLIST: @makimakimi @yura-4life @matchablossomsss @kookiibun @ayanokomu @ilikecoffeejelly @aixaingela

#lily's corner | soc med au 🧸☁️₊˚⊹⋆#genshin impact #genshin men #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x reader fic #alhaitham #alhaitham x femreader #al haitham #alhaitham x reader socmed au #genshin socmed au #socmed au #social media au #genshin #alhaitham x y/n #alhaitham x female reader #alhaitham x reader angst

93 notes · View notes

cheralith · 3 months ago

Text

𝟎𝟏 : 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐬 tabiali — entry one ... "colour in your step, let me lose your mind."

feat. karasu tabito || wc: 1.7k contains: self-shipping content so there are elements from my own life, but can be read as an x-reader, use of she/her pronouns, terribly ooc karasu at the end so sorry

The city is clogging.

It's just a mess of grey matter that splatters itself everywhere he looks, trailing him akin a phantom. Rough smoke coughed out from cars, stony buildings that tower over, cracked concrete for horizons... there is just always the haunting unsaturated hue spaced at every corner Tabito looks towards that inches down the feeling of concern that planted itself within him when he first arrived to the city. It feels more like a weed is sprouting in him rather than something more whole and beautiful, unwanted and untamed.

It doesn't help that the city is roofed with clouds of taupe that veil the sun from view, a dense and thick hazy ceiling of sorts that make him feel more closed in than he is already.

Despite the hustle and bustle of everyday people he passes and whatever their business is, Tabito thinks that the city is much more lonely than the countryside. People are artificial and keep to themselves, screwing on false smiles just to go about their day to their own accord. Nothing about the city life seems nurturing.

It isn't unlike his city in Osaka, where everywhere feels homely and your name (not the fake ones that people often give baristas to spare them the humiliation of a misspell) is known by at least five different families. It felt easy to live in such a place; the same old shops with the same old stuff on the same old roads, Tabito was comforted by the ease in knowing his hometown and not having to use a stupid GPS for a five-minute walk to get somewhere so he doesn’t end up in a strange alley again.

There was actual color too—real color made by Mother Nature herself and not just the speckles and splashes of the occasional graffiti art on a formerly naked wall. He loved the lush blades of dewed green grass that prismed the nurturing shades of the sky casted by the sun especially, and people wearing colorful homemade clothing crafted with love and intent; not just the same mass-manufactured black and white uniforms that he often sees people don.

Even though he wears something like it right now to disguise the fact he's a not a native.

A country transplant is what his neighbors said the city folk may tease him about being. Karasu insisted that he could just cover up his accent to blend in, so Mama told him to try and do a city-folk accent, one that makes them to pronounce vowels too hard and consonants too soft.

"May ah please havuh... er... have a cuppa cauwfee?" he had attempted to iterate much to his family's delight. "Weather's lookin' real peachy—ah, I mean... good... terday." He gave up quickly, realizing his accent was much too dense and that it was just better to flaunt it.

So as a layer of protection, before any of his finer details leak out, he uses the same jacket, the same jeans, the same hats, and the same shoes that he sees everyone in the city wear to make himself blend in. Nothing good comes out of people knowing you're not a native, anyways, Mama says that you're easy to take advantage of if you look like you don't know your way around.

It's a mediocre way of living yes, but it's safe. And right now, Tabito just needs safety to help him secure his new life in the city.

He camouflages himself in the monochromatic crowd, the grey clouds having no trace of the morning light and it looks more like it's half past two in the afternoon rather than the cracking minutes of eight in the morning. This is a life he'll have to get used to for a few months until spring blooms—waking up to grey skies, looking out his office window into grey nothingness, and going home under ink-blotted grey clouds until the night sky spills over.

And even if he attempts search for those mischievous twinkling of stars, he won't be able to. Light pollution is a bastard, he thinks. He'll have to settle for the street lamps, the taillights of cars, and the lit offices of whoever decides to torture themselves with overtime.

A coffee helps alleviate the pain of the mundane, a spike of energy to wake him up and actually help him live as a human and not some corporate cog in a machine that needs oiling.

Tabito examines the crowd in front of him and across the street from him. It's all the same as always. Speckles of black, white, grey... maybe the occasional beige of a trenchcoat, but that's the most color he'll get for this morning...

... until a flash of red speeds by him suddenly, brushing his shoulder.

His eyes automatically land on it. It passes by so swiftly, but the shade is so violently red, it's hard to miss it in a crowd as dull as this one. Tabito attempts to fix itself on the green blur of the crowd, but it escapes before he has a chance to dehaze his vision.

He blinks. Then shakes it off. Whatever.

He stalks himself off into a corner that leads to his typical cafe, dulled indigo gaze focused on the ground in front of him until he looks up and comes to face-to-face with the shade of red again.

It's plastered on worn-out peplum leather jacket that lays on the back of a woman who hums to herself as she focuses her gaze on the menu above. Behind her, Tabito stares at the shade of red and how much it contrasts against the minimalistic cafe's environment, finding it rather astonishing. Striking, slightly-patchy plum dyed hair brushes against it that adorns a cream white headband bringing another spotlight of color into his vision.

"Matcha... lavender match a..." the woman mumbles, bringing a freshly-apricot manicured nail to her lips blotted with a rosy mauve, her sky-blue jeaned legs crossing over each other. "Expensive... but alright."

Tabito thinks he looks a little foolish standing right next to such an oddish rainbow of a human, how boring he looks standing right next to here as he'll order a boring iced americano to-go. It's almost embarrassing and distasteful.

But not as distasteful as ordering... matcha out of all things. Liquified grass, he thinks, is not the best starter to the morning.

"One medium iced matcha latte with oat milk, please," the woman says to the cashier. "With less ice, if you can."

The price of the drink appears on the screen and he watches as the woman fumbles through a floral-printed crescent bag, assumingly for a wallet. To no avail, it seems, as she turns back to the cashier with what he thinks may be a guilty look.

"I-I'm so sorry, I must've left my wallet at my—"

The cashier breaks out into a grin and shakes her head. "No worries. Don't worry about it. We're trying to get rid of our matcha supply anyway."

A lucky day for her, huh?

"You're so sweet," she breathes out with relief. "I swear I'll be here again tomorrow to pay you back. Thank you..."

The cashier tells her not to dawdle on it again and that it's on the house before repeating her order back to her just to recover its details and Tabito pulls a face when the cashier mentions matcha again.

How the hell do people drink that stuff? he purses his lips in.

Suddenly, the woman turns around, gold-flecked eyes wide behind olive-rimmed square glasses. Tabito jumps slightly at her oddish gaze, trying not to admire it.

Oh... did he say that out loud? Oh no.

You blink at him owlishly, raising a brow. "Well, it's not your order, is it?" she remarks.

Oh, so he did. Whoops.

Shoot. Where does he go from here?

The answer spills from his lips faster than he can catch it, his natural snark as a defensive mechanism slipping through. A scoff coughs out from his throat, one of the corners of his lips lifting ever so slightly to display a smirk that he doesn't want to put on his face.

"Sorry. Just didn't know that people like drinking liquid grass."

He twitches and fights the urge to slap a palm over his hand. What the hell is he saying?! It's like there was an alter-ego pulling the strings inside his body, marionetting his jaw.

This time, both of your brows pull upwards, a little shocked at his nerve. His face says desperation—something sharp and what attempts to be blistering.

Your eyes narrow. "So there's this thing called 'having different tastes'? I don't know if people from where you're from have ever heard of it, but..." you falter mockingly, giving him another look.

He flushes deeply, his accent clearly indicating that he's not from around these here parts. He supposes that no matter how good of a job he does at physically disguising himself as another, the traces of his origin will always linger with him, whether he likes it or not.

Tabito feels himself regaining his body back, and he tries to catch himself before he tumbles even further than he already has. But you sigh out and exit the line, sparing him another side-eye as you mumble something about going back home quickly before the train comes.

He wants to try and say something to excuse whatever possessed him to spill out something so impulsive, but you've already vanished from his point of view, color draining from his world again.

The cashier says he's next.

Tabito moves forward miserably, returning to his world of grey again.

His apartment complex is grey. The elevator doors are silver that lead into a paled walls with some iron handles bolted onto them. The buttons are grey, as well as the floor numbers.

The numbers that slowly ascend to each floor are flickered with white on a blank screen. His monochromatic world manages to bleed into the safety of his home, a quiet telling of how this will be his life in the city, so he might as well touch it in every aspect—quiet, boring, and dull.

Even the floor of where he resides is this sickeningly white hardwood, where it looks less like an apartment complex and more of a hospital ward. Tabito sighs as he enters into the hallway, trying to fight the urge to crash out until he lets himself into his apartment. The jangle of his keys twinkle out a melody dissonance as he juts it into the keyhole, ready to relax and wind down from another day of monotony.

But just as he feels the lock click, when Tabito looks down, there's a strike of color that hits his eyes.

On the white floor, near the door that sits to the right of his, is a small splotch of liquid.

And for some reason, Tabito has the sneaking suspicion that he knows what it is.

tags: @rroxii a/n: and out comes my first official yumeship thingy yayyy ! i wasnt thinking too hard about it and lowkey started getting lazy at the end but wtv.

#blue lock #bllk #karasu tabito #karasu #self ship #selfship #self shipping #yumeship #self ship community #❃ ; tabiali

23 notes · View notes

charliehoennam · 1 year ago

Text

cat-n-mouse

summary: David embarks on a chase and ends up with a date

pairing: David Loki x GN!Reader

warnings: questionable police procedures, language, mentions of drugs gif credit to the most amazing person in the world nd this whole fic is dedicated to you <3 @stephendorff

SHARING IS CARING, SO PLEASE REBLOG

"This is 13-40 responding. I'm 5 minutes from the park, I'll look into it. Stand by."

The call from dispatch was to send a unit to the local park after receiving a call about a mysterious person hanging around the area with possession of drugs; more specifically, marijuana.

David personally didn't care too much about this sort of misdemeanor. God only knows he had his good ol' days smoking pot back in high school and he figures this could just very well be a not very bright teenager.

Pulling into the parking lot, he climbs out of his unmarked vehicle and takes a look around the vast park.

At this time of day, people in the park isn't very common especially with the approaching winter weather that is fairly harsh on the people of Conyers.

The sun had already set, leaving a pale blue glow in the sky as dusk begins to cover the small town. The early winter evening darkens the naked trees against the sky, bringing a familiar sensation that you could never quite explain but admired nonetheless.

The abstract silhouettes of the woods became shadows as a shade of hazy gray covered the town, hypnotizing you as the warm sunset faded into dusk.

After roaming a bit, David spots you from a distance staring up at the haunting treeling. He watches and wonders if you were the one who made the call or if you were the one the call was about. Either way, he can't understand why anyone would stay out in this weather any longer than they had to.

Your tree-gazing is cut short when you catch the shape of this mysterious shadow from the corner of your eye; his stare boring a hole into your side. You can't tell who they are, but what you can tell is that it's the figure of a large strong man.

Slowly turning your head to look over at the stranger, the winter chill slithers up your spine and makes your hairs stand on end.

Even though you don't want selfishly assume anything or jump to any presumptuous conclusions, at the same time, you can't seem ignore the increasing sense of danger. Or his thick-browed stare which is fixed on you and it's intimidating enough to make you squirm.

Maybe it's the start of dusk or the unsettling silence that exudes an eerie energy from his presence. But, when he begins taking slow steps towards your direction, that's when you decide to it's time to leave.

You turn your gaze to the ground as you begin walking towards the park trail that leads back to the main road. Glancing over your shoulder, you realize the man is now following you.

The frozen earth crunching under your boots does nothing to ease the adrenaline that starts coursing through your tense body.

You become even more uncomfortable when his footsteps become audible, growing closer and closer.

Trying to pick your speed, you walk as fast as your legs allow you to. Your heart is thumping loudly in your head. Not enough to drown out the sound of his footsteps when he does the same to catch up with you.

Panic overtakes you. You try to hide until you suddenly burst into a spring, running down the pathway. You want to look back, but the fear pumping in your veins demands that you keep running.

"Hey!" The man shouts as he begins running after you, ensuing what is now a pursuit.

Being much taller and faster than you, he catches up eventually and tackles you down to the wet ground, forcing a grunt from your lungs as you land hard on your side.

"Get off me!" you plead trying to wriggle away from his grasp. "Help! Help!"

He ignores your cries as he forces you onto your front. There's no one in sight. Shouting is useless and, if you don't try to help yourself, no one will.

You're not going down without a fight.

A strong elbow to his gut is enough knock the air out of his chest and loosen him off of you, so you try to quickly spring to your feet. But it's no use. His hand quickly grabs at your legs, pulling you back down to the ground.

His large frame overpowers you and he holds your hands behind your back. Metallic sounds ring from behind you as handcuffs lock around your wrists.

"Suspect is in custody" you frown as the man speaks into a walkie -talkie.

"Suspect?! You're a fucking cop?!"

"Get up," he orders breathlessly, ignoring your question as he climbs off you and forces you on to your feet.

"What the fuck are you even arresting me for?!"

"Whatever you were running for."

"I was running because you were fucking chasing me, you creep! You could've at least identified yourself! I wanna speak with your captain!"

In the back of his mind, he knows you're right. He didn't think about how freaky it could have seemed for you, being alone in the park with a stranger approaching you suddenly.

His body acted before his mind could process the protocols. Captain O'Malley is bound to rip him a new one for fucking up standard procedure.

He catches his breath in silence as he escorts you to his car for a pat-down. His guilt only grows when he doesn't find any illegal possessions on your person.

Your loud protests echo through the parking lot until he helps you into the backseat of his car.

He shuts the door to let you calm down and informs dispatch that back-up isn't necessary, assuring that everything is under control. Once your muffled ranting quietens down, he opens the door to talk.

"I need your name."

"Oh, sure. It's Y/F/N Go-fuck-yourself Y/L/N."

He repeatedly blinks hard before closing the door again and shares your name into the walkie-talkie, understanding why you're angry. He fucked up and it could cost him and the department, but as a cop, he knows he's entitled to stop and search given a certain level of suspicion. It doesn't mean he doesn't feel about giving you the scare of your life.

Looking through the belongings in your bag over the truck of his car, he locates your I.D to confirm your identification and shares the information with dispatch, who informs him that you have no warrants or any history of issues with the law, so he puts your things back into your bag and walks over to open the car door once more.

"Am I under arrest?" you ask impatiently as he helps you out and positions you against the cold surface to release you from the cuffs.

"No, you're not. I apologize for the scare. We got a call about a mysterious person lingering around the park with drugs and it's obviously not you."

"You can't just treat people like they're all criminals, you know."

"I'm sorry. If you'd like my badge number, you can make an official complaint at the station."

Although you know you probably should, there's a glint of guilt in his eyes that beg you not to. And, looking at him much closer and under the bright street light, you realize where you recognize him from.

"Aren't you the cop that found those little girls? The Thanksgiving kidnappings?"

"I was assigned to the case."

"I remember. I saw you on the TV," you nod with a pause. "I'm not gonna file a complaint, alright? Just don't chase people without any cause at night. It's fucking creepy."

"I'll make sure to identify myself next time. But, just out of curiosity, the fuck are you doing out here? It's cold as shit."

His big blue eyes narrow at you as you rub the soreness from your wrists.

"I cut through the park on my way home from work."

"It's not a very safe route this time of year. Empty and far like this..."

"Yeah, I didn't realize that until you tried to kidnap me."

"I wasn't kidnapping you. Although, I understand how you would have that impression in hindsight and I really am sorry about it. Why don't I give you a ride home? Make sure you get home safe?"

You look towards the road and think about how far you still are from your house. After the scare you just had, walking home alone in the dark doesn't seem very appealing.

Your gaze moves to the badge on his hip. You remember what your uncle taught you when you were younger: how to tell apart a fake badge and a real one.

"Yeah, alright."

You climb into the passenger seat as he opens the door for you and settle inside with your bag on your lap. Once he's back in the driver's seat, you tell him your address and he starts the drive there.

"I heard you're a tough cop. Made that boy kill himself."

He stays silent and glances at you guiltily.

"That never shoulda happened."

"But it did."

"I had two missing little girls to find. My methods may have been questionable, and I was reprimanded for them. But there's no excuse for them. And the girls were safely found alive. That's all I cared about."

You watch as he blinks nervously. He doesn't seem like an intentional asshole. You've met plenty of them to tell them apart. Despite his social awkwardness, he seems like a sound-minded guy.

"I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job. You seem like the kinda cop that actually cares about his victims. 'm just saying, not everyone is a suspect."

He nods silently with another firm blink. You sound just like O'Malley.

The rest of the drive to your house is quiet. The car rolls to a stop in the driveway, so you unbuckle your seatbelt and thank him for the ride.

"Just do me a favor and take Norma Lane next time? It's safer and busier this time of night."

"Fine. Just as long as you promise you won't go randomly kidnapping innocent people."

"I wasn't kidnapping you."

"Could've fooled me" you smirk jokingly at him, reaching for the door handle. "Thanks again for the ride."

"You uh think I could maybe get your number?"

"Seriously?"

"Just in case I need to bring you in for questioning or something?" he tries to smile slyly. "I'd like to make it up to you."

"You take everyone you falsely arrest out on dates to make it up to them?"

His cheeks turn a shade of pink as he looks away from your mischievous gaze.

"Not everyone, no."

"Well, I guess it's only fair" you nod unable to fight back a smile as he takes his phone out. "I mean, I don't really date cops but I could make an exception. I think I'm entitled to some compensation."

"I couldn't agree more" he chuckles handing you his phone, open to a new contact screen. "Although you did give me a mean elbow to the ribs that's probably gonna bruise."

"You deserved it," you smirk as you finish punching in the numbers to your cell phone. "You'd better call, Detective Loki."

He frowns curiously, trying to remember if he'd told you his name earlier but he can't remember if he did.

"How do you know my name?"

"Saw it on the news back in December. I have a good memory for names. Besides, Loki is a pretty cool one. Hard to forget."

"Makes sense" he smiles impressed. He admires the fact that you're smart enough to look out for yourself.

"Don't break my heart, detective" you smirk climbing out of his car.

As you walk up to the front entrance, you don't miss how he waits until you're safe inside to start the car back up and pull out of your driveway.

Despite the rocky introduction, you enjoy the way he made you feel safe. You just know you won't be able to stop thinking about him all night.

As you go on about your routine, settling in on the couch with a plate of dinner, getting ready to watch your favorite TV show, your phone flashes with a text.

"Now you have my number too. Better call me, Y/L/N."

#david loki #david loki x reader #david loki x y/n #david loki x you #detective david loki #prisoners imagine #prisoners fic #prisoners fanfiction #jake gyllenhaal

130 notes · View notes

inkedwithcharm · 1 month ago

Text

The Places I Loved You | Kim Taehyung

Pairing:

Kim Taehyung × Reader (Y/N)

Genre:

Slow Burn · Romance · Drama · Poetic Fiction · Self-Discovery · Travel Fiction · Emotional Healing · Bittersweet to Hopeful · Soulmates AU

Summary:

She left behind everything she knew — chasing silence, beauty, and a self she had long forgotten.

He was never part of the plan.

But some hearts find their way back through cities, through seasons, through the quiet.

When the world teaches you how to let go…

What do you do with a love that refuses to be left behind?

Chapter One: Tuscany’s Quiet

The streets of Tuscany were made of uneven stones and second chances.

Y/N walked them slowly, like someone unsure of the earth beneath her feet. Her boots pressed quietly into the cobblestone, the rhythm of her steps lost to the humming of far-off bells and the soft chatter of strangers. Her suitcase, the same one from a wedding she never made it to, rolled behind her like an old ghost.

She hadn’t planned much. Just the flight, and a small house with olive-green shutters that looked like it had been painted by time itself.

The landlord was a woman named Signora D’Alessio, who wore perfume that smelled like citrus and sorrow. She had handed over the keys without much talk, only glancing at Y/N’s face for a long moment before saying:

“Sometimes the heart needs new language. Here, we speak through bread and wine.”

Y/N didn’t speak much at all those first few days.

Instead, she filled the silence with movement. She cooked for one. She drank espresso so bitter it made her eyes water. She scribbled into her notebook with frantic grace, as if every word she wrote could sew something inside her back together.

But mostly, she walked.

The town was ancient and aching. It smelled of rosemary, melted cheese, and sun-warmed terracotta. Children kicked faded soccer balls past crumbling fountains, and old men played cards in the shade, arguing like brothers who’d done it for a lifetime.

She watched them the way someone watches the sea—longingly, without expectation.

One night, she took a wrong turn and found herself near an abandoned chapel, its arches broken, its roof devoured by ivy. The moon was silver and forgiving, and she sat down on the cold steps, clutching her coat tighter.

Her journal fell open on her lap.

“How do you unlearn a person?”

“I keep hearing his name in the clink of dishes, the silence after laughter, the spaces in between languages.”

She paused.

And then, almost accidentally, she smiled. It was the first in weeks. Not because she was happy, but because the pain was softening—melting like ice in spring.

Just then, a voice broke the hush.

“You dropped this.”

She looked up. A shadow stepped into the light—a tall man with dark curls falling over his brow and an old camera slung around his neck. His clothes were loose, worn-in like he’d lived a thousand lives inside them.

He extended her scarf.

She hadn’t even realized she dropped it.

His accent was soft, hard to place—Korean, maybe, but draped in the calm rhythm of someone who’d been away from home for too long.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He nodded but didn’t move. His gaze lingered on her journal. “You write?”

“A little.”

He smiled like he didn’t believe her. “Writers always say that.”

She wanted to ask his name, but didn’t.

Instead, he turned toward the chapel, took a photo, and then—without another word—walked away, vanishing into the olive trees like a sigh.

Later, she would learn that his name was Kim Taehyung.

That he was an artist who painted with silence and light.

That he had been in Tuscany longer than most tourists stayed, waiting for something he couldn’t name.

But that night, all she knew was that something had shifted.

A thread pulled taut in her soul loosened, ever so slightly.

And for the first time in a long while…

she didn’t feel quite so alone.

The week passed in soft hours and olive light.

Tuscany bloomed around Y/N like an old, patient song. The mornings were hazy and gold-drenched, the afternoons bright and full of honeyed laughter echoing from the windows of warm kitchens. Evenings arrived like lovers — slow and deliberate, touching every leaf, every breath, with tenderness.

Y/N filled her days with small rituals:

Coffee at the corner café where no one asked her name.

Sketches in the margins of her journal.

Conversations with herself in half-learned Italian.

She was healing, though she would never have called it that.

She was simply… becoming quieter.

Until one Thursday — the kind that forgets it’s part of the week — she returned to the old chapel.

She hadn’t meant to.

Her feet just… wandered. The way hearts do, when they miss something they never understood.

It was empty again. Just the crumbling stone, the ivy, the hush of wind slipping through broken glass. She sat where she had last seen him — the stranger with the quiet voice and camera eyes.

Taehyung.

She had looked him up. Asked around.

Not much was known. Some said he lived in the villa just beyond the vineyard. Others said he was always leaving. Always arriving.

An artist, someone whispered. A painter, someone else.

A boy who speaks like dusk, who draws like rain.

She was scribbling something senseless — a poem about silence — when the world shifted again.

Footsteps.

She didn’t turn right away. But the air told her before sound did.

“Twice in one lifetime,” came the same warm voice. “That must mean something.”

She looked up.

Taehyung stood there — this time wearing a loose white linen shirt, paint smudges on his wrists. The setting sun caught the shadows of his lashes. A camera still hung around his neck, swaying softly.

“You found me again,” she said.

He smiled. “I didn’t find you. You came back.”

She closed her journal and hugged it to her chest, unsure why her heart began to stir. Like it recognized something her mind hadn’t yet caught up to.

He didn’t sit. Just wandered near the wall, grazing the stone with curious fingers.

“I come here to listen,” he said. “Ruins are honest. They don’t pretend.”

She tilted her head. “What do they say?”

“That everything breaks eventually. But look—” He pointed at the ivy creeping toward the light. “Something always grows back.”

Y/N wanted to speak, but didn’t. Her breath caught in her throat like a memory.

Instead, she asked, “Why Tuscany?”

Taehyung gave a soft laugh — like a secret slipping free.

“I was painting in Florence. Then I stopped. Couldn’t paint anything but clouds.” He looked up at the sky like it might answer him. “So I left. Thought maybe the countryside could remind me what it means to be still.”

A pause. Then, softly:

“And you?”

She hesitated. Words lined up in her chest like birds unsure if they should take flight.

“I left a life that wasn’t mine anymore,” she whispered. “And I’m trying to… unlearn it.”

He finally sat, not beside her but close enough that she could smell the faintest hint of turpentine and citrus.

They didn’t speak for a while. Just sat there — two strangers wrapped in the golden hush of a fading day. Swallows flew overhead, tracing invisible songs in the sky.

Taehyung’s camera clicked once, then again. She glanced at him.

“You photograph ruins?”

“People in them,” he replied. “They don’t notice they’re also crumbling. Or rebuilding.”

A slow silence spread between them — not awkward, not heavy. Just full.

Full of things unsaid.

He leaned back on his hands. “What do you miss most from the life you left?”

Y/N’s gaze wandered to the horizon. Her voice came like a sigh.

“Being understood without having to explain myself.”

Taehyung didn’t respond right away. Then:

“Maybe you weren’t misunderstood. Just unheard.”

That sentence stayed in her ribs long after he stood to leave.

“I’m painting tomorrow,” he said, brushing dust off his pants. “At the old vineyard by the stone well. You can come. Or don’t. Up to you.”

And with that — no goodbye, no question — he was gone again. Like the breeze before rain.

She found herself at the vineyard the next day.

She told herself she came for the view. For the wildflowers that whispered in every language. But she knew. And the knowing made her breath tighten in her chest.

Taehyung was there, sitting cross-legged in the dirt, a canvas spread across his knees. He didn’t look up when she arrived.

Instead, he pointed to a basket beside him.

“Fig bread. Wine. You came just in time.”

She sat on the grass.

For hours, they said little. He painted. She read. Sometimes she would steal glances — at his hands, his jaw, the way the sunlight lingered on his cheek like it adored him.

At one point, he asked, “What’s your favorite sound?”

She thought for a moment.

“Pages turning. Rain on rooftops. The sound of feet on old wooden floors.”

He smiled, still painting. “You speak like you write poetry when no one’s watching.”

She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “And you? What’s yours?”

He dipped his brush, then answered without looking at her.

“Still water. Because it carries everything, but says nothing.”

They met again. And again.

Some days it was under the ruined arches. Other times it was just passing in town. They never made plans. Never exchanged numbers. But the rhythm found them, like tides do shorelines.

And slowly, unknowingly, she began to laugh again.

Not because the world had changed.

But because someone had met her where she was — not to fix her, not to find her, but to see her.

And sometimes, that is the greatest beginning of all.

Tuscany had stopped feeling foreign.

It wasn’t home, not exactly—but it no longer pressed against Y/N like a language she couldn’t speak. She moved through the days as if the earth beneath her had softened, letting her walk without apology.

And still, without ever meaning to,

she kept finding him.

Sometimes by accident, sometimes like fate pretending not to try too hard.

Like on the fourth day, when she wandered into the quiet courtyard of a bookstore that smelled of parchment and rosemary. The back wall was covered in postcards and poems written by strangers.

And there he was—Taehyung—kneeling to read one pinned near the bottom.

He looked up, unsurprised.

“You came to visit the quiet too?”

She smiled. “Always.”

He stood, brushing dust from his knees. “There’s a poem here you’d like.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You think you know my taste?”

“No,” he said softly. “I think I’m beginning to know your silence.”

She blinked. Her heart stuttered the way it only does when someone says something both terrifying and true.

He handed her the postcard. The words were handwritten in faded ink:

“You don’t need to be whole to be held.

Some arms understand how to cradle even the broken parts.”

She didn’t speak. Only exhaled.

He watched her like a painter studies light—carefully, reverently.

Then, as if afraid of the moment becoming too loud, he changed the subject.

“There’s a market in the village square tomorrow,” he said. “Come with me?”

She did.

The market was loud and alive with color. Children chasing each other between stalls. Strings of garlic and figs, the scent of thyme in the air.

Taehyung didn’t rush. He moved like someone who trusted time, who spoke to vendors like old friends, who touched fruit like it had feelings.

He handed her a slice of peach from a wrinkled old man’s stall.

She bit into it.

“Oh,” she breathed. “It tastes like summer was forgiven.”

Taehyung laughed, eyes crinkling. “See? Poetry.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “Don’t make fun.”

“I’m not,” he said. “You carry softness like armor. I think that’s brave.”

Y/N stared at him. Her fingers tightened around the paper bag in her hand.

He didn’t mean to disarm her. That was the worst part.

He was just… honest. Like morning light.

They sat on the edge of the fountain, listening to the accordion player nearby. Pigeons wandered fearlessly at their feet. Someone was singing in Italian. It didn’t matter what the words meant—it was the way they were sung.

Y/N looked at Taehyung. “Do you believe we meet people for a reason?”

He tilted his head. “Sometimes I think people are places. Some we pass through. Some stay inside us like cities.”

She watched him trace invisible shapes on the rim of the fountain.

“And what about you?” she asked. “What kind of place are you?”

His voice came low. “Still under construction.”

They didn’t speak for a while. The kind of pause that holds more meaning than language allows.

Another afternoon, he showed her his paintings.

They weren’t in a gallery or a proper studio. Just a sun-warmed room in a crumbling villa, where the windows had no glass and the floor smelled faintly of turpentine and old dreams.

“Don’t expect realism,” he warned.

She didn’t.

And yet—what she saw left her breathless.

His canvases were wild with texture. Not just images, but feelings.

Storms caught mid-motion. Grief without faces. Light blooming in unlikely corners.

One painting in particular stopped her. It was abstract—mostly shadows—but in the center was a single thread of white.

It reminded her of hope, the kind that survives without asking for much.

“What is this one called?” she whispered.

He hesitated.

“You,” he said. “But I painted it before I met you.”

She turned to him slowly. His expression was unreadable.

“I think I was waiting for someone to match it,” he said. “I didn’t know it was you until now.”

Y/N looked back at the painting, unsure if her hands were trembling or if it was just the air between them.

She felt seen. Not in the spotlight way. In the way flowers feel when turned toward the sun.

Evenings became their rhythm.

They’d walk without speaking. Sit under fig trees. Share sips of wine and stories in pieces, like scattered puzzle edges.

She told him about the boy she almost married. How love had turned into obligation. How some silences became prisons.

He told her about his mother’s quiet illness. How he lost his brother’s voice to war. How sometimes, beauty was the only thing left to believe in.

And every time their stories spilled, they caught each other gently.

Never too much.

Just enough.

One night, under a sky so clear it hurt, they found themselves lying in the vineyard grass.

The stars were uncountable. The moon was a soft witness.

Taehyung’s voice was a thread. “When I was a child, I thought stars were tiny holes poked into heaven so the souls could look down.”

She smiled. “And now?”

He turned his head toward her. His face was a whisper away.

“Now I think they’re the parts of us we leave behind in others. Every time we touch someone without meaning to.”

Y/N exhaled slowly.

“And what part of you would I carry?” she asked.

He was quiet.

Then:

“The part that still believes softness can survive.”

And beneath that sky, neither moved closer.

Because some moments don’t need to end in kisses.

Some are sacred in their restraint.

But her dreams that night were full of stars.

And in all of them, he was there.

It was the kind of late September morning that tasted like lullabies.

The sun had risen shyly, dusting the hills with a kind of light that made even the stones seem holy. The vineyard shimmered in a lazy breeze, and time, as it often did around Taehyung, forgot how to move in straight lines.

Y/N stood barefoot in the kitchen of the little guesthouse she had rented for the season. There was flour on her fingers, fig preserves open beside an empty plate, and music drifting in from the garden—Debussy, maybe. Or something with no name, just feeling.

She hadn’t invited him.

But when she heard the soft knock—one, two—she didn’t flinch.

She already knew it would be him.

Taehyung, in a slate-gray shirt, hair unbrushed, camera slung across his back like a memory. He held a small bundle in both hands.

“For you,” he said, offering it.

Inside: fresh lavender, tied with gold thread.

“They reminded me of you,” he said, glancing down at her fig-stained apron. “Soft. A little wild. And they linger long after they leave.”

She flushed. “I don’t know how to respond to that.”

“You don’t have to,” he said gently. “Just keep them somewhere close.”

They sat outside on the steps, knees close but not touching.

He tore bread. She poured tea. The world turned slowly.

Taehyung told her about the dream he’d had: a child standing at the edge of the sea, asking the tide if it would ever come back.

“I think it was about my brother,” he said.

Y/N didn’t speak. She only reached for his wrist—not to hold, not yet—but just to let her fingers hover there. The closeness was enough.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered.

But she did.

“I know what it’s like to keep talking to someone who isn’t here anymore. Hoping the silence answers back.”

Their eyes met then—not in the obvious way, but deeply, like books finding the missing page in each other’s spine.

The next days passed in their now-familiar rhythm.

Not lovers. Not strangers. Something between.

They’d meet at odd hours. Walk without purpose.

Once, they visited a church with no ceiling—just open sky.

Y/N stared upward. “I like that the prayers have no roof. Nothing between them and the stars.”

Taehyung smiled. “I like that you say things like that without realizing how beautiful they are.”

She looked at him then—really looked.

And it wasn’t about how handsome he was, though he was. It was how he existed. Present. Observant. Gentle. A rare kind of man who listened not to reply, but to understand.

On the seventh evening, the clouds finally broke.

It rained the way grief sometimes does—sudden, without warning, but cleansing.

They took shelter in an old greenhouse Taehyung had once used as a studio. It smelled of moss and old paint, and the vines had started to reclaim the glass from the outside.

Y/N stood by the window, watching droplets race each other down the pane.

He stood behind her, close enough to feel the warmth of her spine.

“I used to be afraid of storms,” she said quietly.

“And now?”

“I think they’re just the sky remembering how to cry.”

He was silent for a moment. Then, behind her, she heard the softest exhale.

“I think I was a storm for a long time,” he said. “Until you walked in like stillness. And I realized I didn’t want to rage anymore.”

Her throat tightened.

She turned—but not fully. Just enough for her shoulder to meet his chest, enough for her to feel the beat of something steady in him.

He didn’t touch her. Not yet.

But there it was again—that nearness. That exquisite ache of something just about to begin.

Later, as the rain slowed to a whisper, Taehyung took her hand—not to kiss it, not to lead her anywhere. Just to feel it in his own.

He looked down at their joined palms like they were a painting. Something delicate. Unfinished.

And in the silence that followed, there was no confession.

Just this—

“Stay,” he whispered.

And she did.

Not for the night. Not for the promise of anything.

But because for the first time in years, she felt like she didn’t have to run to be free.

The vineyard had turned amber under October’s hush.

The days were shorter now, the light honeyed and slow, as though even the sun was reluctant to leave Tuscany behind.

That evening, the world felt particularly still. The wind moved like a whisper. The air, heavy with the smell of rain-soaked earth and drying fig leaves, clung to skin like memory.

Y/N hadn’t planned to see him.

But she wandered.

And found herself at his villa, where the windows were open and piano notes trickled into the dusk like falling petals.

She stood outside for a while, listening.

He didn’t know she was there.

Or maybe he did.

He opened the door as though he’d been expecting her all along.

“Come in,” he said, voice quiet.

No questions. No surprise.

Just that gaze that always seemed to strip past her surface.

Inside, the space was warm. A lamp glowed gold in the corner. His paintings leaned in clusters against the wall—unfinished and alive. There was a storm outside, just beginning. The shutters trembled in the wind.

He poured her wine. She didn’t drink it.

They sat on the floor.

There were no confessions. No sudden revelations.

Just her hand, moving slowly toward his—fingers curling around the soft edge of his knuckles.

“I feel like I’ve known you in a thousand unnamed lives,” she said softly. “But only now… have I touched you.”

Taehyung turned his palm, threading their fingers together.

“I’ve been waiting to be found.”

The first kiss didn’t land like lightning.

It arrived like moonlight—slow, deliberate.

His lips met hers as though asking a question, not assuming the answer. She sighed into it, her body instinctively tilting, heart pressed in quiet offering. His hand found her cheek, thumb brushing the curve beneath her eye. She leaned into his warmth.

She hadn’t been kissed like this in years.

Like the world wasn’t ending.

Like she wasn’t something to be fixed.

Somewhere between breaths and stillness, the kiss deepened.

She tasted red wine on his tongue. Earth on his skin. Silence in his exhale. He kissed her again—slower this time—until she was trembling, not from nerves, but from recognition.

There was no rush in him.

Only reverence.

Like she was a song he didn’t want to finish too soon.

They moved to the bedroom without speaking.

It was all wordless agreements—this is okay… this is wanted… this is safe.

He undressed her gently, reverently.

Her shirt peeled away like dusk. Her bra unclasped under his fingers like a secret. He looked at her—not just her body, but all of her.

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she breathed.

He smiled, touched her hip, and said softly, “Then we go slow.”

And he did.

Taehyung was not frantic, not hungry. He was intentional—every kiss, every glide of his hands over her ribs, her stomach, her thighs—was a prayer of presence.

His mouth found her collarbone, her shoulder, her wrist.

Like he was mapping the places where pain had once lived.

She reached for his shirt. He let her undress him too, piece by piece, until they were both bare—not just in skin, but in soul.

There was nothing rushed.

Only aching pauses between touches, the heat of their bodies drawing closer, the brush of her leg over his, the gasp she let out when his fingers found her, slow and certain.

He watched her—eyes full of awe, of wanting, of restraint.

And when she reached for him—quietly, needing him—he pressed his forehead to hers.

“Tell me what you need,” he said.

“You,” she whispered. “But like this. Not to be filled. Just… to be felt.”

And he entered her slowly.

It wasn’t just the joining of bodies.

It was the meeting of loneliness and longing. The touch that says: I see you. I choose you. I won’t break this.

She arched into him. He held her steady.

Their rhythm was gentle, like waves learning to touch shore.

There were no moans—just breath, shaky and sacred.

He kissed her through it—her lips, her neck, her chest. Her fingers gripped his back like something between prayer and anchor.

And when she came—softly, quietly—it wasn’t release.

It was arrival.

Taehyung followed moments later, burying his face into the crook of her neck, his body trembling as though he, too, had finally let go of something long held.

They stayed tangled like that for a long time.

Not speaking.

Just breathing in the shared quiet. Listening to the storm fade outside. His hand never left hers.

Later, as they lay facing each other in the afterglow, he whispered:

“You don’t scare me, you know.”

She blinked.

“Even the broken parts?”

He nodded. “Especially those.”

Y/N smiled, tears burning softly at the edges of her eyes.

And in the stillness, she felt it—

Not possession. Not passion. But peace.

The kind of peace that follows when you finally stop running.

Morning didn’t rush them.

It crept slowly through the old lace curtains, casting golden lines across the tangled sheets. The storm had passed. The sky outside was watercolor—faded blue with clouds like brushstrokes. From somewhere far off, birds sang the first fragile songs of a new day.

Y/N stirred first, her fingers flexing into warmth that was not just her own.

Taehyung lay beside her, still asleep.

His hair had fallen over his brow. One arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other sprawled gently across her waist. His breathing was deep, steady. He looked like someone mid-dream, or someone who had finally stopped carrying the weight of his ghosts.

Y/N didn’t move.

She just watched him—studied the soft shape of his mouth, the relaxed line of his jaw, the slow rise and fall of his bare chest. Something about the way he slept—unguarded, peaceful—sent a pang through her.

Was this how it felt to be seen and not feared?

To be wanted without expectation?

She wasn’t used to this kind of quiet joy.

It felt borrowed. Fragile.

Like if she breathed too loud, it might float away.

Eventually, he blinked awake—slowly, gently.

He smiled when he saw her. Not a grand smile, but one full of sleep and wonder.

“You’re still here,” he said, voice husky.

“I am.”

He reached up to touch her cheek, tracing the curve of her temple with his thumb.

“Good.”

They lay like that, cocooned in warmth, without needing to rush toward conversation. There were no declarations. No morning-after awkwardness. Just a shared understanding that something sacred had passed between them—and still lingered in the hush.

He made breakfast—eggs, fresh bread, roasted tomatoes. They sat barefoot on the back terrace, eating slowly, wrapped in his cardigan and the comfort of each other.

At one point, she asked, “Do you always wake up like that? Calm?”

He laughed, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Only when the person beside me doesn’t run.”

She tilted her head. “You’ve had people run?”

He nodded, eyes fixed on the vineyard below. “Sometimes because I let them. Sometimes because I didn’t know how to ask them to stay.”

Silence laced the space between them. She didn’t press further.

Instead, she reached for his hand.

Later that day, Y/N returned briefly to the guesthouse.

She said she needed to think.

Not because she regretted anything. But because the weight of emotion—of tenderness—had begun to press against the edges of her resolve.

There was a map laid across her desk. Kyoto circled in soft red pencil.

She had always intended to go there next.

Japan—the second “home” she hadn’t been to in years.

It had always been part of the plan.

But suddenly, the map didn’t feel like freedom.

It felt like leaving something unfinished.

That evening, Taehyung came to her.

She hadn’t called for him.

But there he was—on the stone steps again, a book of Rilke poems in his hand.

“I was going to leave this for you,” he said, holding it out.

She accepted it with a quiet smile.

Inside the cover was a folded note, written in his delicate script:

“If you go, take this.

And remember—

I knew your shadow,

but loved your light.”

Her hands trembled slightly as she closed the book.

“I haven’t said anything about leaving.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She looked away. “Kyoto was always part of it. I’m not done moving yet.”

“I know,” he said.

She braced herself for bitterness. For the sadness she’d seen in others—the disappointment that always came when someone couldn’t be kept.

But Taehyung only stepped closer, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“And I won’t ask you to stay,” he said.

Her eyes flicked up. “Why not?”

“Because people like us… we don’t bloom when we’re caged. We bloom when we’re followed gently. When we’re trusted to return.”

Y/N’s chest tightened.

“What if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll still be glad I knew you like this.”

That night, they didn’t sleep apart.

They lay close, their bodies fitting as if drawn by thread.

But it was different than the first time—less urgency, more depth. Every kiss was a promise. Every breath shared like a song with no chorus.

They didn’t speak of forever.

But in every slow touch, in every gasp, every whispered name between kisses—

—they spoke of now.

Of how rare and golden it is to be fully seen, fully held, and asked for nothing more than your truth.

The next morning, she began to pack.

He helped her fold her sweaters.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t ask her to change her mind.

But as she zipped the suitcase, he pressed something into her palm.

A small photo.

Them, seated by the sea, the ruins behind them. He must have taken it from his old film roll.

On the back, he had written:

“Somewhere in Kyoto,

under lanterns or sakura—

think of me.”

She folded it carefully. Slipped it into the inner pocket of her coat.

Then turned to him—eyes wet but steady.

“I’ll write.”

“I’ll read,” he said.

And as she stepped into the car, and the road began to bend away from him, she pressed her forehead to the glass and whispered:

“I hope you’re not a goodbye.”

*“And so she left—

not from absence of love,

but from the presence of it—

because love like this

doesn’t end in leaving.

It lingers

like lavender in old coats,

like names whispered into

still winds.”*

Chapter Two

#kim taehyung #taehyung #bts v #bts x reader #bts #romance #angst #bts fanfic #fanfic #bts fic #x reader #my fic #fic writing #fic rec #fiction #fic ref

11 notes · View notes