#queue the growing shadows in your mind

[boneblushed]

Labyrinth

Uh oh, I’m falling in love / Oh no, I’m falling in love again

synopsis you’re reunited with your ex-boyfriend, Rafe, at an Outer Banks wedding.

tags Rafe Cameron x fem!reader, exes to lovers, second chance romance, slowburn-ish, A LOT of angst, an equal amount of pining, an awful breakup but a wonderful reconciliation 💓

wc ~11k

“You look,” you murmur, squeezing Brooklyn’s shoulder gently, “perfect.”

She’s sitting in front of a round, gold-rimmed mirror, the windows on either side of her painting her skin a warm aureate. You stand in shadow behind her, the sunbeams unable to reach your pretty features. There’s a wistfulness to them that’s almost imperceptible.

Almost. If she weren’t your best friend, someone you’ve known since forever, she probably wouldn’t have noticed the way you were hiding from them. The smile on her face falters as she looks up at you through the mirror.

“Look,” she begins tentatively, frowning, “if this is too hard —”

“Do not,” you interrupt. You try for an encouraging smile; what you hope is an encouraging smile. “I’m totally fine, okay? I’m over it.”

A pause. Brooklyn’s reflection sends you a long, hard look. “No one would blame you if you weren’t.”

You know what that means, the insinuation behind her words: you were supposed to be the first one. It’s all anyone in the Figure Eight was saying when they first found out about your break-up: you’re meant for each other, though, we can’t imagine you not being a couple!

Well, neither could you, not that it really mattered. Six months on with half a heart and pulseless motive, you’ve come to realise that wretched pining comes at a costly price.

You can’t afford it anymore.

“I know,” you reply quietly.

The spaghetti strap of your cowl neck falls as you straighten, the periwinkle fabric shimmering forebodingly. An image of the Rafe you knew flashes in your mind, slipping it down to press a kiss on your skin. Your stomach drops.

“But I am,” you add, louder. As though you’re trying to convince yourself more than you are her. “I promise.”

Brooklyn stares at you for a long time before her gaze falls, acquiescing with a sigh. “I hate that you still don’t believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“That he could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve you.”

You bite back another wince, the fresh sting of forgotten feelings pricking at your eyelids. “I do believe it,” you say quietly. “I do. That’s what makes all of this so fucking hard — that I know we’re never getting a second chance. That he chose to throw all of it away and I’m never going to be able to forgive him for it.”

“You shouldn’t have to, though!”

“We were together for half our lives, Brooke!” You turn away from the mirror, taking in a jagged breath. “We — his mom had promised me her ring before she died, for God’s sake. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to walk away from what we had?”

A long pause. Brooke’s voice is gentle, but her words cut like a knife. “It’s not as though you had a choice, Y/N/N. He didn’t give you one.”

You look around at her, unshed tears making your pretty eyes shine. “What does it say about me that I’m no closer to accepting that than I was six months ago?”

“Babe.” A tear falls. Brooke’s features soften, and she pulls you into a tight hug, enough pressure to wring out the melancholy in your chest. “It says that you’re human.”

She rocks you for a moment before you’re forced to pull apart, a knock on the door breaking your reverie. “God,” you self-reproach, sending Brooklyn a watery smile. “I would find a way to make your day about me, wouldn’t I?”

“Maybe I should ditch Kelce,” Brooklyn replies faux-seriously, catching the stray tears wetting your lower lids. “We can elope or something.”

As though on queue, the Universe intervenes before she can go through with this idea. Perhaps it knows, having watched the pair of grow close throughout college, that there’s a part of her that really would call this all off if you asked her to.

“Sweetheart!” Comes Brooklyn’s father’s voice from behind the door, punctuated by the sharp rap of his knuckles. “It’s nearly time!”

The tension ebbs. Suddenly, everything about this wedding—the same one you’ve been helping her plan forever—becomes entirely too real. Your melancholia is a tide in this way, flowing forth and receding as its surroundings permit. Never fading away; ever-present. Though it may not be as unbearable now as it was when you first broke up, it lingers.

You’re afraid that it always will. You push down this fear like you’ve done every other.

Focus. Your eyes widen in anticipation, mirroring Brooklyn’s as they transform into nervous excitement.

“Come in!” Brooklyn calls anxiously, biting back a squeal. You’re grateful for the fact that you haven’t ruined her mood completely. “Oh my god. Oh my god!”

She stands up and turns around just as her father enters the room, his lined face shining with a wistful sense of happiness. As the atmosphere in the room shifts, she glances back at you, and your insides twist in cruel mocking. More repentant than jealous. I was supposed to be the first one.

You don’t let your expression falter. The first few chords of the processional float into the room through the ajar door, and you spring into action, smoothing out your dress and readjusting your bouquet of flowers.

“That’s my queue,” you say, squeezing her arm once more before slipping past her and her father.

In true Kook fashion, Brooklyn’s wedding ceremony is taking place on the Island Club green. Upon exiting the storage room you’ve transformed into a vanity, you find yourself in the entranceway that leads to the venue, the set-up just visible beyond its oak doors.

Benches of beige driftwood sit on either side of the aisle, twined with buttery white lilies and ivy-like viridescence. They face a brilliant floral wedding arch, where the officiant and Kelce stand talking in hushed whispers. And the sky above you is a vibrant, cloudless blue, golden sunlight fanning down upon the crowd, bathing them aureate.

In the beat that passes, you search for someone you shouldn’t.

The last time that you saw him, he was hunched over his father’s office desk. His eyes were bloodshot and his tired gaze dull; half-finished documents stared up at him in mocking, and a nagging ache was making home in his chest.

The week prior, you hadn’t seen much of each other. And it wasn’t as though he’d requested this space—he rarely did, rarely asked you for anything—you’d just taken it upon yourself to give it to him. Stay in control. If you proposed time apart before he did, maybe it would feel more deliberate; hurt less.

You were dead wrong.

“Look,” he sighs, this cruel, heavy sound that splices right through your chest, “I realise I’ve been neglecting our relationship a lot recently.”

“Yes,” you respond tentatively. “But you’ve been under a lot of pressure recently. I get it.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” He glances up at you through red-rimmed irises. “I… I don’t know how long it’ll be like this. With everything that’s happened… my dad dying, and me taking over the firm —”

“I’ve seen you through all of it,” you interrupt quietly, your voice cracking. “I’ve — no questions asked, I’ve done it. I get it, Rafe, you’ve got different priorities at the moment. But we’ve loved each other for so long now that I —”

“But that’s the thing,” he says then, swallowing hard, “I just don’t know if I do anymore. Not as much as I used to.”

The silence that follows feels as though it’s suffocating you. You haven’t said a word, and Rafe’s said plenty, but it’s you with the lungs that heave for loveless oxygen.

“Oh.”

Rafe’s Adam’s apple jumps again, and he breaks eye contact as unshed tears brim to the surface. “I’m sorry.”

It doesn’t make any sense.

“Maybe,” you try, grappling hard for a logical explanation, “maybe your grief’s fucking with your ability to feel anything.”

Rafe’s gaze lifts to your face again, teardrop tracks making your pretty cheeks shine. His heart aches, hard, and he finds it difficult to catch his breath. “But… I’ve dealt with it,” he says quietly. “I’ve had to.”

“How can you have?” You throw back, exasperated. “Rafe you — you haven’t had a moment to yourself since his funeral last month, you’ve holed yourself up in his office and acted like everything’s fucking okay!”

“Because it is!” He replies, his face hardening momentarily. “I’m — I’m fucking fine, alright? I just need to be alone right now.”

“Because you don’t love me anymore.”

Rafe winces. Your lower lip trembles. “Yeah. Because something’s missing… the — the fucking spark, or whatever… and right now, I can’t give you the sort of love you deserve.”

He was tired of hurting you through his abjection, he’d said. As if breaking things off wasn’t the most hurtful thing he ever did.

Thankfully, you aren’t able to spot him in the crowd; if you had, walking down the aisle would have been infinitely more difficult. Out of courtesy to you—and Brooke forcing his hand, of course—he hadn’t asked Rafe to be a groomsman either, so you were well safe from an untimely encounter at pre-wedding festivities. And from standing opposite him in front of the altar. You aren’t sure such close proximity in holy matrimony would be healthy for either of you.

It’s unfair on him though, you know it is. He has as much a right being best man as you do maid of honour — the four of you were thick as thieves once upon a time; in fact, it was you that’d introduced Kelce to Brooklyn.

It feels like so long ago when you think back on it now, being nineteen-years-old with a naïve heart and nothing to lose.

You and Rafe had seemed invincible then, high-school sweethearts that were somehow surviving college-borne distance. Forever, that’s the word that ended every drunk call or late night text; forever, and the promise of a proposal and beach-side villa.

“Shi—did you not see the sock on the door, Smith?” Rafe groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder in defeat. He’s spent the past half hour getting you into a compromising position, his rough hands awry and his wet mouth on your soft skin. The amaranthine imprint of his kisses have made home on your neck. You’re straddling him with your arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he really doesn’t want to sacrifice any amount of closeness.

Kelce enters the room tentatively, his hand firmly pressed over his eyes. “Hard to miss. You two decent or what?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You let out a peal of laughter as Rafe glowers at his roommate, his calloused palms dropping from your hips to your thighs. You push the fabric of your dress over his hands, but he kneads the flesh anyway, the skin on skin like spare oxygen.

Kelce peeks at you from between his fingers before pulling them away, an unimpressed look on his face. “C’mon, surely you’re done with her Cameron. I’ve given you guys the entire fucking day together.”

“Half an hour,” Rafe replies, his blue eyes narrowing.

“As if you need more than five minutes,” Kelce snorts, plopping down on the bed opposite Rafe’s.

“Oh fuck—” Rafe’s large hands circle your thighs and tighten, standing up and advancing toward Kelce with you in his arms, “—right off—”

“Rafe!” You gasp, suppressing another surprised laugh. “Put me down, you asshole.”

“No way, Y/N/N,” Kelce says then, raising his arms in preemptive surrender. “Your PDA’s the only reason he hasn’t given me a shiner yet.”

Rafe affirms this sentiment by pressing a chaste kiss to your temple, his eyes still narrowed as he glares at Kelce. “You’re lucky I love my girlfriend more than I do my fucking reputation.”

Kelce makes a face, keeling over and mock-gagging. “Yeah, yeah, you guys have been bethrothed since fucking pre-K, I get it. Now will you stop being so possessive and let me have a conversation with her?”

You look over your shoulder at him, untangling your arms from Rafe’s neck so he can let you down gently. When he does so, it’s with great reluctance, and he doesn’t hesitate to circle your chest so he can pull you back against him. His strong bicep is warm against your neck, solid pressure.

“What’s up, Kelcey?” You ask, surveying him with interest.

“Ghosted,” he says gloomily, falling back against his duvet, “again.”

Rafe glances down at you at the same time you look up at him, a sage, sympathetic emotion passing between you. In the weeks after your break-up, you’ll come to yearn for this emotion more than anything else — that feeling of being immune to inadequacy, of having found the love of your life so effortlessly.

“You’ve gotta stop coming on so hard, bro,” Rafe says, resting his chin on your forehead. “These sorority chicks are probably all looking for something casual.”

“He can’t help the fact that he’s a lover boy, Rafe,” you defend, frowning. “You’ve just gotta find a girl that wants what you want, Kelce.”

Kelce raises his head hopefully. “Know anyone like that, Y/N/N?”

“Well,” you pause, chewing your bottom lip thoughtfully, “I am thinking of inviting my roommate Brooklyn to the Bahamas over summer break —”

“To Rafe’s?” This piques Kelce’s interest. He props himself up onto his elbows, a hopeful grin transforming his features. “Sold.”

How times change.

Today, Kelce stands at the other end of the aisle, waiting for the same Brooklyn that was once your roommate, now his almost wife. He’s wearing an elegant black tuxedo with a lily tucked into the breast pocket, its buttery white petals shining in the sun. He looks so, unimaginably, happy. It should’ve been you and Rafe. Your heartstrings twinge.

“You’re not ready,” you murmur as you pass him on the altar, finding your place opposite his best man, Topper.

Kelce smiles at you, a little nervous, a little unshed. “Will I ever be?”

You shake your head, smiling in tandem.

The wedding procession is a brilliant display of love, and you find a way to make it about your lack thereof. Seconds blur, minutes melt into each other, and your poor mind strays to when things were far simpler. The Island Club was your date night spot, once upon a time. It’s where you’d envisioned you’d get proposed to; where you would get married one day, too. Just like this.

You’re happy for them, you swear it. It’s just a difficult emotion to maintain when the opposite comes so naturally.

Rafe doesn’t arrive until the reception itself.

He wants to believe that this is entirely accidental — he’s had a long day at the office, filled with several meetings with prospective clients. He can’t though, his wretched conscience won’t let him. He chose to go to work today, chose to schedule important meetings at the same time as Kelce’s nuptials.

He thinks he knows why this is, and isn’t sure whether he can handle the why in a satin slip and strappy heels. He wants to believe that he meant everything he said to you six months prior, but the dreadful ache in his chest crescendos in mocking every time he tries this.

He’s made a mistake. He won’t admit this if it killed him. But he knows, deep down, that something isn’t right about all of this.

If he really didn’t love you anymore, if that fucking spark was missing, there shouldn’t have been anything to move on from—the ship should have already departed. But he’s struggling, hard, and his thoughts juxtapose his actions. Despite telling you that he needs to be alone for the time being, you remain unmoored in his mind, rocking back and forth but never sinking.

He’s done his fair share of fucking up over the past few months. Got into something else too quickly, tried that no contact thing and failed miserably. There’s no going back after everything that’s happened. And yet…

“Hello?” He greets you like it’s a question; like greeting you isn’t second nature anymore. Your stomach turns.

When you respond, your voice comes out jagged, pained. “Look. I get that you’re doing this ‘no contact’ thing, or whatever, but Sarah told me something pretty fucked up and I think you owe me an explanation.” Your voice is far weaker.

Rafe winces, a familiar ache pulling through his chest. “If this is about Elle —”

“It’s been a month, Rafe. You may as well have cheated.”

…that fucking hug.

After you’d confronted him about shamelessly flirting with Sarah’s friend, Elle—in front of Sarah, no less, who told you the second it happened—he’d asked to meet up in person and explain himself.

You weren’t quite sure what to make of it all, which is probably why you’d foolishly agreed to hear him out. Ward had hired Elle as an intern before his death; she’d been around a while, long enough for an affair.

It shifted bile into your throat.

And when you’d met him, the exact opposite of what you’d hoped had happened. He’d had the gall to tell you that he thinks something’s there, that he feels that bullshit spark that he swore was missing in your relationship.

What were you meant to say?

But then he’d apologised, recognised it was too soon, begged to stay friends. Friends—like a platonic relationship is in any way gift receipt redeemable. And ironically, hearing him out wasn’t even your biggest mistake, it was that wretched hug goodbye that you’d permitted you get.

It was as though that hug held everything unsaid. Your figure had moulded against his quite perfectly, and why wouldn’t it? He’s the only romantic embrace you’d known since you were a teenager.

And when you’d finally pulled away, separated the pieces of your heart that were finally greeting his again, you hadn’t realised that he’d think about that hug for weeks gone by, just like you.

All the way up until Christmas, which occurred two months after your sudden break-up.

It was the last time you saw him under the pretence of amicability, when you came by Tannyhill to drop off presents and see his family. Mostly him. It felt pathetic, even then; for all you knew, Elle was on his mind and you were somewhere insignificant.

Rafe’s pretty sure he’s fucking doomed.

Your laugh reverberates through Tannyhill like a siren song, and he’s pretty sure he’ll never not recognise the sound of it. It’s as though every bone in his body vibrates in tune to it—so unabashed, so freeing. Far more painful now than it used to be.

You’ve become so many Taylor Swift songs and none of them end happy.

He follows your sweet timbre to the hallway before he can help himself. Once upon a time—God, it feels so long ago now—he’d have been the first person you’d have texted before dropping by the house. Instead, as he stands paralysed at the foot of the stairs, it’s Sarah who’s hugging you, who gets to hold you in her arms.

Luckily for him, your eyes are closed in the embrace, and he’s afforded a second to recalibrate after taking you in. He’s known that you’re beautiful like his first memory on Earth, but that doesn’t mean your proximity leaves him any less winded. You’re fresh-faced with limbs that have an untouchable quality to them; you aren’t his to mark anymore, no longer his to ruin.

He can’t remember the last time he kissed you. He wants to remember so fucking bad. You’re slipping through his calloused fingers and fragments of you are all he has.

“You didn’t have to get us anything!” Sarah exclaims, pulling away faux-disprovingly.

“Hey, don’t do that, of course I did.” Your arms fall back to your side, and you open your eyes in tandem. When they flit past Sarah’s face and find Rafe’s instead, it feels as though someone has tipped ice-cold water down your singlet. A pause. “You’re family.”

Sarah notes the change in your tone with a frown, turning to look over her shoulder. “Oh,” she says, her expression hardening. “Sorry, Y/N/N. I didn’t know he was home.”

You swallow. “It’s no big,” you reply, forcing yourself to look back at her. “We’re alright, really. But I should go, I have a few more presents to drop off.”

Sarah frowns harder. “You sure you don’t want to stay a bit? I know Rose’d love to see you, we’ve all really missed having you around —”

“I’m sure,” you interrupt, handing her the bag of presents you’ve wrapped. “I’ll send her a text, okay? And listen,” you pause, your expression softening a little, “I know this holiday season’s going to be hard without your dad, and I want you to know that I’m here for you, whenever you need me.”

Sarah’s eyes well with tears. “It’s going to be hard without you too, Y/N,” she murmurs. “You’re my sister.”

Your features sadden in tandem, and you give her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “And I always will be. You know that.”

“You should come to Christmas, then,” she says hopefully.

“I —” you falter as your voice cracks, grimacing slightly, “— I’m sorry. I don’t think I can.”

When you turn around, something in Rafe’s chest cracks too. He’s still hanging on to that expression-softening catalyst from a moment prior, yearning hard for the feeling of being on the receiving end of your love.

“Why the fuck,” Sarah fumes, rounding on him once you’re out of earshot, “do you have to ruin everything you touch?”

Rafe doesn’t even have it in him to wince. “I don’t know,” he responds quietly, with an honesty that aches. “If I did, maybe I’d have found a way to fix it.”

Sarah takes pause. Slight disbelief transforms her features. “You have to still love her. How can’t you?”

“I don’t know, alright?” Rafe runs his hand through his hair slovenly. “I just — I’m not happy anymore. It’s not fucking there… I don’t know if it’ll ever come back.”

“What isn’t?”

“The… the spark.”

“Bullshit,” Sarah spits out, accusatory. “The ‘spark’ is fucking bullshit, Rafe. You’re telling me you’ve felt it the entire time you’ve known her? You’re telling me this doesn’t have anything to do with dad’s death?”

Rafe swallows thickly, discomfort coating his throat. “I don’t, alright? All I know is I can’t give her what she needs right now; I don’t know if I ever will.”

To this day, he doesn’t know about your detour that evening — how instead of driving home, you took a left to the look-out where you shared your first kiss. He doesn’t know that the waves crashing ashore bore witness to your heartbreak; that sunset orange painted your tear-streaked cheeks a gentler amber. Caressed them, subdued them, where he no longer could. He doesn’t know you agonised over how much his hair had grown in your absence, the subtle stubble on his jaw, the stark outline of his biceps.

The him that’s foreign to you, now; the him that’s Elle’s and not yours.

At twenty-four years old, Rafe Cameron doesn’t know fucking anything.

Of course, once he does eventually recognise that his ‘something there’ with Elle is a rebound, it’s too late to entertain returning to you with his tail between his legs.

He can’t. Not after everything he’s put you through in the past. So he allows regret to caulk his limbs and bitterness to coat his insides, and Rafe Cameron does what he does best — pushes it down and ignores it.

Which brings him here, a non-attendee to his best friend’s wedding and an hour late to his reception.

He sidles into the venue through a pair of double doors, and the first thing he notices is the dimmed sconces and muted fairy lights. It’s the first thing, because perplexingly, the crowd is hard to discern but you glow anyway. A spotlight illuminates the centre of the room where Brooklyn and Kelce share their first dance, but they don’t draw his gaze, your beautiful features do.

Of course you do, in your strappy cowl neck slip. There’s less periwinkle fabric than he’d anticipated, more exposed limbs, and Rafe feels like he’s run a fucking marathon as he takes you in. And your pretty eyes and glossy lips cascade into a bare neck; soft skin that’s forgotten his rough touch, his bruising kisses.

It’s momentary lust that his regret promptly squashes. He can’t think those thoughts about you anymore, even if they’re almost second nature. Even if he’s spent more tangible years of his life as your boyfriend than he has a fucking stranger.

That’s what you guys are meant to be right now: strangers. His stomach coils. His tired eyes search for the open bar on instinct.

Once he’s acquired a whiskey neat and a glass of champagne, he pulls through the crowd and makes toward your figure.

You aren’t as lucky as he is to mentally prepare for a reunion. When he holds out the shimmering flute and prompts your gaze toward him, there’s a split-second of slack-jawed diffidence before you find your common sense.

God, you wish he wasn’t so easy to stare at.

He’s wearing an expression that isn’t yours anymore, with his thick brows furrowed and lips slightly parted. Yearning, but he can’t be. His blue eyes make your heart leap. Your gaze lifts before it falls, taking in his damp hair, his larger than ever frame. Both feel unfamiliar; he’s shed the skin and aureate curls your fingers once traced. Same notes of patchouli on his neck, though you note the absence of the silver chain you once bought him for Christmas.

Does he still have it, somewhere, hidden in a shoebox under his bed? (His hand is so close to your chest, it feels like you’re dying.) Is it as painful for him to see you like this after months and months of no contact?

Can’t be. Shouldn’t be. The ache may linger, agonisingly, but you’re stronger now than you were when he first ended things.

“Oh,” is all you can muster, accepting the flute of champagne. When your fingers brush, you reprimand the jolt of static. Lust may be hard to shake, but you resolve to let logic prevail. “Thanks.”

Rafe feels it too, harder, more unbearable. “Don’t mention it.”

You break eye contact to look out into the crowd, though it’s a struggle finding anything to focus on. “When’d you arrive?”

“Five minutes ago,” he admits, staring at your side profile for a second longer than he probably should. He analyses the glittery stuff on your cheekbones—highlighter?—for traces of a familiar feeling. “Work shit.”

“Ah,” you reply, raising your eyebrows at him. “Some things never change, huh?”

Rafe winces. “Look, Y/N, I —”

“I’m kidding, Rafe, relax,” you interrupt, sending him a small smile. It makes his stomach turn. “It’s all going well, I hope?”

“It is, yeah,” he responds, smiling in tandem. “Ish. Still doing a fuck tonne of late nights and weekends.”

“Bummer.” It feels strange, making small talk in this way. Strange, though not particularly as awful as you’d predicted. “How’re Rose and your sisters?”

“Yeah, they’re good,” they miss you, “Sarah’s going to UCLA in the fall.”

You nod. “She told me.”

Something in Rafe’s chest drops. He turns to you, his piercing gaze making your skin burn. “I didn’t realise you guys kept in touch.”

“We’ve always been really close. You know that.”

Because of me. “Right.” His eyes fall to your throat as you take another pull of champagne, smooth and unblemished and painfully foreign. “I’m glad.”

You turn to him then, an unreadable expression on your face. “Me too.”

A beat. The pair of you stare at each as the surroundings buzz into static.

“Listen, Rafe, I —”

“Y/N, I’ve been —”

You falter first, scrunching up your face abashedly. “Sorry. You go.”

“I…” Rafe pauses, running his calloused palm through his hair, “I guess I just want to apologise. For everything.”

Your eyes widen, and you turn away from him abruptly. “Rafe, I don’t know if now is the best time to have this conversation.”

“Shit, I know. I know I’m about five months too late and don’t deserve to be heard out.”

“Well,” you pause, chewing on your bottom lip apprehensively. Your voice quietens. “Maybe not at a wedding.”

Or ever. You tip back the rest of your champagne just as the slow dance fades out, breaking away from him. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Rafe fucking hopes so. He needs a clean slate if it’ll kill him. He nods reluctantly, watching you disappear into the crowd in front of him. The ache in his chest crescendos as the physical distance swallows you completely.

—

“We love you,” Brooklyn mouthes, blowing you a kiss through the open window. The limousine she’s in stretches forward with jet-black grandiosity, its ignition blaring alive as you catch it in mid-air.

When you blow one back, Kelce peeks over her shoulder and sends you a wink. The pair of them wave to the wedding-goers surrounding you before the vehicle pulls forward, leaving you in its dust. You watch them exit the Island Club gates, and a sense of bittersweet melancholia finds home in your chest.

That should’ve been you. You turn around as the crowd begins to disperse and find yourself face to face with Rafe once again.

“Oh,” you say, looking up at him in surprise. When your expression relaxes—in recognition—his chest pulls in tandem. “They’re sweet, huh?”

Us; that should’ve been us. Rafe nods, smiling wistfully. “Can you believe you’re the one that set them up?”

“At your holiday house,” you return, smiling in tandem. “This was a two-person wing man job.”

“Nah. You were the one that saw their potential.” A pause. “You’ve always been really good at that.”

Your brow furrows. “At setting people up?”

“At seeing their potential,” Rafe corrects. An unreadable emotion crosses his blue irises. “Even when they don’t deserve it.”

Your expression falters. You aren’t sure what to say to this, so you don’t say anything at all.

“Listen,” Rafe tries again, scratching the back of his neck, “d’you need a ride?”

“Well…”

You hesitate, looking over his shoulder for your parents. When you spot them, they’re in avid conversation with some family friends; they look extremely comfortable, like they’re going to be dawdling until God knows when.

You’re searching for justification even though he doesn’t deserve it. After all the pain he’s caused you, your wretched heart still yearns for more.

Fucking sadist.

“Actually, yeah,” you finish after a beat, bringing your gaze back to him. “That’d be great, thank you.”

His shoulders relax. “Yeah, of course. You have all your things?”

“Uh huh.”

“This way.”

You allow him to guide you to his pick-up trunk, pretend that you didn’t discern it right away. Besides, you were meant to have forgotten the location of his unofficial ‘official’ parking spot. So you follow him toward it, deny the familiarity of its number plate, and act like every dent and wretched scratch isn’t a piece of your heart.

“Shit—ow!” You curse, hurtling forward as you stall, again. “This is fucking impossible, Rafe. I quit.”

Rafe grins perplexedly, giving your shoulder a squeeze. “Baby,” he placates, “if Top can learn to drive manual, anyone can.”

You make a frustrated noise, crossing your arms over your chest. “Not me, clearly.”

Rafe lets out a laugh, unbuckling your seatbelt so he can pull you into his lap. “C’mere.”

When he does so—with entirely too much ease—he pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb so he can guide your lips against his. It’s an unhurried kiss, a sure press of emotion, as though he’s rousing the embers that live within your ribcage.

He has this funny way of leaving you out of breath no matter how chaste the embrace. You break away reluctantly, raising your eyebrows at him. “So is this the reward system you used when you were teaching him to drive, hot-shot?”

Rafe makes a face, dipping his head to sponge a kiss to your neck. “Why? You jealous?”

“Never,” you sigh, running your fingers through his hair. “You wouldn’t dream of leaving me for someone else, Rafe Cameron. The Figure Eight wouldn’t forgive you if you did.”

“I wouldn’t forgive myself if I did.” Another teeth-scraping kiss. “I’d be crazy to let you go. I’ve been in love with you since we were freshman.”

He doesn’t open the passenger’s side door for you after unlocking his pick-up truck. That isn’t his place anymore.

He wants to, anyway. You want him to, badly. This revelation passes unsaid between the two of you as you climb into the seat yourself, unscathed by chivalry.

Once you’re buckled in, your gaze lifts to the new air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. “Huh,” you say, flicking it absently, “you replaced it.”

He wants to say, you left me no choice. He wants to say, old spice smells like you. “Oh yeah,” he replies instead, clearing his throat. “Rose got me it.”

“It’s nice.”

“Thanks.”

He shifts into reverse and backs out of the park, and there’s a split second where he almost places his hand on your headrest. He can’t do that anymore. Too close; not close enough. You notice it too. An ache passes from his heart to yours.

“Are you going to take any time off over summer break?” You ask, keeping your gaze on the road ahead.

Rafe pulls out onto the main road before turning to you and responding, “I wasn’t planning on it, but I think I might need some.”

“I think you might need some too,” you agree, sending him a fleeting smile. “Bahamas?”

You don’t expect the tears in his eyes that follow. You straighten abruptly, your eyebrows pulling together. “Sorry, I didn’t mean —”

“No—shit, I just—” he falters as his voice cracks, clearing his throat again, “I don’t think I could go back there any time soon. Too many memories.”

Your expression softens. “Your dad, of course. I get it. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry about.” He takes in a jagged breath. “Shit, I’m the one that should be apologising. For everything.”

“Rafe —”

“No, listen…”

He pauses as he turns left onto your street, pulling onto the side of the road as soon as he can. He’s still a good mile away from your house, but it feels an injustice to keep you waiting for an explanation. When he turns and angles his body toward you, there’s a brokenness on his face that makes your miserable heart falter.

“I’m… I’m so sorry for everything I put you through after I broke up with you. Even if that was what I needed at the time, even if it was the right decision, I shouldn’t have been so fucking heartless and I regret not reaching out to you more often.”

You swallow thickly. He takes your silence as encouragement to keep going.

“You deserved better than the way I treated you… you’ve always deserved better than me. I didn’t know how to deal with all of my grief and I pushed you away in the process. It was… fuck, it was so selfish of me, and I’m sorry. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t hate myself for it.”

He’s taken all of the oxygen in the car, and you find yourself struggling for air. You turn to him, every drunken rationalisation manifest. “Thank you,” you whisper, “for saying that.”

“And listen, the Elle thing —”

Too much. “Rafe,” you interrupt, swallowing again. “Stop. It’s fine. I accept your apology.”

Rafe frowns, the furrow in his brow painfully evident. “Yeah? Because… because I’d understand if you didn’t.”

“Yeah,” you affirm, turning away from him. “Besides, it’s ancient history. I forgave you a long time ago in my head.”

“You did?” Rafe’s asks, searching your features in earnest. “Why?”

The champagne you’ve consumed swirls uncomfortably in your stomach. “I had to,” you say quietly. “It was the only way I was going to be able to move on from the situation.”

Rafe’s stomach drops. “Which you have.”

“Which I have.”

The smokescreen between you smothers any semblance of hope you might’ve shared. He nods, turning on the ignition once again. “I hope that means you’re happy, Y/N.”

“It does,” you reply, “I am.”

“Good.” It doesn’t feel good at all. “Maybe this means we can be friends.”

You turn to him again, raising your eyebrows. “Friends?”

“Like we were before,” he affirms, putting the car into drive. His fingers brush the bare skin of your thigh near the gearshift. A very unfriend-like jolt of static shoots into your chest. “I… I don’t know. Sometimes I think I just miss my best friend.”

Your heart sighs. “Me too.”

“Friends then.”

“Yeah,” you reply, sending him a small smile. “Friends.”

—

You haven’t been to Shake Shack since you broke up with Rafe. You didn’t even realise you’d evaded it so long; perhaps it was a subconscious thing, too many painful memories to bear.

You remember when it first opened up in the Banks, this egalitarian refuge nestled between the Cut and Figure Eight.

Rafe Cameron remembers too, remembers bringing you here on your very first date. Roguish at fourteen with endless charm and a handsome face, he had far less creases etched onto his forehead then; far less familial expectations to deal with.

If only you knew he’s evaded it too. When he pulls into the carpark, the aforementioned date comes forth in fragments.

When memories lie dormant so long in one’s head, they tend to lose the stitches that hold them together. Nervousness, excitement, cherry coke and a lilac singlet. The strange feeling of forever before either of you could place it. He doesn’t remember any of your conversation, nor how long the date lasted, but he remembers the cloudless sky, the flutter of new love in his stomach.

The pair of you share a look before exiting his pick-up truck. A look that says: uh oh, and insinuates far more than that.

“So how’s work going, anyway?” Rafe asks, shoving his hands into his front pockets. He’s a beat behind you head toward the entrance, and you can feel your neck burn where his eyes remained trained on you.

“Yeah, alright, same old,” you say, sending him a fleeting smile over your shoulder. His blue irises are dappled golden in sunlight, and their brilliance unsteadies you, the eye-contact like a firestarter. You clear your throat. “Sam quit.”

Rafe’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”

“Not kidding,” you shake your head, “he ended things with Peyton and booked a Contiki in South East Asia.”

“Shiiiiiit,” Rafe wolf whistles, shaking his head in tandem. “Is he going through some kind of quarter life crisis?”

You shrug. “Who would let someone like Peyton go, huh?”

Rafe resists the urge to wince. He can think of one person in particular who threw away something far more special. He clears his throat significantly, regret like molasses coating the sides of his windpipe. “Yeah. How’s she doing with it all?”

“Oh you know Peyton, she’s the queen of acting unbothered,” you reply, sounding reproachful. “Even when she’s heartbroken, she refuses to tell me about it.”

Rafe frowns. “Fuck that.”

“Yeah?” You send him a wayward glance, raising your eyebrows knowingly. “Cause to me, it sounds like someone else I used to know.”

There’s a pause as he meets your gaze, a frightening wistfulness passing between you. It lingers.

“Right.” You’re at the entrance to Shake Shack now, and Rafe grapples for purchase on the one thing he can control—friends. He pulls open the door and beckons you forward, “So. Is today the day you branch out and order something new, Y/N?”

When you pass by him, a tendril-like brush of shoulder on chest, the buttery scent of your vanilla perfume lingers. A lot about you does, a lot more than he’d care to admit.

Rafe’s wretched heart cycles between the old and new you like it’s trying to make them both fit within its chambers.

“Don’t think I have a choice,” you reply, sending him a smile over your shoulder. “They’ve completely revamped their menu since the last time we were here.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows at you. “They have?” You checked?

“Uh huh,” you reply, nodding. “I was going to make a reservation here for our anniversary way back when.” You clear your throat. “When I went on their website to do so, I realised that their menu was totally different.”

You leave out the part where you’d stopped by soon after, asked—no, begged—the manager to serve you the originals when you came. You know, when old time’s sake was a sacred concept. When that sweet, lovesick version of you still existed.

“Oh shit,” Rafe says. Though it’s subtle, he catches the smidge of diffidence in your voice, like the ghost of relationship’s past rearing its ugly head. You checked, for him, and you’re so nonchalant about it. Like it may have mattered then, but right now it matters far less.

He feels an awful twinge in his chest. He adds, “That sucks.” He isn’t sure whether he’s referring to the change in menu or the change in your heart’s purpose.

“I know.”

“I was looking forward to ordering the usual.”

“Me too.” You shrug. “We’re just going to have to find a new usual, I guess.”

What you mean is, make new memories that’ll replace the old ones. What you mean is, erase the nostalgia being here brings.

Also, though you’d never willingly admit it, start anew.

Rafe nods, stepping forward and glancing up at the menu. Though it’s different to the one he remembers from his youth, the interior of the diner is comfortingly familiar — same ugly yellow track lights, same checkered linoleum underfoot. Same fingerprint-smudged counter and broken drinks machine, same uniform on the workers, same greasy smell permeating.

And the same booth you were partial to nestled in one corner, it’s retro cushion covers faded as ever.

The menu, and the girl beside him. The only two things that feel different.

“Hm.” You frown, deliberating over the menu. “I’m thinking the ‘classic’. You want to split some curly fries?”

Rafe raises his eyebrows, his blue eyes full of mirth. “So the one that’s exactly your old order, minus the pickles. Got it.”

“Yes,” you decide. “Except I’ll ask them to add pickles.”

“Of course you will.” Rafe grins. “I’ll get the same.”

You gasp, faux-scandalised. “Rafe Cameron eating pickles? Now I’ve seen everything.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “How d’you know I’m not just ordering it to pawn ‘em off to you?”

You balk. “I don’t, I guess.”

“And yes, to the curly fries,” he adds, quick to change the subject. The bashfulness on your features dissipates, but the tension in the room weighs ever-present.

You nod, sliding your wallet out of your back-pocket. “Should we just split the bill, then?”

“No way,” Rafe says, clasping your wrist to hold it in place. Your pulse feels funny. “I got it.”

“Rafe.” You frown, shaking your head. “Look, it really isn’t a big deal —”

It is to me. “Exactly,” he interrupts. “Which is why I got it.”

Maybe you should argue some more, insist on paying until he gives in. But you don’t. Between the pulse-jolting closeness and mocking sense of nostalgia, you aren’t sure you have it in you to retaliate.

Though in an act of rebellion, you avoid your usual booth. Once you’re seated at a new table and separated by your burgers, you re-enter this stupid friendship thing you’ve adopted. The one that boasts no-strings like the red one isn’t obvious.

“So,” you say, popping a curly fry in your mouth. “You remember Maya, right?”

Rafe makes a face. “That psycho roommate you had in senior year? Yeah, pretty hard to forget.”

“Well, she hit me up a month ago to let me know she’d be in the Banks to see her boyfriend.” At his audible gasp, you nod significantly. “I know. Asked if I wanted to catch up while she was here.”

Rafe wolf whistles in amusement. “No fucking way. After the Hell she put you through?”

“I fucking know,” you reply, grimacing in disdain.

Rafe raises his eyebrows, swallowing down a handful of curly fries. “Tell me you said no.”

You raise yours in tandem. “What do you think, casanova?”

“Y/N!” He groans, shaking his head. “Why do you put yourself through this shit?”

You frown, reaching for your soda and sipping stubbornly. Condensation rolls down your palm, the soft skin shining. “C’mon! It was useful, I swear. I got the intel on Maya and her mystery OBX man.”

Rafe leans forward in interest, taking a pull of his soda too. “Go on then.”

“God, I’ve been sitting on this information for ages,” you say, your pretty eyes full of excitement. Rafe’s heart leaps. “I wanted to tell you as soon as I found out, but we weren’t talking and you were avoiding me and I didn’t know whether I should break no contact.”

It deflates just as quickly, sinking into his stomach like deadweight. “I wasn’t… I don’t know, I thought it’d be best if I kept my distance.” He sighs, sitting back and raking his fingers through his hair. “Clearly that was a mistake. I haven’t been this relaxed in fucking ages.”

You smile small. “Yeah. This is nice.”

“Nice.”

“Anyway,” you clear your throat, this sticky, molasses-like something rising from your chest, “it’s Dylan. Like Dylan fucking Young that had a crush on me in freshman year.”

“Fuck off, seriously?” Rafe replies, mirth evident on his features. “Not kidding, think it’d be grounds for a restraining order if she ever found that out.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” You exclaim, raising your eyebrows significantly. “You promise to take this to your grave, Cameron?”

Rafe nods, faux-somber, extending his pinky toward you. “He won’t hear it from me, Y/L/N.”

When your fingers entwine, you wonder whether he feels it too. It’s a jolt of static that leaves your skin warm and your insides funny, and you wonder whether the effect it has on you is endearing or pathetic.

The latter, you conclude. The red string of fate disagrees.

“Good,” you say, retrieving your hand. “Oh, and,” you take a generous bite of your burger, “did you hear that Taylor’s moving to Texas?”

“I did, actually,” Rafe replies. “From Top, funnily enough.”

You frown. “He’s still pining, huh?”

“Unfortunately.” He pulls apart his burger to pick out the green pickles, placing them onto your plate before re-assembling. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. In the offensive, fluorescent lighting, they shine up at you in mocking. “Anyway, I should probably learn to get used to it. I’m moving into Kelce’s room now that he’s happily wed.”

Your jaw slackens in surprise. “You’re moving in with Topper?”

Rafe grins. “I know. Who would’ve thought, huh?”

“But,” you pause, popping another curly fry into your mouth, “why?”

“Needed to get out of Tannyhill, I guess.” He falters, swallowing down the bile-like rise of emotion from his chest. “Too many memories.”

Your expression softens. “That makes sense.”

“Besides, Sarah’s starting college soon, and Wheeze’s off at boarding school for the majority of the year anyway.” He shrugs. “And Rose… well, she’s at the Bahamas house more than she is in the OBX.”

“Too many memories,” you repeat, frowning sadly.

“Yeah. I guess.”

There’s silence then, the comfortable kind. An emotion passes between you that feels both familiar and new at the same time.

It matters less when you finally finish, what you speak about, whether you’ll meet again. All you know is, something feels different now, as though there’s embers that this reunion has reignited in your ribcage. Dormant though they had once been, you’d always hoped that the renewed hope would set them aflame.

The next day, you wake up to a text from Rafe.

thank you for yesterday. It was really nice.

You don’t have it in you to reply; Rafe doesn’t mind. He knows you feel the same way.

—

It’s a few weeks before you see him again, at a farewell party for Brooklyn and Kelce.

Prior to embarking on their honeymoon, they were shifting their lives to Chicago; laying down the foundations of stability so they could return to a clean slate.

It upsets you to no end. You’d always assumed that her marriage to Kelce would guarantee that she settles down in the Banks.

Rafe Cameron must remember this, the way he does everything else. He hands you a beer and clinks his own against it, beads of condensation sliding over his calloused hand.

“Huh,” he murmurs, shaking his head in faux-disappoint, “so much for staying here and ruling the Eight with an iron fist.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” You exclaim, taking a generous pull of beer. Rafe’s gaze falls to the bare column of your throat, and he temporarily loses his bearings. “Does loyalty mean absolutely nothing around here?”

Rafe grins appreciatively. “They’re bound to come back, you know.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

“Because,” Rafe pauses, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “we were all cursed by the hometown witch when we were babies.”

You let out a peal of laughter. “Is that why I came back here after college?”

It isn’t lost on you that Rafe is standing far closer to you than he should. His spicy, cedar-wood cologne presses over your figure in waves. He bows his head to eye level, still grinning his mirth, “It’s why we all did. It’s also why they aren’t going to last more than a year in Chicago, I’m calling it now.”

“Who isn’t going to last more than a year in Chicago?” Comes Brooklyn’s voice from behind him, pulling the pair of you from your reverie.

He breaks away and turns to find her standing behind him, her eyebrows raised accusatorially at your closeness.

You smile guiltily at her, raising your arms in surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t deny it either!” Brooklyn reproaches, faux-scandalised. She sends Rafe a playful glare, reaching for your arm and pulling you away. “I’m rescuing her from your bad influence, Cameron.”

Rafe nods sagely, taking a sip of his beer. “I think that’s wise, Astor—” he balks, shaking his head, “—sorry, Smith. Shit, Brooklyn Smith, huh? Guess I can’t do that last name thing ‘round here anymore, can I?”

“Not with us,” she replies, turning the pair of you around. She sends you the ghost of a wink before adding, “Y/N’s fair game, though. You know she’d rather die than take a guy’s last name.”

Something in Rafe’s chest deflates. “Yeah?”

You frown at him over your shoulder, mildly bewildered. “You knew that, Cameron.”

Maybe I thought I was different. “True.” He raises his beer bottle in acknowledgement. “Besides, Y/L/N suits you too much.”

Not as much as Cameron would have, once upon a time. You nod approvingly, the twinge in your heart conveying the exact opposite. “Doesn’t it just?”

Brooklyn steers you to the kitchen under the pretence of grabbing a drink, her true intentions becoming obvious when Kelce pivots into earshot on his barstool.

“So?” She prods, rounding on you once you’ve halted. “What’s the deal?”

“Deal?” You echo, feigning confusion. “What deal?”

“Don’t do that,” she replies, narrowing her eyes accusatorially. “Are you guys seeing each other again?”

You swallow. Your gaze darts to a helpless-looking Kelce. “Why? Has he said something?”

“That’s the thing,” Kelce mutters, shaking his head thoughtfully. “He hasn’t. But he’s… different.”

You frown. “Different how?”

“I don’t know… chiller. Happier. Like he was before Ward passed away.”

“Of course he is,” Brooklyn snorts, not buying it for a second. “He’s finally being absolved of all his guilt!”

“Brooklyn…” you sigh.

“What? It’s true!” She asserts, crossing her arms across her chest. “He’s… listen, Y/N, whatever you think this is, you need to snap out of it. He’s proved time and time again that he doesn’t have the emotional capability to deal with his shit, and you’ve been made collateral too many times to forgive him this quick.”

“Quick?” Your chest feels on fire. Isn’t seven months of torture enough exoneration?

“C’mon baby, you’ve gotta cut him some slack,” Kelce assuages, gentle but firm. “He fucked up, sure, but he also lost his dad, remember?”

“Grieving or not, he shouldn’t have pushed her away.”

“Granted, but we’ll never know exactly how he was feeling —”

“We shouldn’t have to, you just don’t do that to someone you love —”

“I’m still here, you know,” you interrupt quietly, frowning. “That someone that Rafe doesn’t love.”

A pause. Its silence that’s distilled in the overhead lighting, the scene beneath it awash in dim regret.

Brooklyn’s features are softer when she breaks the silence. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I just… I worry about you.”

You know she does; it isn’t her fault. She’s the one that slept over for four weeks straight post break-up, forced food down your throat and wiped away all your tears.

“Don’t apologise, Brooke, I get it,” you say, sending her a small smile. “But I’m fine, I promise. This isn’t even… this feels different.”

“Different how?”

“Like… you know that saying: ‘You’ll never find the same person twice, not even in the same person’? That’s how this feels. We haven’t fallen back into old habits.”

Brooklyn regards this for a moment, surveying your features carefully. “But you’ve been hanging out?”

“Only once,” you reply honestly. “Sent a few texts back and forth, that’s all. If… if anything were to happen, it’d be like a new relationship, not like restarting the old one. You know?”

“I do.”

Kelce smiles. “That’s… shit, that makes sense.” There’s a wistfulness to his voice. “That’s why I couldn’t figure out what it reminds me of, this different him that’s chilled and happy.”

You furrow your brow. “Hm?”

“It’s freshman year him all over again,” he explains. “You know… when the two of you got close the first time ‘round.”

“Oh.” Your heart soars. “Square one, huh?”

Kelce shrugs, sharing a meaningful look with Brooklyn. “Square one I guess.”

You’re about to respond when Rafe’s figure pulls your gaze, his crossed arms and broad shoulders blocking the kitchen entrance. He’s wearing a handsome expression and his hair is perfectly unkempt, the heady scent of his cologne juxtaposing his lack of proximity.

Sometimes, life is unfair. Your ex-boyfriend, now new friend, eliciting such un-platonic thoughts is one of those instances.

And it isn’t as though you’ve given Rafe much of a break, his blue eyes caught on your figure like a moth to a flame. You aren’t wearing a dress he recognises, which is both a delightful and agonising revelation.

Delightful, because it reveals bare expanses of skin that make his wretched hands itch in longing. Agonising, because it’s a reminder of the seven long months that he’s had to spend grappling with your absence.

Having a smile as pretty as yours is extremely unfair, all things considered. And eyes. Soft skin. He needs to stop staring before he does something stupid.

“Perfect,” he announces brusquely, “are we hosting our intervention now?”

He looks at you expectantly. You raise your eyebrows. “You know,” he adds, “the one where we beg them to stay in the Banks?”

“Hey!” Brooklyn exclaims, her green eyes full of mirth. “What d’you mean stay in the Banks? Newsflash, I’m not even from here.”

“You’re not from Chicago either, Ast-Smithy,” he returns significantly, sending her a meaningful glance. “Besides, you married into a Figure Eight family. You are very officially one of us now.”

“Not for long!” Brooklyn sings, sending you a wink.

“C’mon, Smith,” Rafe tries, turning to Kelce and feigning disappointment. “What happened to our sacred pact?”

“We were eight, Cameron.”

“And already privy to the tragedy of small-town life,” Rafe sighs faux-dramatically, nodding in agreement. “I’m bitter, alright? I thought I’d be the first one to get out of here.”

He glances over at you fleetingly as he says this. We’d be the first ones, his heart corrects in vain.

“As if,” you scoff, raising your eyebrows. “Mr Cameron fucking Development leave this place before me? No chance.”

Rafe grins roguishly, his blue eyes shining with amusement. “You’re all talk, Y/L/N. We both know it.” He sends Kelce and Brooklyn a meaningful glance. “We all are.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re going to be here all fucking night if we keep arguing about this,” Brooklyn decides, patting Kelce’s thigh to prompt him to stand. “C’mon, baby, we should probably get back to mingling.”

“You know,” she adds, narrowing her eyes playfully. “‘Cause it’s the last time we’ll see some of these people.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head bemusedly. Any retaliation on Rafe’s tongue fails at the timbre of it.

Once they’re out of sight, you turn to him, adopting a faux-somber look. “If we are truly doomed to a life in the Eight, will you promise me something?”

He’s still grappling with the fact that he’s a man starved of your beautiful laugh, now reborn. “Go on.”

“Should you find me yelling at Island Club employees about flower arrangements or charcuterie boards, shoot me.”

Rafe laughs, and it reverberates through your bones warmly. “And suffer alone? No way. I’ll meet you in the middle. Lobotomy?”

“No thoughts in my brain? So generous,” you tease. “Alright. It’s a deal.”

Rafe clinks his beer bottle against yours in confirmation, taking a generous pull of the bubbly liquid. “Can we trade promises?” He asks.

You take a sip in tandem, maintaining eye contact as you do so. There’s tension in the air, that familiar-new feeling manifest, and it’s no longer frightening, but rather a comforting embrace.

You marvel in it. Breaking free feels fruitless. “Yes.”

“If you make a plan to settle elsewhere, will you tell me?”

“Of course I will.” A pause. “Although, I think you’re right. I don’t think any of us are truly capable of leaving permanently.”

“If anyone is though, it’s you,” he says, so matter-of-factly, like he actually believes it. “I mean… you’re the only one who had the balls to go to a college out of state. The rest of us just accepted a cushy offer at UNC.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you dismiss. “I was back here so often I barely left.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “Only because you had a reason to come back.” You still do, if you’ll take me.

I still do, if you’ll take me. “True.” You frown, thinking on this for a moment. “Even so… I don’t know. Maybe it’s that hometown curse talking, but I wouldn’t want to raise my kids anywhere else in the States.”

Rafe’s gaze steadies, pulsing through you in waves. “I get that. We had a pretty sweet childhood, all things considered.”

You make a face. “Like, I don’t think I can deal with this iPad kid epidemic. Least we were sheltered from all that crap, you know?”

“Yeah,” Rafe replies, raising his eyebrows significantly. “Even if there were plenty of other things to jade us with.”

“Shit, I know,” you respond, laughing bemusedly. “See, only people from the Eight know how political beach clean ups can get.”

Rafe chuckles in tandem, taking another sip of his beer. “God, our lives are fucking ridiculous.”

You raise your bottle in agreement. A comfortable silence falls between you.

After pause, Rafe speaks up again. “You know,” he says quietly, an unnameable emotion flickering across his blue irises. “I don’t even think it’s everyone in the Eight.”

You balk. “Hm?”

“The whole, knowing each other thing,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You’ve always understood me better than anyone else.”

Your traitorous heart leaps, and you force yourself to ignore it. Actions have always spoken louder than words, and you decide now’s as good a time as any to confront him about this.

It’s time to be brave, you decide. You say, “I find that hard to believe.”

“Why?”

“Elle.”

Rafe’s miserable heart falters, penitence like a lump in his throat. He’s been preparing for this accusation since your very first reunion, but it still doesn’t feel like enough; he’s a coward trembling at the frontlines, anyway.

“I’ve… we’ve… my therapist and I have talked about that situation at length.”

You eyes widen in surprise. “Your therapist?”

“I’ve been going to therapy, yeah,” Rafe replies, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “For a month or so now, every week without fail.”

It isn’t lost on you that Brooklyn and Kelce’s wedding was a month ago. The rift in your ribcage widens.

“Has it been helping?” You ask.

“A bit,” Rafe admits. “Mostly just to validate what I knew all along, I guess.” At your silence, he continues, “That… shit, that I’ve got this problem where I push people away when I need them the most. The Elle thing, there’s no fucking excuse for it, none, but it became pretty obvious after you confronted me that she was just a rebound.”

“A rebound,” you echo.

“A distraction, an escape… I don’t know.” He rakes his fingers through his hair slovenly. “All I know is, I didn’t care about her, so I didn’t have to push her away. She didn’t make me talk about my dad, my grief, anything, so she was easy enough company to have around when I felt like it.”

“Oh.” You swallow. “But I did.”

“But you did,” Rafe affirms, grimacing sheepishly. “Shit, all you fucking did was care about me and all I did was push you away.”

You try to be pragmatic. “Grief makes people do shitty things.”

“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t deserve it.”

“True.” A pause. Your gaze falls over Rafe’s face in paces, his haggard expression making you soften. “Listen. I’m glad you’re going to therapy, seriously. I know that’s a pretty big step for you to take.”

For you. “Thank you,” he replies quietly. “It… I just wish I’d listened to you the first time, you know? When you’d told me to go to therapy before I’d ended things.”

Your throat feels funny. “No use living in the past.”

“You’re right,” Rafe replies. A pause. The ghost of a smile flickers over his features. “What did I ever do to deserve your forgiveness?”

You smile in tandem, a little rueful. “Maybe you were a martyr in your past life, Cameron.”

“And you’re one in this one,” Rafe responds. “You know, after I lobotomise you over flower arrangements and charcuterie boards. Does that count as a full circle moment?”

You grin. “Not when you live on the Eight. Infinity sign, baby.”

It slips out before you can stop yourself, the ghost of pet-names past pushing Rafe’s pulse to fibrillation. Your eyes widen abashedly. “Should we rejoin the party?”

Rafe nods, “Probably,” and then, when you’re just out of earshot, “I’d do something stupid if we didn’t.”

—

Over the next few weeks, you begin to see more and more of one another.

A few texts back and forth become more than a few virtual trysts, and every spare moment you have is dedicated to being in each other’s presence.

And it isn’t as though you’re mending old love, this feels like something else altogether. Though old memories may flit through your brain on occasion, they are boundless and free — they don’t define this connection.

You’re starting anew. Rafe realises it too.

He still remembers how it felt to tell you he loved you the first time around, fourteen years old with a bashful smile and enough hope in his heart to ache. He still remembers what you were wearing the first time he drove you around; the first time you came to UNC to visit; the shade of lipgloss you worshipped from Sephora. And you remember it all too, the feeling of being in his pick-up, of being with this roguish, freshman boy that had so much charm your insides soared.

Going through it all again feels like receiving a new lease on life. How lucky are you to love a different person in the same man?

Currently, the pair of you are sprawled out on beach towels, velvet dusk revealing the bespangled sky stretching above you. Beside you, take-out boxes and sodas lie in the sand, discarded. Every now and then, his wrist brushes yours with a jolt of static.

You’re lying closer to each other than you should, his body heat pressing over you in paces. He’s pretty sure his clothes are going to smell like your soft-toned, vanilla perfume later, and he quietly delights in this.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says finally, breaking the silence.

You smile. “Shocker.”

He nudges your shoulder with his in faux-admonishment, turning his head toward you. It lingers; he’s closer. Your pulse feels boundless. “I’ve been thinking,” he repeats. “And I’ve realised something.”

You turn your head in tandem, his proximity making you balk. “What’s that, Cameron?”

“If we hadn’t broken up in the first place, I’d probably never have gone to therapy.”

A hush falls. “True.”

“And I’d never have worked through my emotional unavailability and all the problematic shit that comes with it.” He pauses, a heavy emotion making his blue eyes somber. “We’d have stayed together, but I’d never have become the man that you deserve.”

You swallow. “Is that what you are now?” You murmur, your voice unsure. “The man I deserve?”

“I don’t think so,” he answers quietly. “Don’t think I ever will be. But… but I’m working on it, properly this time. And getting to know you again, for real, has made me realise just how worth it this is.”

It’s too much. You make to turn away but Rafe’s hand stops you, gentle but firm on your face. His thumb swipes over your warm cheek in comforting circles, and you find yourself leaning into his touch inadvertently.

Uh oh, you’re falling in love. You sigh. “It feels inevitable, huh?”

“D’you believe in soulmates, Y/N?”

Your lashes flutter shut in response. Rafe inches closer still, his hand slipping down to your jaw, and when he kisses you, old embers create a new flame within your heart. It’s chaste, unsure, a second first kiss. And yet, though it’s soft, the press of his lips is a ravaging embrace.

“Do you, Rafe?” You return, opening your eyes tentatively.

His gaze is still trained on your pretty mouth, less iris than pupil as his yearning transcends everything else. He presses his thumb on your lower lip gently. “Only if it’s you.”

“I think I am,” you murmur.

Rafe smiles. Oh no, he’s falling in love again. “I think you are too.”

—

I thought the plane was going down / How’d you turn it right around?

[wakeup01]

Hey, is it still open ? If it is, I've got something to ask. See, the university that I attend is apparently quite focused on sports, when compared to degrees such as mine in linguistics. It means that, on my way to class, I see a lot of hot men with great hairstyles, and I've always felt a bit jealous at that. Don't get me wrong, I love the eyecandy, but it always made me wonder what would happen if, one day, I entered the wrong building. Could you help me to see what would happen ? Just as an experiment, of course, I want to go back to my degree nice and easy after that...

Team Player

Linguistics? Oh dear, oh dear. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you won’t be getting anywhere with that. But don’t worry, I’m feeling generous today. Okay, listen up. It’s very simple, all you have to do is follow that hot jock with the gelled blond hair to the left. No, no, not the right, the left. Take note of his smile. The way he laughs at literally nothing. Why? Oh, no reason…

Whoops. The locker room you say? What a blunder. Egg on my face, I tell ya. But while you’re there, maybe it’s worth taking in the sights and….smells. Every step is like walking through the humid air of the jungle, a breeze of sweaty jockstraps assaults you from every direction as the Football team get changed. You fail to avert your eyes from their hot glistening bodies, the display of pure strength and testosterone.

The jock you followed in notices you, notices certain inadequacies that need amending if you’re gonna be on the team. The team? Yes, the team. That messy hair for one. You barely get the opportunity to argue as he sits you down and scrapes the clippers across your skull. The buzzing sound makes you shiver. An overwhelming lightheaded feeling allows him to easily tilt your head down and mow the back. Running his hands through what little remains as he gells it up into a spiky jock style. Patting your strapped rear and padded thighs as the dirty, preused tight leggings pull up your legs and cover your cupped crotch. Your mouth opens, opens before your brain has engaged, just hanging ajar for several seconds. “B—bro.” The word is more of a proclamation than anything else. You impulsively adjust your junk, a clear shadow visibly outlines where your big balls push the cup outward.

He tells you that the newbies are liable if the team loses. That would be you. Taking one…or many, so to speak, for the team is the accepted punishment. He tells you this while stroking at his own cupped groin, a rather large bulge growing as you swallow hard.

Before you know it, you’re completely kitted out in the heavy uniform, a thick helmet lowering over your head - silencing those niggling doubts in the back of your increasingly tiny, sports obsessed mind. It’s like a deprivation chamber for your head, your inner monologue being blocked. The only thing that matters to you now is the game.

The game.

The ball.

The team.

The… punishment.

The twitching of your cock and ass makes you wonder if losing would be all that bad. You stand up and admire yourself. You barely recognise what you see, uncontrollably getting turned on by your own appearance. Were your arms always that chunky, that tanned? Like prime cooked beef hanging from your wide shoulders. Looking like a proper jock boy…smelling like one too. Huhuh. You turn, smiling dimly back at your bro. Laughing out loud for a reason you don’t remember. Uhh, I’m sure it’ll come to you…eventually.

I mean, you’re just trying out something new, right? No harm done, you rationalise as you sprint and achieve your first touchdown, your memory of…le..lin….lingizztics? Completely knocked loose from your ‘bro’d out, empty head.

Of course, the team loses anyway. Though you, and the rest of the team have suspicions about how accidental your ‘fumbles’ really were. Never-mind, that didn’t matter so much anymore, not while the whole team form an orderly queue behind your bent over rear. Your blonde bro is first up, he spreads your sweaty cheeks wide, spits on your crack and lines himself up for the ‘shot’. “You ready to learn how to handle some balls dude?”

“Hell yeah brah!”

[theabysss]

Dance

pairing: sagau!Arlecchino x Reader

summary: The performance is over, the hall is empty and only the two of you are dancing on the stage.

warnings/tags: gn!Reader, religious + cult themes, possessive & obsessive thoughts, yandere.

word count: 1k.~

note: This lovely lady knocked down my entire fic-writing schedule and shamelessly got into the queue, but I forgive her. After all, she is my wife.

The performance ended and the sound of loud applause still hung in the air. The audience had already left, the actors had gone to their dressing rooms, and the hall was completely empty, except for the two of you.

Arlecchino followed you as a shadow as you descended from your loggia and ascended to the stage. You looked around the hall with interest and turned your gaze to her. She managed to keep her outer composure under your scanning gaze, but inside her, anxiety began to slowly rise. Is there something wrong with her looks? Before she had time to get completely flustered, you walked up to her and smiled as you held out your hand to her.

"Dance?"

Her heart skips a beat and she peers into your face in amazement, her mouth slightly parted and she tries to say at least something, but the words freeze on her lips. You looked at her so tenderly, waiting for her answer, Arlecchino swallowed hard, your kindness was often sung in songs, but the encounter with this, amazed, shocked, stole all the air from her lungs.

You did her such an honor with your invitation, here on the stage you stood patiently waiting for her answer, as if you thought that she could refuse you. She would never do that, Arlecchino never refused the gifts of fate.

You were too kind a god, graciously distributing your grace to everyone, even those who did not really deserve it. Arlecchino clenched her hand into a fist, digging her nails into her palm, these disgusting miserable creatures, none of them had the right to bask in the rays of your strength, enjoy your attention. To tear them apart, mutilate them so that the thought of meeting with you would not dare to come to mind.

She shook her head to drive away bad thoughts and finally carefully put her hand in yours, as if afraid that it would melts like dew in the morning.

When you pull her to you, goosebumps go down the back of Arlecchino, you were so close and it clouded her mind better than any wine or fire water from Snezhnay.

You were the Creator of Teyvat, the God she prayed to as a little girl, standing in the cold with numb fingers that she didn't feel at all then. A weak child who spent hours in front of your statue on the street in the small village where she lived. Then it seemed to her that a wild cold settled right in her bones, but Arlecchino did not stop, whispering the words of prayer with her blue, cracked lips.

Your hand on her lower back, burning heat penetrated through the layers of clothing and seemed to reach the heart in a warm wave. Arlecchino put her hand on your shoulder and licked her dry lips. As you gently intertwined your fingers, she bit her bottom lip with force almost to the point of blood.

As a child, she could not even dream of the opportunity to see you live, to stand so close that she could feel your breath on her face. She tries to snuggle even closer to you and draws in the air next to your skin, enjoying your natural scent. Bliss.

You start dancing and Arlecchino obediently moves with you in the same rhythm, adjusting to your pace. Another step, turn, the hem of her tailcoat develops behind her, following the movements. The sound of Arlecchino's heels echoes through the empty hall. Her body was filled with a weightlessness that she had not felt before, as if she had wings growing behind her back. Next to you it has always been like this, life is usually gray and tasteless filled with colors.

She keeps her eyes on you, absorbing every change of emotion on your face. Greedily, inextricably as your faithful follower shouldn't have done, but she just couldn't stop. Closer, get even closer to you, until she becomes the one you trust the most, get rid of all the annoying insects spinning around you. So that your warmth, your tenderness, belong only to her.

Music begins to play softly, gradually becoming louder, sounding from all sides.

"I think it will be better with music."

A playful smile appears on your face and Arlecchino wants to kiss it. Right now, press her lips to yours, steal your breath and never breathe out again, keeping a part of you in yourself.

Seconds pass adding up into minutes, the time of your closeness that Arlecchino burns into her memory, stores like gems in a cache. The awkward movement leading up to a brief contact of yours thighs sends shivers up her back and leaves her legs weak.

Your shadows under the harsh spotlight look inseparable, merged so strongly and completely that they are unable to part.

The last chords that put a bitter taste in Arlecchino's mouth and mark the end of her happiness. The footsteps slow down and you freeze under the ensuing deafening silence. Arlecchino's back arched, supported only by your hand, your faces so close to each other that she could count your eyelashes. The smallest distance between your lips beckoned to reduce it, to succumb to passion, to let go of control.

You close your eyes and gently touch your lips to hers. Cautiously, as if Arlecchino were an expensive crystal that threatened to break from any careless movement, tremulously like the touch of a butterfly's wings. Arlecchino deepens the kiss, her hand moving to the back of your head. You were like spring water, your taste was sweet and refreshing, only making her want more. No matter how much she try, there will always be little, a thirst that could not be quenched.

Arlecchino wasn't about to let you go, not after she got so close. She will convince you that she is the best, that she is more worthy than any of your followers, be they archons or ordinary owners of vision. Anything for you, just be close to her, save all your smiles and tenderness only for her. All you are only for her.

Reblogs, comments, are always greatly appreciated! ヽ(o^ ^o)ﾉ

[churipu]

rules !

( 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 )

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[ ✓ ] i write my requests based on who requested first, so if yours is taking long, just know that i'm not ignoring nor deleting your request (sometimes i accidentally put your requests on the queue list — and i don't know how to edit it, so your request will still be posted in the form of a screenshot! sorry) -> update: i finally know how :D !

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blocked ! i will not hesitate to block the accounts who are as the following criteria:

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( 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐘 )

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© CHURIPU 2024 . hope you follow my rules before interacting !

finished reading? you can now proceed to my masterlist !

[the-s1lly-corner]

Father x Reader with the ability to make snow (Fire x Snow thingy)

Father x reader w/ snow powers

Writing this a few days before I have to go out of state (hooray queue!!) And this is genuinely the worst time for me to crave cake; I COULD make it and eat some but most of it will be left here for a few days Grrgrr I'll probably make some when I come back

Notes: reader is GN

CWs: None

At first he may be a little.. how does one say it.. threatened.. by it- you could easily snuff out his fire.. though over time he grows more trusting of you because if you had plans to do it you'd have MANY chances to do so

Cannot hold your snowflakes to look at the formations because hes just so naturally warm.. if you make a mini snow day for others or yourself to enjoy father leaves a small circle of melted snow around him where he stands- even when hes not on fire.. the guy is just very warm

On the flip side you're very cold, but that's not going to stop him touching you- just mind the tiny jolt the first few times

Maybe I'm weird but the idea of the two of you holding hands and having your extreme body temperatures cancel out and meet in the middle has me soft

On the chance you look like him- with the silhouette/shadow look regardless of what color, theres DEFINITELY going to be a bit of a gag where you guys compliment it- not too different from the I.T. episode where they were trying to get father to say tag and they bring up the shadow stuff

"Is that a new suit-" "oh you noticed c:" or however it went, paraphrasing here

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 53

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 53: The Hunger of Man

AO3 - Masterlist

SMUT!

From his concealed position, Aemond attentively observed as his mother engaged in conversation with Daenera. A growing sense of wariness and apprehension filled the air, the tension between the two women palpable, almost as if one could reach out and touch it. The smoke from the overly sweet incense hung heavily in the air, adding to the already dense atmosphere. 

A growing queue of commoners had begun to form at the base of the stairs, leading up to the dais and altar, their whispers and murmurings filling the expansive space under the domed roof. Beams of sunlight attempted to cut through the smoke-filled air, but the shadows seemed to be holding their ground, refusing to let the light fully illuminate the darkened space. 

Aemond’s gaze then shifted to his lover, Daenera, draped in black attire. Her hair was neatly pinned up, obscured by a heavy black veil. The dress was adorned with silver accents, showcasing a subtle elegance and luxury that didn’t scream for attention but demanded it nonetheless. He couldn’t help but notice the curious glances thrown in her direction, as people tried to peek through her veil, attempting to gauge the depths of her sorrow, as she had worn it over her face during the sermon. 

It irked him, the way she flawlessly portrayed the role of a grieving widow. He couldn’t help but wonder–how would she react if she were mourning someone she held dear? Would her grief still be this poised, a carefully crafted performance for those around her? Or would it be raw, violent even, fueled by a rage demanding retribution? Would it be a beast with claws and fangs and a thirst for blood?

Before his brother’s presence became visible, Aemond sensed him approaching. Aegon positioned himself on Aemond’s better side, allowing him a clear view from the corner of his eye. 

“She’s quite the convincing widow, isn’t she?” Aegon commented, his voice laced with a drawl. “Care to know my thoughts on this?”

With a curt response, Aemond replied, “No.”

“I believe the stag uncovered the truth about his delicate doe’s escapades with the dragon. And I suspect the dragon might have silenced the stag to conceal their affair – perhaps with the doe’s consent,” Aegon speculated, his voice taking on a tone of amused malevolence as he picked at Aemond’s dwindling patience. “Regardless of the actual participants, the doe puts on a splendid show of mourning. Yet, it raises the question: how did the stag discover their secret? Clearly, it wasn’t the dragon or the doe that admitted to their wrongdoing.”

Are you suggesting the fool?” Aemond snapped, fixing his brother with a glare, only to receive a typical grimace in return and a nonchalant shrug of one shoulder. 

“The fool assured the dragon he played no part in revealing his secret,” Aegon responded sharply. “I, for one, suspect our lord of the fireflies.”

“You’d do well to mind your words and your surroundings, brother. Your little tales might be misunderstood,” Aemond warned, feeling his annoyance rise like boiling water threatening to overflow. “I am not like you, depraved .”

Aegon raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips, “Are you entirely certain of that?” His arrogance was palpable, and it seemed to make Aemond’s blood boil even more. “You’re not as decent and moral as you like to think you are. Beneath that veneer, you might find more in common with me than you think, after all, you had an illicit affair with a married woman. What honorable man does that?”

His voice was steady, just loud enough to carry over the loud hum of conversation filling the sept, ensuring their conversation remained private. “At the very least, I don’t seek out pleasure in the brothels or in the fighting pits, delighting in the sight of children being pitted against each other in a fight to the death.”

“They don’t kill each other… Often ,” Aegon countered, his tone casual as if to downplay the gravity of his indulgences, as if there was a moral high ground to be found in the frequency of the bloodshed he delighted in. 

Aemond couldn’t help but think that Aegon’s depravity was akin to that of a mongrel dog’s rabies–incurable and vile. 

Undeterred, Aemond pressed on, the disgust in his voice palpable as he revealed, “And I certainly am not the one who takes pleasure in assaulting the servant girls or finds amusement in debasing myself with wooden phalluses.”

He couldn’t mask the contempt he felt, especially knowing that Aegon’s personal chambers were a testament to his perverse inclinations, littered with wooden phalluses in a display that was nothing short of shameful. Once, he may have been curious of his brother’s depravity, but as he grew, he saw it for what it really was. 

Aegon, however, was unphased, responding with a twisted grin, “Maybe if you tried taking that proverbial stick out your ass and tried something a bit more… unconventional, you might find yourself enjoying life a bit more. I assure you, it’s a whole new world of pleasure.”

His mere words were blasphemous, especially within the sanctity of the sept, and Aemond felt as though the earth would split open and swallow his brother whole. 

“You are utterly repugnant,” Aemond spat out, his growl resonating with the depth of his disdain for his brother's proclivities. 

He cast one last glance towards Daenera, catching a moment where she withdrew her hand from his mother’s grasp and exchanged a few words. He then made his exit, leaving the dim confines of the sept for the sunlight outside. 

Just as Aemond was preparing to mount his horse, the distinct voice of his mother pierced through the air. “Aemond, you will be accompanying your brother and I in the litter.”

Aemond couldn’t hide the scowl that marred his features as he backed away from his horse. He pulled off his leather gloves, tucking them neatly into his sword belt. His mother gracefully made her way into the litter, her dark green gown billowing behind her before she settled inside. 

A sense of unease settled heavily in Aemond’s stomach, feeling akin to a dense stone. With cautious steps, he joined his family in the litter, positioning himself across from his mother and Aegon. Aegon was sprawled in a way that was somewhere between sitting and lying down, his chin rested against his collarbone, exposing the skin beneath his jaw in a rather unflattering manner. His posture and demeanor resembled that of a petulant child. 

Alicent presented the picture of composed elegance as she sat with her hands folded upon her lap, fingers idly twisting the rings on her hand the only indicator of her irritation. Her back maintained an impeccable straightness and her shoulders squared in a posture of regality. Her lips were tightly pursed, showcasing her displeasure, while her eyes, sharp and scrutinizing, tracked Aemond’s movement as he settled into his seat across from her. Only then did they slide to his brother.

As the door was securely closed and locked, the sunlight from outside filtered through the litter’s exquisitely carved openings, causing an elaborate dance of light and shadows through the interior. The intricate patterns played across their clothing as the litter began to move. 

Within the confined space of the litter, the atmosphere grew increasingly oppressive. The air turned hot and sticky, making it difficult to breathe comfortably–though it was far better than the sweet air of the sept. Meanwhile, the sounds from the world outside made themselves known, creating a contrasting ambiance. 

The hustle and bustle of the city, the steady clip-clop of horses’ hooves, and the distant hum of conversations formed a backdrop of noise. Occasionally, the litter would sway roughly, accompanied by the creaking of its frame and the subtle rustle of fabric as its occupants shifted. Despite the cacophony of sounds from the busy streets, the interior of the litter felt eerily silent, the tension within creating a bubble that seemed to mute the outside world, adding to the stifling atmosphere.

“Aegon, would you care to share what you’ve been doing?” Alicent shattered the lingering silence, her voice strained and tense, akin to a bowstring pulled tight, ready to propel an arrow forward. Her fingers fidgeted with her ring, roughly twisting it as a distraction to prevent herself from picking at her skin anxiously.  

Aegon, caught off guard, furrowed his brows in confusion and straightened himself up a bit, his voice coming out as a bewildered echo, “Have I done something to upset you?”

“Have you?” Alicent shot back sharply, her voice carrying a pointed accusation. 

“Well, that depends on what you’re referring to,” Aegon responded, his face betraying his thoughts as Aemond observed him mentally sorting through all the potential issues that could have reached their mother’s ears. He swallowed hard, a frustrated shake of his head indicating his resignation to an impending reprimand.

“It has been brought to my attention–”

“Meaning the lord confessor has been whispering in your ear…” Aegon mumbled quietly, almost to himself, before he clamped his teeth on a nail of his, picking at it. 

“–that the princess has been engaged in an illicit affair,” Alicent finished, choosing to ignore her son’s muttering and pressing forward with her revelation. “And she herself all but confirmed it.”

Baffled, Aegon stopped chewing on his thumb and spat out the sliver of nail he had managed to rip off, and as he spoke, his eyes narrowed in bewilderment. “You believe it is I, she’s been having an affair with?”

“Is it not?” Alicent pressed, her gaze sharp and piercing as she fixed her eyes on her son, seemingly attempting to see straight through him. Her brows set in a stern, accusing manner, reflecting her disbelief and the extent of her incredulity at her son’s supposed foolishness. 

Slowly, Aegon’s gaze shifted to Aemond, his lips curving into a smug smile. He couldn’t hold back his laughter as Alicent’s gaze followed his, her eyes now narrowing in Aemond’s direction.

Aemond could feel the intensity of her disbelief and shock, as if it were a whip cutting through the air to strike at his skin, leaving behind welts and a sharp, sting sensation. His brother’s laughter only added insult to injury, making the moment all the more humiliating. Instinctively, his fingers curled into tight fists, his blunt nails digging into the flesh of his palms as he struggled to maintain his composure. 

“Truly, Mother, for once, your concerns should be directed elsewhere,” Aegon declared, his voice laced with amusement and a touch of irony. 

“Aemond,” she stammered, clearly in shock and taken aback. “Is this true?”

All Aemond could muster was a profound swallow, his back stiffening as he found himself under the intense scrutiny of his mother. He realized there was no other course of action but to acknowledge the truth. “Yes, it’s true.”

“He’s been fucking her!” Aegon chimed in, his tone betraying a sense of gleeful revelation. “For several months now, correct? I’ve been attempting to make you aware, Mother. Your esteemed son has been engaged in illicit activities with the princess, right under our noses.”

As Aegon delighted in the rare situation of not being the target of blame and scorn, the silence that remained between Aemond and his mother grew heavy, saturated with her disapproval and a subtle hint of disappointment. After all, Aemond was the son she had always deemed reliable, the one she believed she could trust above all others. Aemond knew this, and perhaps that is why he felt a deep sense of shame.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Alicent finally erupted, her voice resonating loudly within the confines of the litter. “Think about the implications of your reputation! What will transpire once word of this spreads?”

“Indeed, contemplate the potential damage to your reputation, dear brother,” Aegon jeered, his eyes glittering with spiteful delight. “What had become of the obedient, dutiful son? Tell me, how does it feel to now be the source of disappointment?”

“Aegon, refrain from speaking further,” Alicent sharply interjected, shooting her eldest a stern look that demanded immediate silence. Reluctantly, Aegon conceded, visibly expressing his discontent by folding his arms and rolling his eyes in a gesture of annoyance. Alicent then shifted her focus back onto Aemond, her eyes laden with reproach.

Feeling the oppressive weight of her critical stare, Aemond found himself shifting uncomfortably, unaccustomed to being at the receiving end of his mother’s disapproval like this. His hand involuntarily twitched, dragging the nail of his index finger down the length of his thumb, letting it pick at his callouses. His other hand clenched tighter, causing the bandage wrapped around his palm to tighten. The slight pain served as a reminder, and it eased the weight of his mother’s scorn.

“You instructed me to keep an eye–” Aemond began.

“I certainly didn’t instruct you to sleep with her,” Alicent interrupted, her voice laced with frustration. “My expectation was for you to observe her closely and establish a connection, not to risk everything we’ve been working towards! Should rumors start circulating about your illicit affair with her, just think of the consequences for our family. Did you pause to reflect on how your actions tarnish your name? How does it reflect on us?”

Aegon, unable to resist, muttered a snide comment under his breath, while he idly filled with a loose thread on his doublet. “Seems he’s been using the wrong head for thinking.”

Alicent, choosing to overlook Aegon’s remark, pressed on. “What drove you to make such a decision?”

“Initially, my plan was to alienate her, drive her away from King’s Landing,” Aemond responded, pressing his thumb against the fresh cut on his palm, using the sharp pain to ground himself. “However, as I got closer, I recognized an opportunity to infiltrate her inner circle. I took it, believing it would yield valuable information on their activities and intentions.”

“That sounds like nothing more than a feeble excuse,” Aegon sneered under his breath, looking up at Aemond in defiance. 

“Aegon,” Alicent’s tone sharpened as she directed her piercing gaze onto her eldest son again. “It appears you are in dire need of a breath of fresh air. You shall continue the journey on horseback.”

Without hesitation, Alicent rapped sharply on the litter’s wall, signaling for it to halt. 

Aegon, his dissatisfaction now morphing into a scowl, protested, “I have no desire to ride. I prefer to stay and witness my dear brother finally receiving the reprimand he deserves.”

“You will do as I say. A dose of fresh air might actually do you some good,” Alicent retorted, brushing off her son’s sulking as he straightened up, adjusting his doublet by smoothing down the hem. His top two buttons lay undone, and despite Alicent’s painstaking efforts to ensure he was impeccably dressed for the funeral, Aegon seemed perpetually disheveled. “And Aegon, this matter is not to be discussed with anyone. He is your brother, and I will not tolerate you besmirching his name. Do I make myself clear?”

With a rigid nod, Aegon begrudgingly made his way towards the door. “For once, brother, we have something in common.”

He exited the litter, the door promptly closing behind him. 

Only after the litter resumed its motion did Alicent finally shift her attention back to Aemond, her dark eyes searching his expression as though she could read the truth on his face. “I must confess, I am at a loss for words.” 

The queen swept her hand down the fabric of her gown, her fingers delicately tracing the intricate embroidery in a seemingly futile effort to quell her rising anxiety. Her thumb began to worry at her own skin, picking subconsciously as she posed her question, “Were you implicated in the death of Boris Baratheon?”

Aemond managed to maintain a facade of unruffled composure, displaying the kind of indifferent nonchalance that often irked those around him, giving the illusion that he was utterly unaffected by the situation at hand. However, beneath this veneer of calm, there was a subtle tension in his movements, a restiveness that did not go unnoticed by his mother’s discerning eye, particularly the way he, too, was absentmindedly picking at his callouses.

“You were present at the scene of the accident,” Alicent pressed on, not giving Aemond the chance to respond to her initial inquiry before piling on the accusation. “You saw him fall.”

“Though I find no cause to grieve his passing, I did not play a part in his death,” Aemond responded, his words carefully measured. The falsehood left a sour taste in his mouth; he had never intended to deceive his mother, but the truth–that he had been complicit in the death of his lover’s husband–would only serve to cause further grievous injury. As he spoke, he could discern the flicker of doubt in his mother’s brown eyes, a suspicion that only served to intensify the sourness of deceit. 

“Was she the author of his death?” Alicent inquired sharply, her tone cutting through the air. “Maester Orwyle has been unable to provide a clear verdict on whether poison was involved. Knowing her lineage, and her mother’s history, I find it within the realm of possibility that Daenera could resort to such measures.”

“I haven't come across any incriminating evidence that suggests she poisoned him, but as you say, it is not outside the realm of possibility, “Aemond responded, his voice even, as he carefully navigated the treacherous waters of the conversation. He understood the gravity of the situation; revealing Daenera’s confession and their joint involvement in Boris’s demise would undoubtedly seal her fate. 

Aemond knew that his mother would not afford the same protection for Daenera as she did him. His mother would use the knowledge to drive her away from King’s Landing, or worse. She would likely be delivered straight to the executioner’s block, all the while his mother would use the indiscretion and implication to diminish Rhaenyra’s influence and authority. 

Alicent’s brown eyes meticulously scanned Aemond’s face, her sharp gaze analyzing every nuance of his expression. She was adept at reading him, and she could discern the burden of her questions weighing heavily upon him. 

“Should it turn out that she orchestrated her husband’s death, we would find allies in House Baratheon and the entirety of the Stormlands. Borros Baratheon would most certainly demand justice, and Rhaenyra would be compelled to deliver it if she harbors any aspirations for the throne,” Alicent said, her brow furrowing as she seemed to grapple at how to use this strategically. 

“Rhaenyra would never be compelled to deliver her daughter to Borros Baratheon for justice,” Aemond said, feeling a stab of pain wreck through his skull at the reminder of it. “And Daenera would ensure that my name is entwined with hers in the scandal, if not have my head placed alongside hers on the executioner’s block.”

“And what evidence could she possibly bring forth against you that would implicate you?” Alicent retorted, undeterred. “It becomes a matter of her word against yours. We can outright deny the affair, and as you’ve stated, you played no part in her husband’s death.”

“But what evidence do we hold to affirm her guilt in her husband’s murder?” Aemond pressed. 

“Daenera possesses extensive knowledge on the subject of plants, which extends to an understanding of poisons,” Alicent elaborated, digging her claws into the situation to tear it apart and piece it back together again. “I’ve been told that she was vehemently against the marriage. It is not beyond the bounds of reason to suspect her of resorting to poison, particularly considering that Boris Baratheon’s health began to decline only after his arrival to King’s Landing. Maester Orwyle has even entertained the possibility of poisoning as the cause of his ailments.”

Alicent laid out her case meticulously, her voice steady and convincing. “Boris Baratheon wanted to leave King’s Landing. He wanted to take his wife with him to Storm’s End. And then he died.”

“Was it the Lord Confessor who supplied you with all this so-called proof?” Aemond inquired, well aware of Lord Larys Strong’s cunning nature. He did not doubt that it was him that had whispered in Boris Baratheon’s ear, after all, he knew that Larys had gone to the extreme of hiring thugs to assault the Princess and ship her away, in an attempt to prevent her return to King’s Landing and the subsequent marriage. 

Yet, what Larys had failed to consider was the ferocity that Daenera possessed–the same ruthlessness that had enabled her to slowly poison her husband over the course of several months. Aemond found himself inexplicably drawn to this darker aspect of her character. 

“I find it hard to believe that the King would consent to executing Daenera on the basis of hearsay and speculation,” Aemond said, feeling the ache within his head intensify. It only served to make him dig his thumb further into the cut on his palm, attempting to ease the pain in his head by applying it elsewhere. “And should she end up there, I would be right beside her.”

“I would never allow that to transpire,” Alicent assured him fervently. 

“Daenera won’t hesitate to drag me down to the depths of the seven hells with her. Should you choose to unmask her, she’ll unveil our affair and impute her husband’s death onto me,” Aemond argued, laying out the perilous situation at hand. 

He had entangled his fate so intricately with hers that if she were to face the executioner’s blade, he would undoubtedly share the same fate. A tumultuous storm of hatred stirred within him, twisting and turning with a cruel ferocity. It had once been simpler to harbor hatred for her, to desire her ruin and expulsion. 

Yet, her poison had infiltrated his being so profoundly, so extensively, that attempting to extricate it now would only result in his own demise. He’d have to bleed himself dry to remove it from his blood.

Aemond was acutely aware that this moment of reckoning was inevitable. However, he hadn’t anticipated the overwhelming sense of shame that now consumed him, rendering him incapable of confessing the full extent of his transgression or how deeply she had managed to poison him. 

Alicent shook her head, her frustration palpable, her voice elevated in reprimand. “How could you allow yourself to be put in this position?”

Inside Aemond, a blaze of folly and recklessness danced, growing more intense and vibrant with each day that passed. He had endeavored to quench the flames, to submerge himself in a sea of loathing and bitterness, permitting the aridity of his past to dominate his thoughts. It was never his intention for things to unfold this way. 

Yet, his animosity and spite transformed, becoming like oil that, when spilled upon the flames, only served to invigorate the fire, causing it to roar with even greater ferocity. The disdain he wished to harbor transformed into fuel, strengthening the very emotions he sought to extinguish.

Aemond was painfully aware of the absurdity of his emotions, yet, akin to the stars strewn across the night sky, they remained constant and unyielding. These feelings persistently gnawed at the very core of his being, a relentless force that refused to be extinguished or ignored. 

His gaze fell to his hand, where he pressed his thumb into the wound, the blooming of blood stark against the white of the bandage. 

“You claim your purpose is to gather intelligence, yet don’t you see the danger in drawing the enemy so near? She could very well be employing the same strategy against you, Aemond,” Alicent asserted, her voice laced with skepticism. “I implore you, do not descend to their depths. Daenera takes after her mother: she is proud and insolent. I cannot blame her for this, she has been brought up in ignorance.” Alicent reached for her son’s hand, taking it in her own, a furrow creasing her brow as she studied the bloodied bandage. “You must not allow her corruption to taint you.”

But the corruption had already taken hold. 

It had slithered beneath the door in the dead of night, worming its way beneath his sheets to stroke his skin, as it dribbled onto his tongue and slid down his throat. Daenera’s presence had contaminated him, and with every kiss she bestowed, he willingly imbibed more of her poison.

“Don’t even dare to suggest that you intend to pursue this perilous romance,” Alicent admonished, seeming to catch a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability that had managed to break through his composure. 

Facing his mother squarely, Aemond’s eye bore into hers as he boldly articulated his emotions, thereby confirming her worst apprehension. “I want her.”

Aemond watched the astonishment flicker across her face, weaving into incredulity. Her head shook in denial as she averted her gaze from her son. “She is our enemy. You know this. You cannot harbor feelings of love for her. Should she succeed in her endeavors, with Rhaenyra ascending the throne, our lives are forfeit. Your siblings, your niece, and your nephews, and I–we will all face death.”

“I am aware,” Aemond conceded, his tone laced with solemnity, fully cognizant of the grim fate that awaited them should his half-sister claim the throne.

“You are aware?” Alicent’s voice rose in anger. “I am inclined to believe that this infatuation of yours is nothing but a ploy of hers. She is beguiling you, Aemond. You must realize, there is no conceivable future wherein you could attain happiness with her. Are you prepared to risk us all for this… this infatuation?”

“Mother, haven’t I consistently fulfilled my obligations? Haven’t I loyally stood by Aegon’s side, serving as his keeper for all these years?” Aemond’s voice escalated, reverberating through the confined space of the litter. He had always done as he was commanded, he had never shirked his duty or wavered in his loyalty. “Have I not adhered to your every directive as you seek to put the crown on my brother's head? Have I ever asked for anything?”

As their transport meanered towards the Keep, thin beams of sunlight illuminated his words in a light far too bright. The muted sounds of the city’s activity brushed against the litter’s exterior, oblivious to the turmoil swirling within him. The outside world continued on, completely detached from the inner conflict tearing through Aemond’s thoughts. 

“I will not neglect my responsibilities,” Aemond continued, his words a promise determined to assure his mother of his loyalty. “I will protect our family and stand by as Aegon ascends to the throne. I will uphold my brother’s rightful claim and stay faithfully by his side. I know my duties, Mother. I will not waver in them.”

His face hardened as he met his mother’s gaze. “But I want her.”

“And what if it comes to a point where you are compelled to take her life to safeguard our family?” Alicent interjected, her tone laced with severity.

“I would do it,” Aemond declared instantly, without any hint of hesitation. 

The realization struck him with a sudden ferocity, like a bolt of lightning striking a tree and splitting it apart. He acknowledged that he would follow through on any command his mother gave him, even if it meant he would have to kill Daenera. He would steadfastly grasp onto the belief that it was a sacrifice made for the sake of his family. Doubt had no place here; it could not be permitted to sprout and flourish. And, in that moment a stark revelation sent a tremor through him, he understood that in doing so, he would also be interring his own heart, laying it to rest alongside hers. 

He felt his mother’s gaze on him, as she allowed the silence to stretch, counting the heartbeats that passed, one after another. “You wish to wed her?”

Aemond stared back at his mother, the truth at the tip of his tongue. 

He had already bound himself to her, though not through any formality recognized by the gods or men. He had committed himself to her on that silent night, with only the crackling fire as their witness. He could still feel the lingering sting from the dragonglass that had cut into his palm, feeling it fresh as he had aggravated the wound to center himself. And when he instinctively licked his lower lip, the metallic tang of copper was an imagined yet poignant reminder. 

He fully understood what it meant when he had asked her to partake in the ritual.

Even prior to that clandestine moment of unity by the fire, their fates had become intertwined. When he had witnessed her in her vulnerable state, battered and bruised, and she had determinedly slid the ring onto his finger with a singular intention of orchestrating her husband’s death, they had irreversibly tethered their destinies together. 

“Aemond,” Alicent’s voice, softer now, pulled him back as she brushed her thumb against his knuckles, clutching his hand between hers. “Nothing good will come from a union with her.”

“I am aware.” Painfully so. Aware of his own fallacies– he understood that it was irrational of him to want her. But he did.

His mother’s voice grew more insistent, “ Do you truly believe she will harbor any fondness for you after we dethrone her mother? Marry her, and you would be shackling yourself to a sinking ship, naively hoping to stay afloat.”

Much like a moth to a flame, Aemond found himself inexorably drawn to her. They were entwined in a perilous dance, destined to either blaze gloriously together or to be consumed utterly by the fiery passion they shared. 

He was conscious of the fact that this love of theirs was about to end in ruins, yet he yearned for her with an intensity that consumed his very soul. He was prepared to face her scorn, to endure the storm of her rage and resentment when he would eventually take away her mother’s crown. He desired her presence so fervently that he was willing to brave her fiercest wrath, as long as she remained alive and within his reach, safeguarded by his own hands. Even if she were to set their world aflame in her fury, he realized, he would still crave her with every beat of his heart. 

And perhaps, that should be the very reason to withdraw, to turn from her and submerge himself in his own resentment. But he had tasted her poison so sweet, and now he was dependent on it. 

Nevertheless, Aemond understood the grave responsibilities that rested upon his shoulders. If circumstances demanded, he would do whatever was necessary, for the sake of his duty . 

“My heart is heavy with worry for you, Aemond. I cannot bear the thought of you venturing down a path only fraught with anguish and torment. A mother only wishes happiness for her child.” Her hand gave his a squeeze. “Daenera, she is a tempest, and she will never cease her fight against you–against us. She’s her mothers daughter. I beg of you, my son, please reconsider.”

Her hold on his hand grew even tighter, as though she harbored a deep-seated fear that releasing him would send him spiraling beyond her reach, lost to her for all eternity. The intensity in her grasp was palpable, a silent, desperate plea etched into the very act, begging him to stay, to listen, to understand. 

“I fear, if you continue down this path it will be the death of you,” Alicent continued, her voice wavering with emotion as she looked upon him with an expression that fell somewhere between pity and disbelief. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

A spiteful spark kindled within him, tempting him to defy his mother’s words and confess the profound, poisoned depth of his desire for Daenera. He yearned for her with a fervor that burned as fierce as his desire for the throne, a desire selfish, intense, and utterly overwhelming. His longing for the throne may have been an impossible dream, but Daenera–she was within reach. He craved her in a way that was devastatingly vulnerable, bordering on pitiful. Despite the turmoil within, he could not deny the raw, unbridled truth–he wanted her, desperately and completely. 

And yet, he could not have her in the way he wanted. 

“Aemond, you must not bind yourself to her,” Alicent implored, her words piercing through his meticulously constructed facade to embed themselves deep within his very being. “She will steadfastly uphold her mother’s claim to the throne, and in her fervor, she will lead you into the depths of the seven hells. I cannot, and I will not permit her to do so. You are my son. I will not stand by and watch you cast your life away for an infatuation.”

As she reached out to him, her thumb delicately traced the edge of his scar, her touch imbued with a profound emotional intensity. The sensation penetrated his skin, igniting a cascade of memories–the cold steel of the dagger cutting through his eye, the scalding warmth of his blood streaming down his face, the feeling of the remnants of his eye being pulled out of his skull before it was stitched up. He could feel the agonizing pain radiating through his skull, fiery and unbearable, and the unyielding pressure of the sapphire embedded in his socket against the most vulnerable tissues of his head. 

Her gaze lingered on the disfigurement marring his face, darkening with a potent blend of love and fury, as though she was silently vowing to retaliate for the grave injustice inflicted upon him. A whirlpool of resentment surged within her, fueled by the sorrow of her inability to shield her son. She alone had clamored for retribution–for justice. 

“Never forget what they did to you,” Alicent asserted to her son, her voice imbued with a maternal authority. “What they will do to all of us should Rhaenyra take the throne.”

“It is not forgotten, Mother,” Aemond promised, grinding his teeth against the pain and the resentment it fraught within him. “I will demand justice for the both of us. I will always do my duty.”

Gently, Alicent pressed her lips to his forehead. “Word of this mustn’t get out. Do you understand?” 

Aemond surrendered to the tempest of pain, closing his eye as it surged through him with relentless force. Amidst the pain, he became acutely aware of the pulsating ache in his hand, a vivid reminder of another wound, another moment of vulnerability.

Daenera felt weariness wrap around her like a heavy cloak as they navigated the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, with the fading light of evening casting long shadows across their path through the courtyard. A relentless headache crept up from the nape of her neck, embedding itself firmly within her skull and pulsating with a persistent discomfort. The muscles down her back seemed to protest, fatigued and strained, bruised and frayed, as she continued towards her chambers. 

“Could you ensure that Kevan has carried out his instructions, Fenrick? I need to be certain that the woman is safely beyond the city’s limits,” Daenera requested, pushing open the doors to her chambers and striding into her sanctuary, with Fenrick and Joyce trailing behind. The sweet smell of incense lingered uncomfortably in her nose, and she was sure it had permeated the fabric of her clothes. She swiftly removed the mourning veil from her head, releasing a few rebellious strands of hair as she tossed the headdress onto a solitary chair beside the mirror in her bedchamber. She rotated her neck, seeking relief from the tightness that had sent in. 

“Of course–seven hells!” Fenrick’s words cut through the air as his eyebrows knitted together in a harsh frown. 

Daenera’s gaze swept towards her bed, landing on Aemond, who lay sprawled out across the mattress in a display of casual arrogance, his arms folded behind his head and his lone eye shut. She couldn’t suppress an eye roll as Fenrick’s scowl deepened, his gaze locked on the prince as if he could make him disappear with sheer force of will. His disdain, however, would only serve to solidify his presence. 

“He has no business being here,” Fenrick declared tersely, tension radiating from him as Daenera began to unravel her hair. “Have you thought about the consequences if he is seen here?”

“Did you come through the main door?” Daenera inquired, fixing her gaze on Aemond through the mirror’s reflection. He remained unperturbed, blissfully indifferent to Fenrick’s mounting irritation. 

“No,” Aemond responded, his voice laced with a carefree hum.

Tearing his focus away from Aemond, Fenrick moved closer to Daenera, his face etched with concern. “Your husband’s body has yet to be laid to rest and the court’s eyes are firmly on you; this is no time for recklessness. His presence here is ill-advised.”

“Your advice is noted, Fenrick,” Daenera retorted, her tone sharp and resolute. “I believe I’ve already assigned you a mission. Would you see to it?” 

Gritting his teeth in suppressed fury, Fenrick took a moment to compose himself before finally stepping back and offering a curt nod, acquiescing to her authority. 

Seemingly unfazed, Aemond remained on the bed, eyes closed as Daenera freed the final pins from her hair, allowing her dark locks to cascade down her shoulders. Joyce was swift and meticulous, working to undo the intricate laces of her gown and peeling away the layers until Daenera stood in her delicate underdress. 

“Joyce, would you mind reaching out to your contacts to discern whether they’ve managed to catch wind of anything significant?” Daenera requested, moving to pour herself a refreshing cup of water. “Rumors might soon be spreading like wildfire, and I would like to be immediately informed if any of it could pose a threat. And keep an eye on the rookery, please.”

“Princess.” With a nod of understanding, Joyce exited the princess’s chambers, leaving Daenera and Aemond alone. She left the empty cup on the table before moving across the room, her footsteps whispering against the stone floor.  Gracefully lifting the hem of her undergown, she positioned herself over Aemond, straddling his hips with poise. Her fingers traced across his shoulders, toying with the fabric of his undershirt as she dipped down, her lips brushing lightly against his. 

“I do not appreciate your mother accusing me of murdering my poor, sweet husband as I stand vigil by his corpse,” Daenera murmured, her fingers playing with the string of his shirt, a playful yet dark glint in her eyes. “She seems quite convinced I’ve stained my hands with his blood, all to conceal my supposed unfaithfulness…”

Lowering her head, she bestowed gentle kisses along the expanse of his neck, her breath warm and teasing against his skin. She moved her hips in a slow, deliberate rhythm against him, as a hand moved lower, tracing a path down his chest, lingering at the hem of his shirt where it met his trousers. 

Noticing his lack of response, Daenera leaned back, studying Aemond’s face closely, a puzzled pout on her lips. “Is my company not to your liking tonight?”

Aemond’s eye flicked open, his gaze meeting hers with a weighty intensity. “She knows about us.”

With an increased sense of unease, Daenera shifted further away, her eyes intently scanning Aemond’s expression as she sought to understand the full extent of their predicament. She inhaled deeply, holding her breath as she processed the gravity of his words, and then slowly exhaled, attempting to steady her racing thoughts. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, she all but admitted to it, nevertheless, dread washed over her.

“What exactly has she come to know?” Daenera questioned, her voice laced with a hint of urgency as she sought more information. 

“She knows about the affair.” Aemond’s response was grave, his voice carrying a subtle undertone and words void of any reassurance. This revelation only served to intensify Daenera’s frown, prompting her to shift her position on the bed, moving to sit beside him as she thought it through. 

Daenera deciphered the confirmation in his gaze, her voice steady as she asserted, “You’ve affirmed her suspicions.”

His eye remained on her as he admitted calmly, “ I have.”

His forthrightness hung in the air between them. 

Daenera rose from the bed, a tumultuous storm brewing in her eyes as she paced the room. “Your mother won’t hesitate to expose me. She’s already planting seeds of rumors and she’s poised to tell the whole world about my infidelity. She won’t stop there; she will make sure the word reaches Borros Baratheon, severing any remaining ties of alliance that I might still have. She’s already convinced that I killed my husband, and she will make sure everyone believes it too.”

A sensation of vulnerability crept over her, akin to the harrowing moment when her husband had ruthlessly torn her gown, laying her back open for his retribution. The dull ache surged in her back muscles, while the thin fabric of her underdress delicately grazed her tender flesh. She raised her hand, allowing her finger to lightly glide over the contour of her ear. She could feel the roughness of the scabbed wound against her skin.

“Do you intend to let her label me as the great whore?” Daenera demanded, her voice laced with indignation.

Aemond, infuriatingly composed, replied in a tone that was both placid and provocative, “I would think being deemed the great whore implies a far more extensive and scandalous history of promiscuity than mere infidelity… Like your mother.”

Daenera grabbed the item nearest her, a orange, and hurled it at him in anger. It flew through the air and bounced off his body, landing with a thud at his feet. He stared at her, eye wide with indignation.

Daenera’s voice held a venomous edge, her body tense with anger as she practically spat out her words, feeling the blaze of rage and embarrassment within her, sending sparks through her veins. “Have you simply graced me with your presence to bestow upon me the courtesy of a warning? Or is this a twisted form of entertainment for you?”

Aemond’s lip curled into a cruel smirk, his gaze hard as he met her fiery eyes. “I warned her that you would pull me down to the seven hells with you.”

“And I shall,” Daenera affirmed with a sneer.

“She won’t say anything,” Aemond declared, settling himself on the edge of the bed, spreading his legs in a relaxed and infuriating manner that made her want to sink to her knees between them. Daenera hated herself for the feeling and settled herself within her rage.

A surge of bitterness and accusation resonated in Daenera’s voice as she addressed the crux of the matter, her eyes aflame with indignation. “The voice in this sordid tale is your mother. She whispered in Boris’s ear with her speculations and it sent him into that uncontrollable rage.”

The accusation brought a sharpened focus to Aemond’s gaze, his solitary eye narrowing with intensity as he absorbed Daenera’s words. A silent, raw energy emanated from him, almost tangible in its potency. 

“Perhaps we made the mistake of mistaking your husband for a fool,” Aemond responded, his voice carrying a hard edge as he refused to accept the blame towards his mother. 

“ Someone whispered in his ear,” Daenera bit back, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Your mother wanted me to leave the city and she wanted to damage my alliance with House Baratheon.” 

Aemond’s voice carried a mixture of accusation and harsh realism as he spoke, “You were aware of the dangers, the potential fallout of an affair. You knew exactly what the stakes were when you asked me to come to your private chambers. This situation, the predicament we find ourselves in–it is not my mother’s doing.”

“It is if she is the source of the whispers!” Daenera exclaimed, infuriated by his loyalty to his mother. 

Aemond maintained his poised demeanor, yet there was an underlying firmness in his words, a stark reminder of the reality they were entrenched in. His gaze never wavered, it remained coolly on her. “It wasn’t my mother.”

With a scoff, Daenera shook her head, disbelief painting her features. “Who else? Your mother will manipulate the narrative, leaking the information bit by bit while meticulously protecting your name and reputation. Your mother will shield you, but she won’t extend the same courtesy to me.”

“My mother won’t take that risk,” Aemond stated firmly. 

Daenera met his hardened gaze with a challenging glare. “She most certainly would. She will sow the seeds with great care, tend them until they flourish. She’ll do to me what she did to my mother! She’ll manipulate others to reach their own damning conclusions.”

“My mother will stay her hand,” Aemond asserted with a tone of certainty, his eye locked onto Daenera’s with an intensity that was difficult to decipher. Daenera scrutinized his features, seeking clues in the subtlest movements of his face–the way his brows drew together, the depth and hue of the sapphire that replaced his eye, the firm set of his jaw, and the almost imperceptible pull at the corners of his lips. There was something concealed beneath his composure, an enigmatic force shrouded in mystery. 

An invisible chasm began to form between them, gradually widening as the reality they had been so blissfully ignoring asserted its presence. They found themselves on separate sides of this growing abyss, a gap that threatened to either swallow them whole or stretch so far they’d lose sight of each other completely. Yet, in that moment, it remained narrow enough to be dismissed, allowing them to stand there, still within reach. 

“Why?” Daenera questioned apprehensively. 

Aemond’s reply came swift and straightforward, “Because I asked her to.”

“Your mother wouldn’t approve of this,” Daenera remarked, a slight tilt of her head betraying her skepticism as the fiery rage within her began to ebb away, transforming into smoldering embers and a lingering haze of smoke. “She wouldn’t want you here, compromising your honor by persisting in this illicit affair.”

Aemond produced a low hum, a vibration that resonated with the silence of the bedchamber, traveling through the air to send a shudder cascading down her spine. “She indeed disapproves.”

“You’re here nonetheless.”

“I am.”

Daenera’s eyes narrowed as she scanned his face, seeking answers she knew he would not reveal. “The leash has been pulled taut. At her command, you will yield and return to her side.”

“I will,” Aemond conceded, lifting himself off the bed and gliding towards her with a predatory grace. Extending his hand, he gently encased the back of her neck in his firm grip, prompting her to tilt her head back and lock eyes with him. 

“The obedient son; the faithful hound,” Daenera articulated, feeling the pressure of his fingers against the base of her skull, a touch both harsh and claiming. 

A smirk played on his lips as he responded with a drawl, “Yet here I am, bearing a wound on my palm, my hands stained– disobeying .”

His lips hovered dangerously close, tantalizingly so, as he languidly ran his tongue across his lower lip. The invitation was clear, and Daenera couldn’t help but be drawn to it, despite the storm of thoughts raging in her mind. 

“This act of disobedience won’t last indefinitely,” Daenera said and she was acutely aware that if Alicent demanded it, Aemond would retreat to his mothers side. Should his mother wish him to be wed, he would dutifully comply. She would become his clandestine affair, left vulnerable to the ruthless scrutiny of his mother.

“It reaches farther than you might imagine,” Aemond whispered, his forehead coming to rest against hers in a moment of intimacy. His other hand tenderly brushed her hair aside, revealing the bandaged wound and the dark stain of blood that had seeped through, similar to her own.

The way he looked at her seemed to say; Look at what you’ve done to me. Look at what you’ve made of me.  His thumb brushed along the curve under her jaw, tilting her head back so that her eyes met his. “It’s unfair, this desire I feel for you–it is a poison coursing through my veins, and if it were within my power to expel it, I would.”

His eye shifted, taking on a darker hue as his pupil dilated further.The rawness of his tone sent shivers down Daenera’s spine as he painted a vivid imagery–it all laid bare the depth of his desire, and the dangerous dance they were entangled in. 

  And again, with that sentence, there were the unspoken words; This desire, it is comparable to a man who has been deprived of sustenance. It is a monstrous craving, gnawing at my insides, thirsting for the warmth of your blood. It is cruel. And it makes a beast of me. “Your desire will be my ruin,” Daenera murmured, eyes fluttering as he pressed a kiss to her neck. It was indeed not fair. 

She felt his lips trail upward along the delicate column of her neck, finally tracing over her lips. He tenderly grazed his lips over hers, as though experimenting, prompting her to part them slightly, allowing herself to breathe him in, to taste the essence of his desire upon his lips. And then, he fully captured her lips in a fervent, demanding kiss, his tongue seeking entry, eager to explore the depths of her. His hands, now filled with a relentless urgency, held onto her firmly, steering her in a dance of passion as they moved in reverse.

She experiences a gentle nudge at her shoulders, propelling her gently onto the bed. The fragrant aroma of lavender from her fresh sheets and blankets wafted up, filling her senses. Raising her head slightly from the softness of the mattress, Daenera’s eyes locked onto Aemond, who seemed lost in contemplation. His fingers toyed with the fabric of her undergown, slowly gathering it in his hand, bunching it as he gradually exposed more of her legs. The hem teased her knee, caressing her skin as it continued its journey upwards, unveiling the lush curvature of her thighs. His dark gaze lifted from her legs, locking onto hers, consumed by a ravenous hunger in his visible eye. 

Lifting herself onto her elbows, Daenera spoke softly, “We should put an end to this.”

“You’re right; we should,” Aemond concurred, his hand tightening around the fabric of her undergown, as if he loathed to release her so easily.  

“Yet, both know we won’t” Daenera added, her legs gradually opening for him in a silent invitation. 

“It seems my desire for you is not the only one that leads you to ruin,” Aemond whispered huskily, his hands finding her knees. With a sudden, forceful motion, he yanked her towards the edge of the bed, causing the hem of her undergown to rise and reveal more of her, the intimate curls of her cunt now exposed. 

The slick wetness she felt between her legs spoke volumes of her desire, a familiar, pulsating ache spreading through her, as if the desire had a heartbeat of its own. She half-expected him to undo the laces of his trousers; however, he surprised her by sinking to his knees on the cold stone floor. Unceremoniously, he pressed his lips passionately against her, a bold and direct move that left her gasping. 

A surge of intense pleasure caused Daenera’s legs to involuntarily clamp around Aemond’s head, but he was quick to respond, firmly parting her thoughts once more as he unabashedly ravaged her clit with his skilled tongue. He rolled it over the sensitive nub, creating waves of pleasure, before taking it between his lips to suck at it fervently. Daenera’s breath hitched, a moan spilled from her lips, echoing through the chamber as her fingers gripped the sheets beneath her. 

“Aem–Gods!” Daenera exclaimed, her back arching off the mattress as Aemond’s relentless attention continued. She could feel her own arousal trickling down, dampening the blanket draped off the bed’s edge. 

His hands, now more insistent, held her open wider, granting him unrestricted access to delve his tongue through her drenched folds, circling her clit before drawing it back into his mouth, sucking at it. His actions were almost punishing, pushing her even closer to the brink, as if he were channeling fury into desire. 

And perhaps, Daenera realized, he was both furious and voraciously hungry for her all at once. 

As Aemond looked up at her, his eye sparked with a wicked delight and a ravenous intensity, promising complete and utter consumption. She was under no illusions; he intended to devour her whole.

The lascivious symphony of his tongue delving into her soaked folds filled the air, blending seamlessly with her ragged moans and sharp intakes of breath. Daenera writhed under his ministrations, her body responding instinctively, her core tightening in anticipation. Her walls fluttered around the emptiness, craving more as he drow his tongue inside of her, feasting on her like a man ravaging a ripe fruit with his bare hands. He sucked at her, drawing out her juices, indulging in her as if she were the sweetest nectar. 

Daenera’s entire being seemed to constrict as her climax washed over her, her essence spilling onto Aemond’s tongue while her legs trembled around his head. A prolonged, resonant moan escaped her lips, filling the room as her back created an arc off the bed. She struggled for breath, gasping in short, choppy inhalations, as he continued his ministrations, dragging his tongue up along her folds to lavish attention once more upon her sensitive clit.

He shifted, trailing his lips away from her cunt, nestling his nose close and taking a deep inhale of her unique scent. This intimate act sent a wave of heat to Daenera’s cheeks, tinging them a deep shade of red as she registered the unabashed audacity of this action. 

“I would have taken you in the sept,” Aemond murmured, his voice low and husky. His breath tickled over her wet cunt, his lips glistening with the remnants of her. “However depraved it is, I would have claimed you right there against the altar and fucked you like I did that night when you invited me to your chamber. It would serve as a spectacular farewell for your wretched husband.”

A laugh climbed its way through her throat and tore its way into the world. “If your mother could hear you now.”

Her laughter transformed into a sharp gasp when she felt the sudden and forceful intrusion of his two fingers within her, her inner walls clenching tightly around them. She wasn’t sure whether the sting served to sharpen her desire or whether she wanted him to pull out of her, and in truth, he left her no time to sort it out on her own. 

Aemond resumed his oral ministrations, fervently sucking at her sensitive clit. His fingers skillfully navigated her inner depths, caressing her spongy walls and pinpointing every sensitive spot to exploit. He found that area that made her hips lift up the bed, and he seemed satisfied with the reaction from the humm that reverberated through his lips and into her clit. 

Shifting her position, Aemond guided her legs to rest behind his shoulders, leaving her entirely exposed and at his mercy. His other hand wrapped around her hip, holding her firmly in place as he relentlessly fingered her, his tongue gliding through her wet folds and applying pressure to her swollen, overly sensitive clit. 

“‘s to fast,” Daenera breathed, her hands desperately clutching the sheets, her body trembling as he propelled her towards another overwhelming climax. The intensity of the sensation bordered on pain, and she dragged in ragged breaths, biting down on her bottom lip in a futile attempt to stifle the whimpers threatening to escape, fully aware that any sign of her unraveling would only fuel his satisfaction. 

“Aemond,” Daenera mewled breathlessly, “I-I-I’m–”

Her cunt spasmed around his intruding digits, a surge of wetness gushing forth as waves of pleasure washed over her again. Her mind was engulfed in a haze, and it felt as though every ounce of blood had surged from her head and straight to her throbbing center. 

Aemond’s voice was husky and rough as he drawled, “Imagine if your fathers, Laenor, Harwin… Daemon witnessed this scene,” whilst wiping his chin against her inner thigh, leaving a trail of warmth. “Here you are, breathless, whimpering sweetly, all while being thoroughly fucked by a man they hate.”

Daenera let out a sharp yelp when he delivered a slap to her cunt, her inner walls clamping down tightly around his fingers. Her eyes widened in a mix of shock and pleasure as another spank landed, his lips planing forceful kisses along her inner thighs, enough to leave a trail of blooming purples and reds. Every now and then, he would bite into the soft flesh, an exquisite mixture of pain and pleasure. He slapped her once again, and then twice, before resuming the motion of his fingers. 

The sensation was intense, almost too much to bear. Her cunt were incredibly sensitive following her consecutive orgasms, yet Aemond showed no sign of relenting. His eye gleamed with mischief as he lavished attention upon her with his tongue, switching to suckle at the flesh of her other thigh. Meanwhile, one hand resumed its rough movements inside her, while the other teased her swollen, tender clit, now a vivid shade of red from his persistent attention. 

“Please,” Daenera found herself whimpering, caught between seeking more and begging for reprieve. The amalgamation of pleasure and pain created an overwhelming tide of sensations, her mind swimming with it. “It’s too much—I can’t—Aemond–”

Her breaths came out in quick, short pants. “Fuck, fuck, fuck–Aemond.”

Her pleas were breathy, filled with desperation as she was swept further into the storm of her own senses, her cunt fluttering and gushing. 

Upon turning her other thigh into a canvas of blossoming hues, Aemond shifted his attention back to her clit, showering it with fervent kisses. The mere contact was enough to send her spiraling over the edge once more. Daenera’s eyes fluttered closed as pleasure washed over her, her hand tangling in his hair, torn between drawing him closer and pushing him away.

Aemond relentlessly coaked four additional climaxes from her weary body, pushing her beyond her limits until she was left breathless, whimpering, and completely lost in the sea of overwhelming pleasure, skirting the line of exquisite torture. 

Her legs shook uncontrollably, her body rendered boneless and weak, leaving her in a state of blissful surrender. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she vowed to one day return this torture. 

Only then did Aemond finally draw back, discarding his shirt and using it to wipe away the remnants of her pleasure from his face. 

Daenera lay sprawled on the bed, her entire being buzzing with sensitivity, her gaze hazy as she stared unfocused at the canopy above. 

Without a word, Aemond reached out, his hands securing her hips as he gently rolled her onto her stomach, her hair spilling into her face. Her hips and legs now dangled precariously over the bed and were it not for his hold, she would have slipped onto the floor. Her breath caught in her lungs as he began to knead the flesh of her backside. He worked the underdress up, higher and higher, only to abruptly stop. 

A deep, guttural groan escaped Daenera’s lips as she felt the head of his cock teasing her swollen folds, drawing up and down her slit before finally piercing her. She felt her inner walls tighten around him in an overwhelming mix of pleasure and intensity as he pressed further and further inside her. A raw whimper tore from her throat as her body stretched to accommodate him, her muscles fluttering around him in a conflicting dance of resistance and invitation. 

Just as he was on the verge of burying himself completely within her, he withdrew, only to abruptly snap his hips forward, filling her entirely. His cock stretched her tender walls to their limit, reaching depths and applying pressure in ways his fingers never could.

 Daenera felt her body respond, clenching tightly around him once more, as a wave of pleasure surged through her, culminating in a small, yet intense orgasm from the force of his single, powerful thrust. 

“Would you have liked me to fuck you infront of your dead husband?” Aemond questioned and she heard the sound of his breath being drawn in through clenched teeth. 

With her head turned to the side and hands gripping the sheets tightly, Daenera braced herself as Aemond established a fierce and relentless pace. His hips crashed against her backside, the sound resonating through the room as the impact caused her flesh to quiver. His testicles consistently struck against her overstimulated clit, each contact stealing her breath away in a series of soft mewls. 

“Hmm?” Aemond hummed and she could hear the smugness in his voice. “Have I managed to fuck you silly.” 

Daenera could not form a word of reply, her mind scattered completely. 

Aemond’s hands were firm on her hips, his fingers pressing deeply into her flesh, as the room was filled with more sounds. A low, guttural moan vibrated from his chest as he relinquished his grip on one of her hips, his hand moving to grasp the nape of her neck instead. He continued his merciless thrusts, dominating her completely, as her body surrendered to his relentless pace and power. 

As Aemond reached his peak, releasing his seed deep within her, Daenera felt her own body respond in kind. Her inner walls tightened and fluttered around him, coaxing her into one final, overwhelming orgasm that left her utterly spent and limp. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his release filling her, mixing with her own fluids that were already trickling down her thighs. 

When he finally withdrew from her, a sharp gasp escaped her lips as a rush of their mingled essence flowed out. Had her grip on the sheets been any looser, she might have found herself sliding onto the floor, her body unable to support her any longer. Her eyelids fluttered weakly, her mind bathed in a serene and blissful silence, as she lay there, completely ravished. 

Daenera was almost entirely unaware of Aemond’s movements throughout the room until she felt a cool, damp cloth gently caress her inner thigh. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, revealing Aemond attentively wiping her down, removing any excess of fluids. His cheeks were tinged with a soft flush, and beads of sweat clung to the hairs at the nape of his neck. 

With a gentleness that contrasted sharply with his earlier fervor, Aemond guided her beneath the comfort of the covers. Silently, he joined her, his actions marked by a quietude that enveloped the room in a serene calmness. 

As dawn broke, Daenera discovered that Aemond still lay beside her in bed, undisturbed by the morning light, the sapphire gleaming with something unknown. The morning held a new sense of intimacy and closeness, as their usual dalliance had always ended by the first morning light. 

And much to her servants dismay, Aemond remained in bed sleeping while she was made ready for the sept.

Finally! After posting every day for over a month, we've reached the point where we've caught up to the story! From now on the newest chapter will be posted on Fridays after being posted on AO3.

[zonnemaagd]

So Long, Traveller

A traveller arrives at a mysterious station. Unsure about how he got there, he ventures deeper inside, past faceless passersby and porters draped in shadow. But while passing through the darkness, the traveller can't help but feel like he doesn't belong there. The air begins to pull on his lungs, and with every step he takes he becomes more aware that something, or someone perhaps, is watching him. Follow his journey through the station, as the inspector's words ring through his mind.

We all have a ticket here.

~7500 words, story continues below the cut

The traveller has never seen such an unnerving smile before. “Your ticket, sir?” The inspector bends forward, pushing the smile beneath his neatly trimmed sideburns to its limits. They stand in a dusty hallway, the walls composed of bricks stacked onto each other in ways that shouldn’t be possible. In between the cracks, the traveller is able to see something vibrating in the darkness behind the wall. Unsatisfied with the lack of response, the inspector bows even deeper, nearly letting the scarlet cap slide off his head. “Sir?” The traveller’s blue and grey eyes stare back at the inspector, blank, unsure. “My ticket? I’m sorry, I don’t think I have a ticket on me.” The inspector folds his hands in front of him and straightens his back. His grin grows even wider, the tips breaking off the edge of his face. “Of course you do, Sir. We all have a ticket here. Please check your pockets.”

The traveller looks down, eyeing the teal suit perfectly draped over his shoulders with suspicion. It is the kind once worn in the Parisian salons of old. He sniffs, the faint odour of freshly cut grass glazed with dew catching him by surprise. His hands drop into his pockets, pulling them inside out, showing them empty.

“I’m afraid I really don’t have a ticket.”

The inspector manages to keep his iron grip on his grin, though something in his face, behind his face, changes, as if his teeth are desperately trying to break free.

“I see,” he says, stepping back. With a flourish, he takes a telephone off the wall behind him. He speaks, the words mixing with omnipresent noise until they reach the traveller, unintelligible. The telephone is put back on the wall with a nod.

“Please step back and remain there for a moment.”

He pushes the traveller against the wall, his movements gentle yet forceful, before stepping back to his original position. Another person steps in front of the traveller, handing a slip of paper to the inspector, who takes the slip into his hands and closes his eyes. Without a word, he hands it back to them, gesturing them to a set of doors on his right.

After taking a moment to ground himself, the traveller looks around, noticing only now the grand red doors the person in front of him just left through. The golden lines decorating them are drawn with extreme precision. The rest of the hall is gloomy, illuminated only by a faint lanternlight casting shadows on the uneven brickwork. The pleasant smell of freshly cut grass has all but disappeared, a musky smell roaming around in its stead. An endless queue of people stretches out into the darkness on his right, the dimly lit room leaving them all without a face.

 The sound of footsteps approaching draws his attention towards the far end of the queue. The steps are rhythmic, aligned with perfection, unnatural. A slither of panic rushes through the traveller’s face. His pupils shrink, turning his focus inwards. There, the words of the inspector echo through his head.

We all have a ticket here.

He checks his coat for more pockets, sliding his hands over his waistcoat and pants, finding none. His fingers tense, their motions rigid. The footsteps grow louder, their ticking melodic, like the seconds passing on an old clock. He looks to his right, squinting to make sense of the approaching figures. He then checks the outside of his coat, his back, and even behind his ears. His fingers stop when they touch the hard fabric of the top hat resting on red curls. With a frown he takes the hat and holds it out in front of him. With a sigh of relief, he grabs the ticket stuck between the hat and the band wrapped around it. He turns it around, inspecting it. The Readsbury Railway Express is printed on it with a fine red lettering. A date is printed on the bottom left, while the bottom right says Wildhoeve, followed by a string of numbers and letters.

The drumming of footsteps puts the urgency back in his eyes. He steps forward, cutting the queue.

“Sir? I had only misplaced my ticket.”

The inspector turns his heartless eyes back to the traveller. He opens his hand and holds it out in front of him.

“Of course.”

The traveller places the slip of paper in the inspector’s hand and watches him crumple it in his fist. Only a moment later does he hand it back to the traveller.

“If you could.”

He gestures to the red door, which swings open as soon as the traveller touches his ticket. The traveller is pushed through and into the main hall. The slip in his hand now has a time, 14;32, and platform nineteen written on it. He glances back, finding the door closed already. Nothing suggests that he has just come from a crowded, musky hallway.

His eyes grow wide, even forcing his lips into an awe-filled smile. The hallway in front of him is massive. Circular walls are decorated with fresco’s, their dreamlike scenes interrupted only by the occasional pillar. His gaze is glued to the fountain in the centre of the room. A stone siren floats graciously, a stream of water flowing from the orb in her hand. Before he knows it, he stands in front of her, having only faint memories of walking there. Up close, the shapes are much clearer, the siren lifelike. Her gaze is cast upwards towards the dark ceiling, the stone eyes full of life. What he mistook for an orb, however, turns out to be a skull, the water flowing from its opened mouth.

The space opens up behind the fountain. A dozen stairways crawl up against the walls, leading out of the entrance hall. Behind them, some twenty platforms lie, each filled with a mass of featureless figures. The trains waiting there are old, the long barrels followed by high-class carriages, each lined with the same golden lining as the door the traveller has just passed through. Steam erupts from each train, rising high into the sky, creating a cushion of low hanging clouds. The lanterns hanging from the ceiling pierce through the smoke, their pale light painting stars.

The enormity of the room dawns on the traveller, who takes a step back. He looks back towards the door, retracing his steps in his mind, all the way back to his encounter with the inspector. But before that, his memory is as foggy as the clouds hanging above him.

Something shoves him out of the way. It’s a passerby wearing a winter coat. They mumble a complaint, words filled with emotion instead of structure, and move back into the crowd filling the station.

The traveller looks around, mesmerised by the mass of blue, grey and brown coats. Their steps are filled with intent, their featureless faced fixed on their destination. Hoping to find answers, he steps into the stream of passersby. Like a creak breaking on a rock, they move out of his way, silent. Surrounded by a flurry of passing figures, the air becomes heavy, pulling on his lungs.

“I shouldn’t be here…”

He takes off his hat. His hands are shaking, bony fingers cramped around the rim.

“Where am I? How did I—”

Clouded eyes look around, rapid, panicked. Drips of sweat bounce off his forehead. His chest heaves, his head barely raising out above the sea of coats. As if the station itself wishes to spit him out, the air around him seems to freeze.

He steps forward, tapping on the shoulder of a passerby. They ignore him, vanishing into the crowd. The traveller pushes himself further into the stream, looking the next passerby straight in the face. But before he can make eye-contact, the passerby has already moved on. With a frustrated grown he pushes the edges of the rim of his hat to each other until they snap, ripping the fabric. His legs surrender, sending him into a crouch. His heart pulses along to the drum of the steps, turning his breaths into a pleading song.

Two hands grab his coat by the collar and pull him up, making him gasp for air. He turns around to see a young woman, her blonde ponytail hidden in a coat three sizes too large.

“Come on, you don’t want to make a scene, not here,” she says, dashing out of the stream of passersby and into the next. Moments later she appears at the outer wall, standing on the marble baseboard running along it. She waves, hurrying him on.

For a moment, the air seems light, and without much thought he pushes into the steams. Even though the traveller does not walk with the same practised steps as his guide, he still manages to reach the wall. The woman swings around the pillar and opens the hatch behind it. Without a word she slips in, leaving it open. The traveller looks around. The faceless mass ignores him, still following their erratic paths to the trains. But something burns in the masses. A flash of orange catches his attention, though it quickly disappears again. He shivers, eyes burning into his back from somewhere out of this realm. With one last glance at the crowd, he follows the woman into the hatch.

He makes his way down the manhole, each step of the ladder gently pressed before being subjected to his full weight. He is not quite sure how long it takes him to reach the bottom, but he sure is thankful that he does.

The room below the ladder is dark, sewer pipes leading into the darkness much like the trains and the queue of passersby. The woman drops her coat on a makeshift bed, revealing a simple dress and long silken gloves. A violin case lies on the crate to it, a desk stands opposite. Piles of sheet music cover every inch, folding over each other in an ocean of black and white.

“You gave me quite the scare,” she says, grinning as she lets herself fall onto the bed. “It’s dangerous to hold up the others.”

“Who are you?” he asks, blunt.

“Me? I’m Kira, though I find it much more interesting to know who you are, actually.”

The traveller shuffles around. He can feel a name, or perhaps a void where there once was a name clearly, but it is out of reach.

“You don’t know? That’s a first.”

She eyes the traveller curiously, playfully swinging her legs over the rim of her bed.

“I assume you have a lot of questions, if you can’t even remember that.”

She waits for the traveller to nod, looking for a glimmer in his eyes, a spark of the past.

“Then I won’t tread around it any longer.”

She averts her gaze, fumbling with her dress.

“I truly am sorry, but you’re dead.”

The traveller doesn’t move. He stares at Kira, his gaze blank.

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m not, I– I was hoping it was a dream. Is it?”

Kira bites her lip, considering her options. She picks up a screw from the floor and hurls it at the traveller. It scratches his palm causing him to flinch as pain, real tangible pain, spreads through his arm and blood drips from his hand. The two stand in silence for a moment.

“If I’m not dreaming,” the traveller says, breaking the silence. “then what is this place?

“The station to get to the next. Everyone boards here, sooner or later.”

The traveller clamps his fists, hoping to stem the slight bleeding. The words have calmed him, confirming his fears, the expected fears.

“But if everyone boards, why did you drag me down here? What is this room anyway?”

Kira shrugs.

“You seemed lost.”

The traveller looks up. Something calls to him, perhaps the rhythm of the footsteps pulsing through the brick and pipes.

“It isn’t strange that you were confused. It’s a lot, dying.”

The traveller chuckles, holding onto his soft smile with all his might.

“It must have been.”

He takes a deep breath, taking the crooked hat off his head and straightening it.

“I tried to ask the other… people for help, but they all ignored me. Can they not understand me?”

“They can but. . . They’re spirits, you know. Panic, fear, distress, all those are things that they would rather get away from now. And you weren’t exactly a beacon of serenity up there.”

The traveller runs a hand through his hair, pulling back the strands sticking to his sweaty forehead. Down here, he can hear the mechanical heart of the station beating. The sound of metal cogs pressured against each other, each movement followed by a hiss of steam.

“So now what happens?”

 “You go up and board you train. You do have a ticket, right?”

The traveller takes the slip out of his pocket and shows it to Kira.

“Platform nineteen it is,” she says, getting off the bed and putting on her coat. She pulls a thin mirror out from between the pipes. She tucks her ponytail beneath the coat, letting her fringe cover her eyes.

“I’ll come along. Can’t have you break down twice. She won’t like that.”

The traveller frowns when he stares in the mirror, his own reflection invisible.

“She?”

Kira takes a blue cap from the hook and puts it on her head.

“The Conductor. Showed up a while ago, wandering around for no reason. But now she manages, well, everything really. I can’t imagine what would happen if she got her hands on you. Better keep out of sight.”

She hops past the traveller and pulls herself up the ladder.

“Tick tock,” she says, tapping her watch-less wrist, and grins at the sheepish traveller.

Part Two

The traveller waits for Kira to makes her way up the ladder. He eyes linger on the room around him, feeling the warm steam from the pipes on his cheek. He pulls himself up and away from the putrid smell. Kira waits for him at the top, nearly indistinguishable from the other travellers. He closes the hatch and takes a deep breath.

Kira gives him a re-assuring smile and dashes into the masses. The traveller groans, mumbling a curse before going after her. He manages the constant stream of passersby with more ease, his full focus dedicated to staying upright.

The air is lighter where Kira has pierced the stream, giving the traveller a path to follow. The density of the crowd grows thinner once they crawl up the stairs and reach the platforms, allowing the two to walk side-by-side without much effort.

They pass the various platforms, the stream thinning at each one. The passersby are calmer here, their paths less sporadic. Some stand in pairs, having silent conversations, pointing and exchanging. Human, almost.

“What’s up with the different platforms?” the traveller says as they pass platform twelve.

“The different platforms?”

“Why are there so many? Wouldn’t a longer train be easier?”

Kira halts her step, looking at the elaborate art-nouveau sign depicting the number twelve.

“I don’t know. I’ve always thought there were so many platforms because there are so many types of people, too.”

They continue to walk, halting again at platform nineteen. The number stares down at the traveller, hiding something behind its innocent demeanour. It’s only a number, it should only be a number, but the traveller can’t shake the sense of dread out of his bones. He looks up, realising only now that platform nineteen is the last one. A brick wall greets him on the other side, only adding to the discomfort.

“Well, that’s that, then,” Kira says. She steps to the side, allowing the traveller to see the train for himself. The first carriage has a balcony at the rear and is followed by a chain of identical carriages extending out into the darkness, one after another, until the lanternlight is no longer strong enough to illuminate them. Beyond that he can barely discern a green locomotive, revealed by puffs of smoke. The passersby here move leisurely, talking to each other or sitting patiently on the benches placed at the side.

Something urges the traveller to look back, the higher platform allowing him to look down on all the other ones and the mess of muted colours streaming over them. A shiver rushes through him. In the distance, near the first few platforms, a bright speckle of orange stands out from the dark swatches of green and grey. Even though he cannot identify what it is, one thing is for certain. It is watching him. He looks back at Kira, who is still waiting for him, and back at the crowd, the orange gone.

“You there? That train can and will depart without you.”

“Right,” he says, passing past Kira and onto the platform.

“This is where I’ll leave you,” she says, standing behind the golden line drawn on the floor separating the walkway from the platform. “You can take it from here, right?”

The traveller nods.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Kira says, giving a quick wink before trotting without a second glance. The traveller stutters, surprised at how quickly she has vanished. Without someone to converse with, the beating in his chest quells the peaceful air again. He puts his hand on his chest, startled by how fast his heart slams against it, as if it’s trying to break free.

He walks past the train, the green and gold a distraction, alluring. He reached for one the handle of one of the doors, perhaps the afterlife would be more peaceful away from the station, away from…

A porter appears next to him. How, the traveller is not sure. They bow and open the door in front of him with a flourish. In between the porter’s glove and their sleeve, he could see a sliver of their arm. Shadows seep out of it, drifting towards the ground before vanishing mid-air. He looks up at the porter’s face but finds it empty. Their face isn’t hidden like the passersby. Instead, the same swirling shadows that leaked from their glove make up their face. They gesture towards the door, their movements mirrored in the blindingly clean window. The traveller squints, still without a reflection.

What is visible, however, is a face. A face the traveller has so far only been able to observe from a distance: the face of what he can only assume is the Conductor. Her ginger curls are tied back underneath an olive-coloured cap. Her jaw is sharp, her cheekbones accented. A checkered blouse is tucked away neatly in brown high-waisted pants. Her eyes burn onto the traveller. When they lock with his, she steps onto platform nineteen, sending a shockwave through the platform. The ground vibrates, screaming out. Without a second look, the traveller pulls himself into the train. He shuts the door behind him and leans against it, breathing heavily. His hand brushes his own cheekbones, lost in thought.

The train is even more stunning on the inside than on the outside. Red velvet carpets coat the dark oak flooring. Golden lines crawl over them, painting hypnotising geometrical patterns. The doors to the compartments feature the same golden designs, the lines all pointing towards the “The Readsbury Railway Express” lettering on the windows.

The traveller turns right and strolls past the compartments, away from the walkway between the platforms, away from her. A high-pitched whistle startles him. Right after, the sound of doors closing at the exact same moment rushes through the air. He buries his head in his hands, sighing.

Most compartments are filled with passersby, leaving no place for him. After passing through a dozen carriages, he finds a compartment with only a singer passerby sitting inside, their back resting against the lofty cushions. The traveller takes a deep breath, remembering Kira’s words, and tries to calm his body, at least on the inside.

He opens the door without a sound. The passerby turns their head to the traveller standing in the doorframe. Their hat is pushed down, shadows covering their face. The traveller takes a seat opposite.

They sit in silence for a moment, inspecting each other.

“I’m sorry, but I have to be sure,” he says, the words coming out broken, frail.

“You are human, right? Like me?”

The passerby does not respond. They sit motionless, their shoulders slowly going up and down.

“Can you understand me?”

They tip their hat forward slightly. Every motion that the passerby does is done slowly, with utmost care.

“I feel like something has gone wrong, but I can’t figure out what. Everyone else is draped in shadows. I don’t remember how I died. And I see everyone talking constantly, but the words I hear don’t make any sense.”

The traveller rummages through his pockets, looking for anything to help him communicate. He frowns when he feels a stiff piece of paper tucked away in his breast pocket. He pulls it out, nearly tearing it apart with rushed movements. The picture is a blurred polaroid. It pictures a blonde girl and a ginger boy standing on a stage of some sort, holding bouquets of flowers. He squints, unable to see their faces. He turns it around, finding the words you’ve always known, just listen scribbled on the back in handwriting unknown to him.

The passerby bends forward slightly and extends their arm. Their hand is draped in shadow, obscuring any human flesh beneath it, if there is any to begin with. They nod again, pointing towards the picture.

“You want the picture? I don’t remember when this was taken.”

He waits for the passerby to respond, but when the hand remains out, he places the photograph in the passerby’s hand gently, unsure whether it would fall straight through. The passerby grabs it with both hands and presses it against their chest. They take a deep breath, resonating with their whole body. As their body expands to take in the air, the photograph is pulled through their chest and vanishes.

They bend forward again, careful not to startle the traveller, and place a hand on the traveller’s chest. He flinches, but calms when he realises the passerby’s hand is warm, the heat comforting. They sit together, sharing this moment in silence, one a warming body, the other a warming heart.

The passerby pulls back and rests against the couch again, though the warmth lingers on. They raise their hand and point towards the corner of the compartment closest to the platform. The traveller turns his head, hoping to find something he hadn’t seen before, but the compartment is still the same as before. The passerby points again, more urgently.

“Outside? The platforms? I don’t understand.”

The pointing hand reaches for the handle, extending their arm by a metre, and opens the door. It retracts to a normal length and points towards the platforms one last time, before their hand returns to a relaxed position on their legs.

“You’re telling me to get off the train?”

The train shakes briefly before it begins to move. The passerby nods deeply. They say something, the noise as distorted as with the other passersby, but it manages to say exactly what is needed to be said. The traveller shoots off the couch. He turns to the passerby, who remains seated.

“Thank you. I hope you will find your peace.”

He rushes to the outside door and slams the handle. The door remains closed, unimpressed. He pulls on it again, his whole body used in the motion, but the train has no intention of letting him go. The traveller nearly falls over when the train accelerates, the lanterns outside passing by quicker and quicker. He could not see where the platform ended before, but he does know that he has no time to waste.

He begins to run towards the end of the train, checking each door, futile. Clouded eyes look around, his veins pulsing. Then it hits him; the balcony at the end of the train must have a door leading out. His hurried steps turn into a run as he makes his way for the end of the train. The final carriage does not have compartments, the dozen of passersby instead seated on benches at the side. They all turn to the traveller as he stumbles through the gangway. He ignores them, dashing to the final door at the opposite side of the carriage. To his relief, it opens, and before he knows it, he finds himself standing on the balcony of the final carriage.

The platform stretches out next to him, the well-lit station already hundreds of metres away. He bends over the fence and finds not tracks speeding away underneath the train, but a thousand stars sparkling underneath the wheels of the carriage. As if in an infinite pit, the stars light up the dark. He takes a deep breath and climbs over the fence, nearly slipping off. Only his toes are tucked away safely between the fence and the balcony. He shivers, trying to overpower the alluring lights, the way they invite him in. He bites his lip before jumping towards the stone platform. As he lets go, the train speeds away from him, and for a moment he hangs still in the air. Beneath him are the endless possibilities, an infinite abyss of dreams and light. He closes his eyes and pushes forward, barrelling through the air and towards the platform. He groans in pain as he rolls across the pavement, slowing to a halt with wrists clad in blood. He looks up to see the train speeding away into the darkness, the green light attached to the balcony the last thing he sees before that, too, is swallowed. On the other end of the platforms however, the Conductor stands leaning against the archway.

Part Three

The platform behind the traveller is shrouded in a black mist. He can the stone platform extend further behind the mist, but he is not sure if he would ever be able to return if he chooses that path. On the tracks at the other side at platform seventeen stands another train waiting for departure.

The Conductor herself hasn’t moved an inch. From here, her hair glows bright orange in the lanternlight, a beacon. He slumps to his feet and straightens his back. Muscles protest and bones crack, but his body seems relatively unharmed. His sleeves have protected his arms from injury, at the cost of their own life. He tears off one of the frayed pieces of fabric and rinses his hands, revealing scratches in his skin. He frowns when he sees the wounds underneath his tattered sleeves. Narrow cuts crawl up his skin, even at places where his sleeve took the hit.

He looks around one more time. Behind him lies only a dark mist, on his right the brick wall of the back of the station, and on his left a train he cannot jump through. He sighs and eyes the Conductor waiting for him at the other end.

“Then we will meet at last.”

His first steps take the most effort, costing him minutes of concentrating on his breathing before he can take it. Every next step is easier, yet still straining. He puts his hand on his chest. The warmth in his heart remains, powering him through, but his lungs cry out in pain. The air has become ever denser, too heavy to breathe. With each step he has to take a large breath, overexerting himself. After what feels like a thousand steps, he is able to inspect the Conductor more clearly than he could until now. Her eyes are blue, troubled with grey clouds and surrounded by freckles. Her lips are pursed, though not in an unfriendly way. She leans against the arch, relaxed, juxtaposed to her threatening aura. The green hat he thought to have been a Conductor’s cap is in fact a worn-down beret. As soon as she is within earshot he speaks, eager to lead the conversation and find a way past her. If only he could get to Kira, perhaps they could figure out a way out together.

“You are the Conductor?” he manages, pleased with how sturdy his voice feels.

The Conductor grins, folding her arms.

“That’s right. And I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

Closer to the station, the bustling heart of the station makes itself heard again; a percussion of footsteps and clicking doors overlaid on a baseline of distorted murmur.

“A long time?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says, her voice sharp.

The traveller takes another step towards her, eyeing her reaction. Despite her relaxed position, both her feet and planted firmly on the ground, ready to move. And even though the traveller stands tall biting through the pain, his fingers are trembling, his throat dry.

“You fear me,” she says, a hint of regret tucked away in the sound of her voice. The traveller does not reply. He knows he is afraid, but is unsure whether admitting it will make the situation any better.

“Come with me, I’ll make everything go away.”

She extends her hand to him. A glimmer of hope catches the traveller’s attention. He remembers how Kira did not step onto the platform, and how when the Conductor did, the ground began to shake.

“If that’s the best thing to do, I’ll come with you.”

He takes the Conductors hand, waiting for their fingers to touch before he grabs her wrist tightly and pulls her over the line. She trips and falls onto the platform next to him, and the world begins to shake. The lanterns of platform nineteen flash wildly, followed by the stone tiles shaking, sprinkling dust down towards the stars. The traveller leaps onto the walkway in between the platforms where the ground is still silent. The Conductor gets back on her knees, vibrating along to the pavement. But before she can regain her footing, the traveller dashes towards the heart of the station.

A loud cracking noise startles him and makes him look back. Tiles begin to drop down into the abyss, a few at a time, until another crack causes the platform to snap. The tiles all vanish together, taking the lanterns and the Conductor with them. After a few seconds of deafening noise, platform nineteen has gone, and the station turns back to its usual self. The traveller shakes his head, panting heavily. The passersby next to him peer out into darkness, stunned.

The traveller takes one moment before jogging back towards the main hall, the sensation of eyes burning into his back far from gone. He finds his way back without much trouble, opening the hatch with pulsing arms. A billow of steam greets him as he vanishes into the hatch and glides down towards Kira.

Down below, Kira is lying in her bed. She is sleeping, peaceful, the only movement that of her fringe moving in the currents of steam. She coughs, eyes closed yet strained. The traveller walks up to her and pokes her shoulder. She shakes her head, groaning, but opens her eyes.

“You… You should have been on a train by now,” she says, her voice fragile. The traveller stands sheepishly next to the bed.

“It didn’t feel right, I—”

He gets cut off by another loud cough. Kira pulls herself up against the frame, pushing away the traveller’s hand when he tries to help and pulling the blanket over herself.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

Kira grins, biting her lip.

“Just a cold.”

She eyes the traveller with narrow eyes. Her gaze stops when it reaches his bloody arms.

“I could ask you the same. What did you do?”

The traveller looks at his tattered sleeves, numb to the pain.

“I boarded the train like you said. But when I actually got there, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t belong on there. So I jumped off.”

He touches his cheek with his fingers.

“Why am I the only one with a face? Or why are you, me, the Conductor and that creep at the entrance the only ones with a face?”

Kira straightens her back, alert.

“You don’t see their faces? Of the other souls?”

The traveller’s eyes widen.

“No,” he says, puzzled. “They all still have their human face?”

“Yeah, they do.”

The traveller sits down on the bed, missing Kira’s legs by an inch.

“When I boarded, one of the passengers there pointed back to the platform, as if they knew too that I don’t belong here.”

Kira coughs again. She swipes the sweat off her forehead with her glove.

“And the Conductor? If you don’t belong here, she would have found you by now.”

“I ran into her at the platform but managed to pull her onto it, which caused it to collapse. I think she fell down.”

“You touched her? And you didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?”

Kira shakes her head. Her skin is soaked in sweat, veins pulsing to the tune of her heart.

“How did you get here,” she mutters to herself. Something changes in her eyes, a new spark awakening.

“I’m not dead, am I?” the traveller says, looking down to the pile of clothes huddled next to the bed.

“I don’t think so. Or not dead completely, at least.”

“Then how did I get here?”

Kira anchors her gaze on the traveller, hoping to see something beneath his ragged coat.

“I don’t have those answers for you. And the last time when I thought I did, I was wrong. Most people don’t come here, you know, they are brought here. But you somehow brought yourself here. If you just stop thinking for a moment and just… feel, maybe you can remember. Though I suspect you’ve never been very good at that.”

The traveller clamps the edge of the bed, tense. Thoughts spiral through his mind, latched onto vague memories and emotions with nothing tying them down. The swirling conscious overwhelms him, fogging his vision and pulling on his lungs.

“It’s all a mess,” he says, cramped.

“It is, isn’t it,” Kira says, her voice weakening with each sentence.

The traveller stands up, looking back at Kira. She is shrivelled up in her blanket, seemingly smaller than before. Even though she is smiling, her smile is hollow, forced.

“There is only one person who will know how you got here. And how to get out.”

The traveller thinks back to platform nineteen, and how it simply cracked and vanished.

“I killed her.”

“You can’t kill her dummy,” Kira says, letting go of a short giggle instantly swallowed by a loud cough. “That’s not how it works. She’ll be there, waiting for you.”

The traveller’s hand wanders to his arm, lost in thought.

“She wants to destroy me, doesn’t she?”

“Maybe. But I think she is scared too, you know. Now come on, go meet her before this place collapse onto itself and you doom the rest of the world to endless wandering.”

“How motivating,” he says, walking over to the ladder and turning back to Kira one more time.

“You’re not alone,” Kira says. “You will have to take some steps by yourself, especially these final steps, but you’re not alone.”

She hums a short melody, letting the room echo her notes. The music nestles in the traveller’s mind, turning from a simple melody into something else, linking his memories and bringing them together.

“That’s Ravel,” he says, confused. “Pavane for une infante défunte,”

“Some things you can’t forget,” Kira says, gesturing him to climb up the staircase.

“You didn’t even tell me how you got here.”

“That’s for when we meet next time.”

She lies down on the bed again, tucked away. The traveller nods and begins his climb upwards, fuelled on by the sound of creaking pipes in the distance.

“Come home,” Kira says, though the traveller is far too occupied to pay it much mind.

Part Four

The station hall is quiet. Although passersby still crowd the room, they move silently, without conversation. The traveller walks past them with relative ease, used to their movements by now. He walks past the fountain and towards the platforms. With every few strides he casts a glance back.

The platforms remain intact. Passersby still board the trains, and the lanterns shine their usual dull light. He counts the platform out loud, trying to focus his attention on the numbers, away from his confrontation. But as he counts, he realises that the further he gets, the darker the platforms become. Some lanterns flicker, or their light doesn’t reach much further than a couple metres. When he passes platform eleven, he notices how a crowd of passersby is gathered at the end, all peeking towards where platform nineteen used to be.

The passersby part for him when he arrives, allowing him to move right to the edge. They gather around, murmuring their silent whispers. The traveller lets out an exhausted gasp as he sees what is left of platform nineteen. The sign has broken, leaving nothing but the bottom of the number one. The platform leads into the dark, where stars have molten into each other. They sing together in a distorted harmony, circling through rings of light and illuminating the dull bricks that make up the station. Together they form a gate, leading into a darkness much darker than that of the distant platforms.

The traveller turns to the other passersby, whose shrouded faces are all turned to the gate in excited murmurs. They nod to the traveller. Another passerby walks up and faces him. They are tall, wearing a coat much older and more worn-down than the other passersby’s. They nod, taking off their hat and revealing that their whole head is shrouded in shadow. The passerby is much taller than the traveller, towering out over everyone there. They hand the hat to the traveller, bowing.

“For me?”

They answer in distorted noise, but it is clear to the traveller that there was no ill intent. He lets out a chuckle as he realises that he has lost his hat somewhere in the station. He puts on the new hat and looks around. The others have gathered around in a circle, all looking at him. They take of their hats and hold them to their chest. They extend their hands and put them on the traveller’s coat, much like the passerby in the train did. Warmth spreads through him, breaking down frozen threads and melting towering walls. He relaxes, muscles for once not crying out in pain.

They retract, and the passersby clear the way to the swirling gateway. The tall passerby nods again, instilling strength, or perhaps companionship. The traveller walks over towards the edge and takes in the gate. It’s small, barely reaching as high as the traveller. With one last glance, and one last breath, he ducks and steps into the gateway. He puts one hand on his chest, keeping the warmth given to him safely stored in his chest. He holds his hat with his other hand, making sure to keep it close. He hums the melody of Ravel’s piece, and passes through the gate on his own, though far from alone.

The traveller blinks, fog clouding his vision. He rubs his eyes, pushing the clouds away one by one until the scene becomes clear. He is standing in a classroom, tables filled with paper and books in an unsurmountable mess. The Conductor sits at the table near the window, her back to the traveller. Her body is pulsing. Black rifts run over her body, glimmering with the light of the stars, ripping her apart.

“Just… run. Hide,” she says. Her voice is cramped, distorted much like the passersby, although still comprehensible.

The traveller does not move. He leans against the table and steadies his breathing. The air here is lighter than in the station, the lighting natural as opposed to the gloomy lanternlight.

“You cannot destroy me,” she says, turning around and revealing another rift on her face covering one of her eyes. Her other eye is bright red, and bleeding.

“You cannot destroy me, without destroying yourself.”

In here, the Conductor seems small, humbled by the low walls and constraining ceiling.

“Then why did you bring me here,” the traveller asks, taking one step towards the Conductor.

“Bring you here?” she says, laughing. “You are the one who brought me here.”

She gets up out of her chair, taking two steps towards the traveller.

“You don’t listen to anyone, do you? Not even to your own heart.”

The traveller takes a step back, cautious. With each step the Conductor takes towards him, the sunlight flickers. Behind her, lines are drawn on the chalkboard. They swivel over it, random paths describing everything and nothing. If there are letters hidden in the mess, the traveller does not see them.

“So what do you want, then? To destroy me?” the traveller asks.

The Conductor snickers. She walks up to the traveller until they are separated by only a single stride.

“I want… to live,” she says. Her voice is fragile now, soft. The traveller balls his fists. A thousand thoughts rummage through his mind, too many to make sense of any of them. Something inside him tells him to fight, to pull her away and drag her through the gate breaking through the bookcases on their right. Here in the sunlight, he realises how tired he has become. His suit smells of steam and sweat. The passersby back at the station were scared, their station collapsing. He nods, eyeing the Conductor, seeing the fear hidden away in her eye.

“Come on then. Destroy me.”

He takes off his hat and lays it down at the table on his left. His coat is draped over the seat, revealing bloodstained arms. The Conductor breathes loudly, her shoulders moving up and down with each breath, like a wild animal made from a patchwork of skin and void. Her breaths grow faster until she cannot hold them any longer. She jumps to the traveller, landing on him and throwing him down onto the floor. Tables and chairs are pushed aside as her hands lock around his neck, pressing tightly. She bends down, two sets of clouded blue eyes meeting properly for the first time. The sound of the rifts burning through her is deafening, like an electric pulse electrifying the air. The traveller does not move. He only stares back at her. A tear drips from her eye and lands onto the traveller, burning into his skin. His lungs hunger for air in a futile attempt to expand but they are pushed back by the Conductor’s legs. His body pushes him to act, but his gaze remains locked with the Conductor.

More tears land on his cheeks. The Conductor screams, trying to dig her nails into his neck but she doesn’t puncture his skin. He can feel the pressure on his neck fading as the Conductor’s cries take over her body. He gently pulls off her fingers from his neck. She doesn’t fight back, allowing the traveller to gently push her off him.

Inside of him, something has snapped. Even though the Conductor did not manage to hurt him, something has changed.

“You didn’t fight back,” the Conductor says. She doesn’t look up, instead pulling up her knees and leaning against a flipped chair.

“You didn’t destroy me,” the traveller says. He leans against the leg of the table, pulling up his knees.

“I really wanted to,” the Conductor says. “I thought I wanted to.”

The room around them begins to shake. The gateway to the station on their right begins to shrink.

“We don’t have much time,” she adds, shooting a quick glance at the gate. “If you go now, you can still board a train like you wanted. You can leave me behind for good.”

The traveller doesn’t move.

“I don’t know why I feared you so much,” he says.

The Conductor chuckles, wiping the tears off her cheek.

“You’ve been scaring me, too,” she says, adding a slight smile to her words. “If you want answers, you should hurry up.”

She glances towards the gate, which has shrunk to the size of a small window. The classroom shakes again, accented by the occasional falling brick and breaking lamp.

“I only have one question, really.”

The Conductor looks up to the traveller for the first time since their encounter. The rifts ripping through her have calmed, showing the sparkling stars puncturing in the void.

“What’s our name, truly? I don’t remember what name we had before I got here, but I want to know what it is. The proper one.”

“Lola,” she says.

The traveller gets up and peaks at the gateway. The bricks falling next to him don’t seem to spook him. The name settles in his mind, holding up the strings of warped memories. Tables snap in two, and the chalkboard falls to the floor, but the traveller remain standing, unshaken.

“What happens if I don’t go back to the station?”

The Conductor looks up to the traveller with clear eyes.

“I can stay here with you, if you’d like,” he adds.

She nods, clearing the space next to her, pushing away chunks of the ceiling and wiping away the dust. He takes a seat on the ground next to her and wraps his tattered coat around them.

“You sure?” she asks.

“Surer than I’ve ever been in a long time.”

She closes her eyes, content. Alone, but herself, the classroom collapses onto itself, swallowing her whole.

[heldflesh]

TALES OF O'FRIEL — TAMSIN OLWEN LOVEDAY.

──  (  grace  van  dien.  demi  woman,  she / they.  )  recently  seen  sprawling  across  beer  -  soaked  oak,  hand  clasped  to  ear  in  fitful  whispers  and  sideway  glances,  the  occasional  cicada  slipping  past  lip  and  taking  flight  at  the  whaler:  enter  TAMSIN  OLWEN  LOVEDAY  O'FRIEL.  twenty  six  years  old  &  a  libra,  usually  observed  in  gossamer  lace,  a  ghost  upon  body;  soft  glow  emitting  from  skin  pulled  sheer  –  pulsating  veins  and  a  flash  of  something  golden,  the  teeth  of  a  white  rabbit  drawn  upon  shoulders;  sorry  thumper,  and  goodby  –  ;  love  is  a  devotion  local  known  within  their  circle  as  VULPINE  +  GNOMIC,  a  perpetual  hum  of  twilight  by  bôa  on  salted  mouth.  something  of  the  SEPULCHRAL  +  PESTILENT  follows,  regardless  …  something  to  do  with  one's  very  own  side  -  quest,  faux  prophecies  and  dangers  ahead;  tales  most  befitting  miscreants  and  visitors  alike,  one  and  the  same  –  uncaring  to  lift  another  finger  of  their  own  ,  perhaps  ?  strange,  what  a  FAERY  can  get  up  to.  they’ve  been  heard  waxing  lyrical  about  a  dream  they  had  recently,  a  strange  tale  of  a  never  -  ending  dance  –  how  many  eternities  have  we  spent  here  together?  –  soles  long  worn  to  bone  and  dust;  body  nothing  more  but  a  husk  of  skin,  exoskeletal;  entertainment  beneath  a  spider's  growing  web  –  but  we're  here  together,  aren't  we?  forever  and  ever  .  pay  no  mind  to  fanciful  star  -  gazing,  though:  rather,  mind  the  tangible.  focus  on  bated  breath  against  locks  of  hair,  near  -  translucent  fingers  laid  across  shoulder  –  voice  here,  and  there,  nowhere  –  everywhere;  you  want  to  dive  into  this  lake  sooo  bad,  you  want  to  swim  all  the  way  down  and  wrap  around  the  seagrass  and  get  stu–  /  ears  impossibly  long  –  all  the  better  to  hear  you  with,  my  dear  –  tufts  of  softened  white  gold,  splintering  from  fine  points,  lily  of  the  valleys  dangling  chain-like  /  and  phantom  wings  in  every  passed  mirror  –  gambling  never  a  consequence  until  now;  a  mother's  cruel  laughter  echoing  from  every  budding  flower,  every  cawing  bird,  every  iron  box  clawed  open  in  searing  desperation  .  /

... mentioning themes of CONTROLLING MOTHERS, BODY HORROR, DEATH, GRIEF, DEPRESSION, and INSECTS, BUT LIKE GROSS. proceed with care.

with palms held out.

full name — tamsin olwen loveday o'friel.

nickname(s) — tam / tammy, if one despises their life; loveday; love ( friends, if you can call them that, and mother, if you can call her that ); owl face; first name preferred.

date of birth & age — october 4th, 1xxx, physically twenty6.

gender / pronouns — demi woman; she / her and they / them.

sexuality — demiromantic, bisexual.

typing — faery, wings MIA.

occupation — woods - wanderer; ex - dancer; hunter AND gatherer; gambler; front desk at shrike point light.

astrology — libra sun, capricorn moon, taurus ascending.

interests — hallucinogens. old - fashioned gold coins, particularly those dug up from hidden treasure chests. playing serpent. mammatus clouds. a good gamble, or an even better bet. winning. animal fur. warm beds. warm bodies.

aversions — classical dancing. uncalculated risks. lying ( even if desired ). weak constitutions. promises. anyone named "craig", no particular reason. high ledges. her mother. particularly nosy spiders.

next in queue — shadow of a doubt, sonic youth; vanished, crystal castles; pitch the baby, cocteau twins; show me your mind, sunken.

notable features — almost comically long ears; tufted at the ends, mimicking caracals & a constant, soft light emitting from them; evangeline, is that you?

general disposition — calculating to the point of desperate.

last known location — trying to convince tourists to step into faery rings at the campgrounds after being interrogated for twenty minutes about whether they can shrink down to the size of a half - chewed polly pocket and if faeries believe in, like, jesus?

scrying mirror & kindred — melisandre ( game of thrones ), rose dewitt bukater ( titanic ), lux lisbon ( the virgin suicides ), love quinn ( you ), vanessa ives ( penny dreadful ).

what lurks in the past...

were they born, or were they created? fae realm a haze beyond fingertips, limbs extending too long, too narrow; cobwebs sticking to new legs, trembling foul's - burning from inside out. a gleam to everything in view; light bouncing from leaf to leaf, sparkling upon open water; skewed from chest, lance - like. overwhelming - maddening, small eyes watching intently every human who stumbled upon their realm by accident; idiocy at their finest, curious as their bodies collapse into hysterics, never able to behold the beauty of the land before them.

she never cast doubt, a mother who would never allow it; too many eyes to keep sight of, too many eyes to be wary of. days filled of frivolous activity; dance after dance, sun and moon passing in tandem, day and night after day and night. rocketing themselves into the sky, as far as can go, vast, endless - did they have space? if she keeps going - will she be surrounded by nothing but void, but the sky all around her; come crashing down as the pressure compresses her lungs, stops her breath?

what did the other realm have, that they didn't? curiosity - not doubt - leads to their first visit - not alone, never allowed, not by mother; three of them at the slightest, pas de trois. it's hideous, it's beautiful - it's devotion; before they were - or have they always been the one and same? captivating, to be in a world not their own; to find vices only a human could have, dishonesty beyond the mirror, kept from wandering eyes and hands, but not cards.

visits become frequent - some secretive, some brash, crawling out of holes formed from bark, emerging from tree's flesh. eras change in a blink of eye - here one day, gone the next; so fickle, their short lives. unexpected friends meeting unexpected demise; but what right, would tamsin have to be sad? what is it - to be sad, melancholic? too much to do, to worry about such trivial things; too many minds susceptible to trickery, flimsy thoughts they hold so carelessly.

until she met them, light scorching eye, features engraved beneath eyelids; an intoxication never so sweet, rivaling nectar from their realm - maybe sweeter, maybe just. devotion a home, suddenly - to her, to them, together; forever, if she could. if they could - possibility just out of sight, just out of frame. but maybe not - somewhere else, where time moves different.

was she a fool? blinded by love - stricken by it as taut as grief itself; a mother like hers never trusting, never trusted - never trust. in all her wisdom; tamsin could not compare the centuries laid upon her mother's back. foolish. foolish. foolish - she never meant the harm; never meant the death sentence, lips of lover grazing fruit. lifting her into their arms - entwined in one another, feet barely dusting floor. spinning together in a silent waltz as time rolls on bye; until their skin is nothing more but dust molded husk, tamsin unable to look away, unable to pull apart; terror - laced ichor, enough for eternity.

doesn't remember leaving the realm - leaving them, there - by their lonesome; an exhibit to be watched, a reminder to be wrought. everything's new; modern, hum of technology reverberating skull, shaking spine. twenty years laid to rest; an unwavering form sitting atop rock in the woods, gaze unmoving; statuette, before bone creaks back into existence.

only to be tricked again; a mockery, lost to their own hysteria, their own grief - desperation seeping pores, clutching at narrowed frame. the dead should stay dead; even in their realm - law remains enact, balance must never waver. greed has no moral to stand upon; deals are made, gambles set - hands shaken, blinding light and sharp sulfur and a piercing scream as wing pulls self from body. and nothing. no body to raise from ground; still in the fae realm, still dancing; only spirit, only confused; memories scattered - no remnants of tamsin, or the years lost to them. nothing at all. husk meets husk; fool meets fool.

those of the realm of fae: family to friends, to those who think tamsin a fool for losing their heart so easily, for letting it slide from her palms into another; for upsetting her mother, older than most.

lost lover, loving no more: nothing more but a ghost; a clean slate free from burden and memory. it hurts to look at them - hurts to acknowledge; so tamsin doesn't - cowardly, after all sacrificed.

...comes to light in present...

it's not better now; but it's better than nothing; existing bares easier on the soul, when distracted; kept amused, kept pushing limits - a child who learns best from example. she can't rot any longer, insects a collection inside her, now; coughed up on occasion, fluttering away like nothing - mother's watchful servants, ever - gazing, ever - curious. fucking nosy. better than the fae realm - better than reminders, devotion's growing modernity cloaking old memories.

tamsin's - hard to crack; penchant for gambling, seen tucked into far - off booths, old coins shuffling between fingers, betraying the air the exudes her, collaborating with the far off, dull look in her eyes. severity no longer reaches - slapped away with a dismissive hand and a cold, humorless laugh that twists maniacal at a pin's drop. can never deny a game - or the hunt, puzzles not the only stimulant solace is found in.

everyone's useless except the shrike family, and the knowledge their library keeps; front desk an excuse to scour over maps and crumbling pages - they've got to be somewhere, don't they? somewhere, anywhere; tamsin's pried open their fair share of iron boxes, trying to find the wings she bet away; lost, given up. sacrificed. the deal a bust - why should tamsin be the only one to suffer? fingerprints never quite there - most certainly no longer, wrapped in bandages with every clasp of iron.

never a liar - forever desperate, visitors of devotion, south of tene, are subjected to tamsin's harrowing tales of heartbreak and sacrifice, no storyteller but just a girl trying to find what is hers, rightfully; years and years of scavenger hunt, level impossible; treasure maps drawn and discarded and drawn again. a quest - she insists. it's just a quest. all will be well - just heed my word, do my bidding. help me fly.

the one whose heart shall be ripped fro - : most probably a witch, or another faerie; the one tamsin lost to, who won their gamble - the game they play. probably still alive, ever - mocking, tamsin staring into their windows nightly.

devotion visitors, none the wiser: it's a tale almost as old as time; the full truth never revealed, only enough sad details to guilt a stranger into potentially perilous tasks.

...and carries into the future.

how long can she dance this dance? make fool out of fool, reap the consequence of never listening to those wiser than her - almost childish, tamsin's resolution, determination. naïve. pathetic. too many eyes on her - waiting for her eventual fall, one she does not rise from; how do you kill a faerie?

but perhaps there's an alternative route; sky regaining vibrancy, leaves returning from their dulled hues - no more bodies, no more deaths; grieving a silenced lamb, a quest to complete on her own. be her own savior, heal her own wounds.

maybe tamsin can lock the king into a checkmate; play the game better - win, for once.

enough is ENOUGH! we're sick of it!: this isn't a soap opera, get a grip! one way or another, even if the end result is less desirable. enemies, friends of their mother, those wronged by tamsin after years of trickery and mischief.

a family found: eventual friends, insecurities and trust issues and fears aside; people who care, people who tamsin will not gamble the lives of. probably.

[lmelodie]

Long Day?

OK YES, I KNOW. I accidentally posted this recently with the latest CS art drop because the queue got all messed up somehow.  But it's here for real now! It being random BlackIce fluff drabble. This is very bare bones writing wise, just because the concept itself doesn't have a lot of substance, but it's a concept that hasn't been able to leave my head recently.

With every new chapter of Chance and Choice I get out, the closer we inch to the canonical post breakup meet and I'm getting all my fantasies about them being happy and nice to each other out before the angst drops. Very difficult to follow your own canon when you wanna skip all the growing redemption arc steps and get to the happiness.

Jack frost x OC (for anyone unaware lurking in the tag)

The heavy footsteps sounded off of the porch stairs into the surrounding snow. They made their way in a huff to the front door, and the man attached to them was too tired to care about being sneaky right now.

He reached out and jiggled the doorknob expecting the door to swing open. But when it didn't his scowl only deepened, a fitting match for dark circles under his eyes.

Locked? Since when does he keep this locked? Whatever, I don't have time for this.

Today Killian was not in a mood for semantics, he needed to get straight to the point. He quickly bypassed the lock by deconstructing his form into a mass of shadows and slipped through the gap under the door instead. Briefly thinking about breaking a window, but ultimately that was too much work. Silently reforming on the other side, all the lights were on downstairs which means he’s here.

Good. All of that would've been for nothing if he wasn't.

“JACK! Jack Frost, you better make yourself known!” he yelled into the open first floor, a small demonic reverb added to his voice.

Now for step two, to remember where he keeps the good alcohol. Making his way down the entryway with the same fast and heavy steps he finds the kitchen and makes quick work in starting the search for the booze.

“Kills?!” Jack calls out from somewhere else in the house.

Killian pays no mind to him and doesn't answer back. Instead, he continues opening and closing random cabinets, growing more frustrated with each one that passes without premium alcohol in them. He really should know where all of his stuff is by now, but god dammit he is too tired to remember where off the top of his head.  

Eventually after another moment he found the jackpot. A floor cabinet near the fridge held all the top shelf liquor a snob like Jack would own, and that Killian himself was not willing to pay for.

"Killian, I know you're here! What are you doing?!" Jack's voice rang out closer than before now accompanied with fast approaching footsteps.

The redhead however still doesn't care. Kneeling on the floor he spots a half empty bottle of Evergreens whiskey (a very potent fae brand), and promptly pops the top open and starts sipping. NOT downing the whole thing, but just enough to help the process along quicker.

It was then that Jack sped walked his way into the kitchen, and abruptly stopped in his huff. Finding the sight of his partner on the kitchen floor drinking up all his good booze, at three in the afternoon. Definitely not the most unusual thing he’s seen him do, but more annoying than anything else.

"What the hell?!" He throws his arms open in exasperation, "That's the good stuff, Kills! I have those saved for special occasions only.”

Killian shoots Jack a steely glare from over his shoulder as he pulls himself off of the floor. He holds up one finger in Jack's direction, taking another longer sip from the bottle. Jack can only watch out of morbid curiosity, indignance painted on his face.

“You have something I want,” he growls in a low tambor. 

His tone sounded more like a threat than anything, with every word enunciated. He has a very dark, determined look in his eyes and Jack knows that this kind of behavior can only mean two things. Either he’s messed up and he’s about to really enjoy this next part. Or he's messed up and he’s about to die. The fear of not knowing what exactly he’s done to warrant whichever choice is palatable. 

“Now, I don't know what youve heard. And I will be honest here, I don't know what I did. But w-whatever it is, I'm sure it was blown WAY out of proportion!”

He punctuates the sentence with a nervous chuckle, very put off by Killian still not giving him any context and now coming closer. And with each step he becomes less and less confident that he WONT be receiving a deadly fate. Jack tries to instinctively move back a couple steps, but it was too little too late, he was already far too close for comfort. Killian sets the glass bottle down on the countertop, halfway between setting it down and slamming it.

“Listen! I haven't finished writing my will yet, and I was going to leave everything to you anyway! And-and you need my signature on all that paperwork if you want any of my SHIT—!”

In one fell swoop, Killian stooped close to the ground, got a hold of Jack by the legs and hoisted the man up onto his shoulder. Always heavier than he looks. But now with both arms securing Jack from on high, Kills starts making the trek to their final destination just in the other room.

Jack, completely red in the face, and after the moment of shocked silence, instinctively went combative.

“KILLIAN! YOU KNOW I DON'T DO WELL BEING MANHANDLED! I WILL start ice blasting my way out and I am not afraid of taking you down with me!!”

But as much of a big game as he was talking, Jack wanted to do little else than to just be carried around his own home. Flustered and embarrassed? Yes. Completely opposed? No. But he still thrashed a little bit and endlessly complained the entire way to the living room. 

And when faced with the couch in front of him, Killian tried his best to untangle Jack from himself as much as possible before unceremoniously body slamming him onto the cushions. Tossing aside his beanie, before Jack can recompose himself and even think about escaping, Killian quickly crawls over top of him. Blocking out any escape routes. 

“I haven't slept for the past week and a half and it's just now catching up to me and I feel like I've been bit by a bus,” Killian explains in the same dark warning tone, “I've been making night terrors all week and I just need one hour where nothing happens.”

And yet again, before Jack could protest any of this, Killian flopped the rest of the way down laying directly on top of Jack. Making himself very comfortable and making it very clear that he was going to be napping with Jack as a pillow. He turned his head to the side, putting his ear onto Jack's chest. The sound of his spiking heart rate through his ribcage was soothing to him. 

After the moment of surprise had passed, Jack laid there for a second more. His face still incredibly flushed but overall thrown for a loop that he’s chosen neither the sexy nor deadly options. But confusion aside, Jack gathered his wits and tried to brute strength his partner off of him. Attempting to tip him over off the edge of the couch and onto the floor.

“And as much as I would love that Kills, I really would enjoy doing absolutely nothing with you. But I have snow business to attend to!”

Jack did not get very far in his attempts to shove him off however, before Killian pushed himself and subsequently Jack further into the couch. Squandering his tiny bit of progress.

“I wasn't asking,” Killian mumbles, adjusting himself somehow even closer to his partner.

Curiosity for why about all of this suddenly popped into Jack's head. No sleep for the past week? And night terrors the entire time? Killian usually loves making night terrors, but there are notoriously draining. Forcefully putting someone in a terrible dream state and then keeping them there for an extended amount of time? And doing that for a week and half straight? He must be all kinds of drained, physically and magically.

“Was it really that bad?”

“Maybe..” Killian responds, barely audible.

And Jack knows that Maybe is boogeyman code for Definitely. He deliberates back and forth on this idea for a moment. He really does have a lot shit to do, it's almost November for sky's sake! But ultimately, he cannot say no to him. Especially not since he’s already very trapped and can't do much about it one way or another. 

“Ugh fine, you creep,” Jack sighs, putting one hand in Killian’s hair and the other arm over his shoulders, “But you only get thirty minutes.”

“Fifty.”

“Thirty five.”

“Forty five.”

“Deal.” Jack agrees, adjusting himself, “You're just very lucky that I happen to like you sometimes.”

They both smile, out of view from the other as Killian falls asleep. Jack followed suit not too long after that, and both stayed asleep for the full hour.

[soranihimawari]

I posted 5,328 times in 2022

105 posts created (2%)

5,223 posts reblogged (98%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

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I tagged 914 of my posts in 2022

#🌻— flying around collecting pollen—queue - 379 posts

#sora recs - 314 posts

#sora after hours - 255 posts

#haikyuu x reader - 216 posts

#🌻. dash - 120 posts

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#sora scribbles 2022 - 62 posts

#haikyuu!! - 61 posts

#haikyuu fluff - 30 posts

#sora scribbles - 28 posts

Longest Tag: 112 characters

#(getting into trigun i read the scanlation and so i wanna make sure no one else ever experiences the same thing)

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Casualty of Love

You meet at the age of nine; go through the trials of growing up; only to realize you too are a casualty of love

Rating: angst to fluff

Timeskip!Bokuto x yn x timeskip!Akaashi

Everything and everyone is going thru it

Many athletes know the risk of playing the game that they love. This is the story of how this lesson is learned between two individuals who, for lack of better words, find their way back to each other through a series of extenuating circumstances...

At summer camp, when you were no younger than nine, you meet your first friend. He was this boisterous fellow with a charming grin and platinum blonde hair. You extend your hand to him when you introduce each other by the proxy of the counselors in charge of your age group. Apparently, all the other children were having the time of their lives without you four. It's not your fault no one wanted to learn how to swim today, the weather just had other plans. Play time and free time were tied into one blissful three hour period. You sit across the play area, fidegting with your hands as you try to come up with a good (yet politely formal) way to say hello. Although he beats you to the introductions, he by passes your hand and goes straight into a hug. He explains you look pretty like his older sisters. This was something that greatly amused you.

So why does he always seem to flirt with the reporters or members of the fan clubs during the spring inter high? Does he not think the past decade was a trial run on a friendship built over graham crackets and cicadas photo taking? Did he forget who was there when he scraped his knee in the volleyball court he’d one day earn millions in? Or! Or the one instance you forgot your umbrella and he hands you his spare clean one green from last September? No. Of course not, you think. Not when she’s around him and all you shared with him is magnified by the promise of a ring in white gold.

“Hey, YN! Over here! What’s—hey?” He jogs up to you, still beaming, but when he sees how his world cries, he makes a damning choice. “Sunshine? What’s wrong?”

The congratulations you want to say is forgotten the moment he realizes everything happens in reverse. Your face falters for a moment and the world you wished to be a part of expectantly close it’s door. It’s why you don’t come around readily anymore; the way he eyes find his current fiancé first better finding you; and though neither you nor him are mind readers perhaps asking you to be the stand-in for her was what made you keep your distance.

“I was your embers,” you tilt your head to one side, lips trembling into a wonky smile. “Not your shade of gold, huh? Congrats on the win Bo.”

He drops his hands to the side clearly seeing how you seem to have let go of all hope; you love him enough to let him go. Your name king sent under the shadow of the star. Yet you are tethered to the sunshine, you who at one point was unamused by the grandeur of being with the MSBY team, are the first to take a bit of the warmth with you. You were eclipsed by the flashes of reporters as the pauper truly has lost their prince.

The regular ace comes to know this judging by an empty chair by his side, on the other side, his fiancé sits chatting away with the others, so why does he of all people, deflate during the congratulatory dinner? Those closet to him, like his best friend who knows the strained sense of loyalty since high school, decides to drunkenly explain you used a lyric to describe your relationship:

“Did it ever occur to you that they’ve been in love with you and you,” he points an obnoxious figure at his friend’s chest. “You replaced them so easily? N’wonder yn was desperate to leave.”

Gun metal eyes powered through making sure his attempts to fill in the blanks for his friend’s daft sense of mind seemed so angry at hi/ former captain. Their half of the table is eerily quiet. Maybe they all thought this wouldn’t have happened if you came for a little bit or this would have happened regardless.

“Akaashi, that’s enough,” the fiancé decided to cut him off.

The author scoffs, rolling his eyes at her.

“No, it’s not,” he chuckles. Bokuto’s chopsticks trembled in his palms eerily like an owl in distress, feathers in full attention.

He points at everyone else at the table with an incredible look of foreboding. “Because you don’t get to be a causality of love. You don’t get to console yn who, by the by, accepted a position overseas for the next two years. Or was it five? Bah! To hell with it.”

The editor leaves a few yen notes on the counter.

“You couldn’t even congratulate them on their win,” Akaashi says loud enough for his friend to hear. “I’m sure they’re planning to enjoy a life without you. I’m out of here.”

“Aggashi.”

Beautiful. Bokuto, an empath as he is, is beautiful when he cries. So much so that his smile breaks the world after the rainstorm. This heaviness he feels, it’s like he betrayed his family; sure you weren’t coming to the celebration dinner. Love is meant to heal, hurt, make you stronger, but why does no one talk about how lonely it can make one feel? The loneliness is what seeps in Akaashi Keiji’s veins because he’s seen and lived through every detrimental trench you both put yourselves through-willingly-without abandon. You are determined and driven much like Bokuto, must be a friendship loyalty thing from an early age, but Akaashi knows his ace; knows how Bokuto is impulsive and happy when you are there for him. Now that you’re not and you’re dealing with these emotions head on, you’re not in a safe place; hell you’re in your home right about now probably knee deep in ice cream sundae and fries going over a checklist of things you’re leaving behind.

This argument between the lads seems like you’re going to be Helen of Troy at this point. The others on this side of the table are pushing the food on their plates around or at least enjoying their neat drink. Akaashi moves to take his jacket off the chair and grabbed his scarf. He knows where he is headed, where he is needed and it definitely not the table here with the winners who gets the spoils.

“Akaashi!” Bokuto raised a hand to stop his friend from leaving and with fire in his even tempered eyes, taunting the ace, hand who seemed like he was losing his mind when things started lining up.

Bokuto and Akaashi rarely fought. The rarity of this occurring was such a low percentage that a majority of their friends and colleagues would have this on their bingo card for ‘top things forewarning the end of days.’ Even if they did argue, most of the time both would cool off and apologize.

“Not now Bokuto,” Akaashi’s voice is even tempered signifying his anger. He bows lowly to the rest of his friend’s team audibly apologizing for how his temper was lost. Then, as if nothing had happened, Akaashi straightens his posture, pulls the lapels of his coat, and he leaves through the side door. All the while Bokuto thinks he heard his heart begin to crumble.

“Let him go Kou,” the fiancé advised. “He knows where he’s headed…”

Meanwhile, you are home folding a few pieces of laundry to take into your carry on: the flat you lived in since your post-grad glory days is bare. The photo albums and the frames were already en route abroad to your new residence. A good portion of your wardrobe, bathroom, and kitchen items too. Bokuto didn’t need to know you were leaving in the middle of the night, your radio silence stretched on for a few weeks, but that’s life. Lately, you do make a habit of catching up with other people from your time at university and or the past scenes in Tokyo. Perhaps gone were the days of being in love with love… your subconscious will help you forgive the nine year old who taught you the sun revolves around the world.

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54 notes - Posted March 29, 2022

#4

Candle

Pairing: university×kip!bokuto x reader

Word Count: 1.7K

Rating: BKF [bokuto kotaro fluff]// strangers->lovers

Warnings: mentions of academic stress// love at second glance(?)//

In an apartment not too far away from the city center, there sits a small package atop a table. It seems like the package had been abandoned earlier by the tenants hours ago, yet the thought is still there, a kindness lingering. On the surrounding walls, there were photographs indicating the milestones in the life of the tennant. Within one such photograph is one of a team from several years prior dressed in an ivory and noir uniform, bright smiles on everyone’s faces. The brightest one was that of the person in the middle, whose attention seemed to have been drawn beyond the lens of the camera. A little further toward the entrance of the abode, there is another frame sitting atop a bookshelf by the house phone. It is a university graduation photo and the graduate is seen holding a celebratory bouquet alongside two young women who share several features, like the family’s infectious grin, and the older couple standing to either side look at their grown children. 

As time moves ever forward, so does the life of the tenant inhabiting the space. There are allusions of a lustrous career in the sport he is so passionate about. A calendar with written schedules outlining the practices and training regiments gearing up for the next away game. Surely, the apartment seems empty, however there have been several signs of friends and old colleagues stopping by– from parties, holiday celebrations, professional signings, and even dates. Like now, this apartment, this home, is where you find yourself leaving behind a bag with a boxed up cake several hours ago on a crisp autumn day. 

Time plays into fate’s hands as one of your parents would say. The door is closed behind you, and you begin your walk to the restaurant not too far away. You’re on your way to a celebratory dinner for an old acquaintance. 

“Well, he no longer is an acquaintance,” you murmur to yourself. A short lived chuckle escapes your lips. 

Several years ago, in your youth, you found yourself walking past the gym of your high school. It was a few weeks before the beginning of the intramural matches for a majority of the sports clubs. You received a text from a classmate who was an avid fan of one such club asking you to join her in the small crowd gathering by the entrance of the gym. When asked what for, all you were told was your classmate wanted to show their support for the upcoming season. 

“So you texted me to come here because the boys volleyball club is having their photo taken?” you playfully nudge your classmate.

“Mmhm,” she nods. 

You cross your arms over your chest, shaking your head, lightly scolding her to use her time more wisely. She replies with simple facts that you had missed, like how the second year setter is getting better at keeping the ball off the ground or how the middle blockers are becoming much stronger in groups of two or three depending on how the play dictates the next point. Unbeknownst to you, it seems that beyond the entrance, one member of the team seemed to have his eyes drawn toward where you were. It doesn’t take very long for other members of the team to notice how one of their star players began to become a bit distracted. Regardless, when their coach makes the decision to cut practice a little short so the photographers can take the necessary pictures. You’re still conversing with your classmate and her subsequent response makes you laugh and from the perspective of where a certain player was sitting, you were the most enchanting person he has yet to meet.

Then, there was that one time you noticed him years later at the cafe close to where your part time job was located. You couldn’t remember his name for the life of you, but you wish your former classmate was with you, however there was no time like the present, as the saying goes. In your mind, you were checking out the athlete, muscles hidden beneath the confines of a well-loved hoodie, paired with what seemed to be (not-so-recently) washed sweatpants, thus ticking off the signs of burnout in your head. You must have forgotten about finals week since your classes still have about two weeks before that internal stressful time. Thankfully, you were given the day off, and when the cashier takes your order, you choose to approach the table where he sat with an air of caution. You see his hands pulling at his hair, the open notes with highlighted words and workbooks with spines crinkled through showing how dedicated he was. He was probably one more practice problem away from reaching the breaking point, so you approach him with a friendly overtone.

“Excuse me,” your voice is a bit firmer than you would have liked, yet it does snap the college student out of his hyperfocus zone. “But I don’t think this goes here.”

“Huh?” he asks, baffled at the page and at the disembodied voice. 

Taking up a pen from the plethora scattered between the workbook and his own notebook, you begin with practice problem number thirty-one. You explain as calmly as you can the process in which you arrive at the answer. You try not to pay too much attention to the way this stranger stares in wonder at you; were you an angel or another celestial being encapsulated with the gift of knowledge? Perhaps, when this lesson is over, the student and you will part ways only to circle back to meet each other.

The ambiance sounds in the cafe fade into the background only to be broken by the call of your name. You wrap up your lesson with a quick, dropping the pen atop the open page, “Good luck on your exams. I’m sure you’ll do great.” 

“Uh, thanks. You too.”

You walk to pick up your order and when you turn around to wave, you’re appreciative of the way the student’s tense shoulders relax when he leans back into his chair. He reminds you of someone your old classmate might have been obsessed with in high school, but more importantly, he reminds you of yourself. Moreover, after he watches you leave the cafe, his eyes scan over the page and he laughs a bit at the text you left behind:

〖#31 (ENG3400|| ANALOGIES):

PALTRY : SIGNIFICANCE ::

A. redundant : discussion

B.  austere : landscape

C. opulent : wealth

D. oblique : familiarity

E. banal : originality

Paltry is defined as small or meager; significance is defined as the quality of being worthy of attention. 

Hence, the correct answer for this analogy problem  is E since banal means to be lacking in originality as to be obvious or boring  and originality is defined as being able to think independently and creatively in English. 

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63 notes - Posted September 22, 2022

#3

Love Me…?

Pairing: timeskip!oikawa x reader (yn-san)

Word count: 2.8K

Rating: OTF [[oikawa tooru fluff]] (no angst!)

Warnings: allusions to sex, not explicit nsfw// makeout scene?

Notes: what a fun time to write for Oiks.

Seven dates in the span of six months. Seven dates spanning three time zones outside of your hometown one; three of those dates were on approved leave in your home city; two of those dates were done via FaceTime; one was for Christmas; and the last one? The airport. Not necessarily in that order, but alas, here we are. Well, we, as in you and Oikawa Tooru—established two time Olympic medalist, three time world champion, and two time MVP of loving you. The first time was a practice run to get his fans in high school to turn down their fawning over him; the second one is still being worked on as you speak. He doesn’t tell you he’s at the airport waiting to board the next flight home, so you keep it brief, making a mention of the event the JVA is hosting a month from now. 

You pick him up at the airport a little after three in the morning, stiffing a yawn while you’re standing at the arrivals gate. You’re wearing comfier clothing, ie just yoga pants, sneakers, and an old high school music club shirt. Curls that bounce with every step is soon seen grazing atop peoples heads. 

“Mí amor!” 

The nickname sticks for what seems to be years, yet you never tie listening to him call you that. Bicoastal love had always been easy with Oikawa, who the moment he spots you, runs to you—burying his face in your neck, he smiles at you when you cup his face and look directly in his eyes.

“Hi,” you whisper against his lips. “Welcome home.”

Throughout this off season break, you and your lover(?) spend time together: you visit his hometown, passing his old high school. You stop by the fence leading to the track, he points out the gym building not too far around the corner.

“Three years here and not once did I make it to nationals,” he smugly says. 

You raise an eyebrow at him before tilting your head back to look at the building.

“But that was small time,” you tease. “You’re an international sports Olympian now.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your head. “Damn right. And I have you, something an eighteen year old me didn’t know I needed.”

His arms wraps around your shoulders, guiding you to walk back a familiar path to an arcade he mentions he still has the hi-score in: “It was two against two, me and Iwa-chan versus Mattsun and Makki.”

“Oh?” you try to hide your smile while peeking inside at a particular cabinet game.

“Mmhm, but we won because the timer was running out on the Marvel vs Capcom 3 fight,” Oikawa says. He puffs his chest out when you say you think you could have easily defeated his ‘top-score,’ only for you to be dragged inside by him. He had a bold, competitive look in his eye: “Prove it princessa.”

“You’re on Oikawa Tooru!” 

Three hours and after many tokens were spent, you’re sitting next to him at the combini window, facing the street. Your open box of meat buns and milk bread is laid out between you both. He’s got such a sour face on, it amuses you so. You lean your head against his arm, politely pushing a piece of the milk break up to his pursed, pouting lips.

“Grew up with five cousins who loved video games my ass,” he grumbles when he playfully nips the tips of your fingers.

“Oi!” you roll your eyes at his comment, but shake your head when he presses kisses against your open palm. You’re sure he’s completely smitten with you. Even the following night when you’re out with his old teammates and kouhai, they ask him a bunch of questions like, ‘how long have you two been a thing?’ and ‘yn-san’s cute.’ Oikawa hugs you closer to him while you take a swig of your pint of beer.

“Yn’s mine, get your own!” he blurts. 

“So spoiled,” you murmur into your glass. 

Iwazumi stands to the right of his best friend who chuckles at your statement.

“But it’s been the happiest we’ve seen him since he moved,” the friend shared a secret with you.

You hum a “me too,” back to iwazumi who just nods.

When the appetitzers hit the bar high top table, you take it upon yourself to share the karrage chicken and umeboshi bought. These five guys surrounding you and Oikawa Tooru realize you’re going to be around for a while with the way the newly naturalized Argentinian steals glances at you. His eyes are only ever for you, suffice to say those old girlfriends from high school never stood a chance. Later on, right before parting ways, you excuse yourself from the group allowing for the guys to grill their old friend and former captain.

“You’ve been seeing yn for how long?” Mattsun asks. His pint is almost empty as well.

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74 notes - Posted October 11, 2022

#2

Maybe Once or Twice

Based on the prompt list I found earlier (I thought I saved it, but didn’t… ): )

Miya Atsumu x childhood friend!yn. Both are third years in Inarizaki & I believe it is canon that Atsumu becomes captain in his third year (if I am wrong,then let’s pretend that he earned captain when Kita and Aran graduate).

MAF (Miya Atsumu Fluff) for 17+

Word count: 1.1k

Fun fact, this .gif has nothing to do with this fic, but I think it’s cute, lol.

You were hanging upside down on your best friend’s bed one Saturday afternoon. There were school books scattered about along with university application pamphlets; the laundry hamper was empty (it typically wasn’t) and there were volleyballs in the corner of the opened closet. The autumnal weather in this part of Hyogo caused breezes to come into your friend’s bedroom. You were solving the last equation for your math homework while your friend skipped the next song in the loFi hip hop channel on the streaming service.

“Hey yn, can I ask ya something?”

“Sure thing, give me a second to finish this…” a few more scribbles later, you check over your answer and you were glad you were right. Closing the math textbook and your answer notes, you return your attention to your friend. His blonde hair slightly dancing in the breeze from the window as you chose to sit right side up a few moments ago.

“Now what were you going to ask me ‘Tsumu?”

Of all the times the current captain of Inarizaki’s Volleyball team would be considered nervous, this by far takes the number one spot. Does it help that his twin brother (along with Suna) kept teasing him about confessing how he truly feels about you? No, not really. All Atsumu knows is perhaps now he needed to be a little more courageous.

It happens during lunch roughy a week ago: the Miya twins and Suna sat among the rest of their fellow teammates and the subject of crushes came up. A few members of the team described their type, if they have one. Or rather, the guys at the table expand on what made their crushes attractive to them. Somehow your name got brought up, causing a few of their younger teammates to stare at their overly confident captain trip over his words. Atsumu spots you smiling and joking around with a few of your friends at your table. You turn around slightly and you two make eye contact for a brief moment, causing him to freeze for a moment before your friend calls your attention away. In those seconds, both of you share a silent ‘hello.’

“Don’t worry Miya-senpai, I’m sure yn-senpai likes you too,” one the second years says with a smile. You were on the other side of the courtyard holding a bag with pork dumplings and canned coffee; your friend from the neighboring class mentions how she’d see you later for the photography club.

“He just has to work up enough nerve to confess first,” Osamu says clasping his brother’s shoulder. Thus a plan brews among the team. It takes the rest of the school week for them to try trap you and their captain together and each time, all plans to confess go awry. Like on Wednesday you received a text from the club manager asking you to come to the gym because it seemed as though Atsumu hasn’t been setting properly. Yet by the time you arrive, the ‘setter block’ dissipated since Atsumu wanted to improve just to show off for you a little. He was supposed to confess when thanking you for stopping by; he couldn’t because he thought it would be the wrong time.

Then there was Thursday, you and Atsumu along with Osamu and Rin, share a science lab. Your normal teacher had a family emergency and there was a sub when you entered. You were always partners with Rin, but thanks to him finding the seating chart before class, you find Atsumu sitting next to you. He fills you in and you shake your head, mentioning he’ll be the one taking notes for the report. This time, he was supposed to slip a letter he wrote consisting of your name, the words ‘I like ya. Wanna go out Saturday night?’ into your bag, but you placed it on the opposite side of where he was seated (closer to you). After that failed attempt, Atsumu at home, decided perhaps telling you directly works best.

Hence the final option: inviting you over for the first time since primary school. Your parents along with the twin’s mother were old college friends, so when you were first introduced to the boys, you three were about to start the second grade. Regardless, as time goes on, children grow older and they discover feelings they never knew of. Honestly, the reason why you were in the Miyas bedroom with Atsumu was because Osamu ‘suddenly remembers he had to meet up with Suna for the literature project.’ When he leaves, Atsumu’s phone goes off and the blonde reads the message his brother sent saying, ‘thank me later.’ And now Atsumu is here, well, currently he’s sitting next to you, moving your books to the floor. You make room for him to sit cross legged on the bed across from you.

“Tsum? You ok? You’re usually not this quiet…” you bring a palm to his forehead and he thinks he’s about to lose his mind with the caring act.

“Y-yeah, I’m fine,” he shakes his head, your hand lowers and stays in front of you. You’re steadying yourself leaning up to look him in his eyes that reflect the gold from the sunset.

“So, what were you going to ask me?”

Your old friend looks away from you for a few seconds just to inhale and exhale a deep breath. Just like he does on the court before one of his killers serves. As he returns his attention to you, you feel the tension in the air change from comforting to sort of awkward (like in the romance manga you read in your spare time).

“Have you thought about us kissing before?”

The question comes out all at once; it is rushed out of his lips, leaving you stunned. You lean back, straightening your posture, a blush tinging your ears lightly pink; Atsumu on the other hand runs his hands nervously through his hair more than twice. The silence is killing him, so as he is about to ask you to forget what he said, your answer surprises him:

“Maybe once or twice,” you say through a playful pout. Your voice is slightly above a whisper, but you’re sure he heard you since his hands stop fussing with his hair, reaching to hold yours.

“Really?” Atsumu’s voice is a little wobbly because of the increase in possibility of him kissing you when you both see the shiest smile on the other’s face.

“Since we were twelve,” you come clean, attaching a short lived chortle. You don’t forget the way Atsumu’s eyes widened at your confession because that was same age as when he won the mvp award for his middle school accolade for volleyball. You were incredibly proud of him (and Osamu too), honestly you thought of giving him a kiss as an extra bonus. As you explain your side of now confirming the feeling was mutual between the two of you, you notice your fingers becoming interlaced with his.

“So, what’s stopping you from kissing me now ‘Tsum?” You tilt your head to the side.

Miya Atsumu shakes his head as he leans in to close the distance between you two; his eyes glance between your eyes and lips before you feel his breath across your Cupid’s Bow.

“Nothin’,” is the last thing you hear before your eyes flutter close as you feel the smile on his lips when he kisses you. His lips feel surprisingly soft, softer than you originally thought; his hand moves to cup your cheek. You wrap your hand around hoses wrist to keep his hand there.

When the kiss breaks, he hears you hum in approval prior to raising your free hand to the collar of his shirt to pull him back in.

“Again,” your voice asks.

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85 notes - Posted January 11, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

(Innocent) Sleepover

Mattsukawa & YN have been neighbors since first year middle school. YN’s parents have been rumored to have shouting matches when they argue, thus causing their kid to come over for some much needed sleep. Over the years, Mattsun and yn have been growing close, so much so that Oikawa picks up on the subtle hints yn has the middle blocker wrapped around their finger…

Word Count: 1.5K-1.6K

Pairing: Mattsukawa Issei x Reader (yn)

Rating: hq fluff ft. Mattsun x reader

this got me thinking how mattsun kisses start out gentle at first, heh

You throw a pebble or four at the second highest window of your friend’s house. Parents were arguing over the water bill this time and though you could usually sleep through the yells, you texted your neighbor asking to sleepover. It’s been a few years since you had slept over, the last time was the summer in your third year of middle school during a shared family trip to Hyogo. Your mother wanted to visit an old friend of your grandmother, however that was about six summers ago. Regardless, the pebbles keep piling up until you see a familiar silhouette peek out over the railing.

“Stay there, I’ll open the sliding door by the herb garden,” is all you hear and you pick up your backpack off the grass to sling it over your shoulder.

The door slides open with a decisive ‘whoosh!’

“Is that yn-chan? Mattsun, let yn-chan in…”

The scolding of their grandson makes you bite back a chortle when he tells them he was going to invite you inside regardless.

Your neighbor meets you explaining his grandprents were in town for the upcoming volleyball game between Seijoh and a former powerhouse school. An amused smile curls your lips and in the fluorescent light above you both, if he wasn’t so unsure you would reciprocate his feelings, he might have greeted you with a forehead kiss. Ever since he hit just second growth spurt, Mattsukawa Issei stands taller than ever thus making your height the perfect one for him to rest his head atop when you do give him your normal ‘hello’-hug. He could tell you were having a rough night, especially when the shouting seemed to have been muffled from his window. The pebbles still littering the small space between his door and the short balcony. Said balcony was home to many late night talks with each other, slowly becoming a comfort spot during house parties and sleepovers with the guys.

While you take up his offer of holding your backpack, you wander off to greet his relatives. Sleeping over his place on a Friday right before game day was not what you had intended, yet when your father hears you leave, your mother questions where you’re headed both knowing full well you’d be found next door—there is a shared memory when you first moved here the summer before you start middle school, where you meet the neighbors (parents) of the lanky boy next door. You were and still are more expressive than he is, but your sarcastic wisecracks sprinkled with sharp cynical one liners added to more appeal to try to be your first friend. Mattsukawa was just glad you let him be near you, fast friends you became before volleyball took over his life. Sure, in the past you watched several games he had played in, but alas as time progresses, your presence at games slightly dwindled, much to the middle blocker’s dismay. Yet, you have a knack of showing up at the first and second game on a whim, therefore surprising him (and causing him to play his personal best from time to time).

Inside the kitchen, Mattsukawa overhears you talk with his relatives. The conversations stem past the “how do you do’s” to more pressing matters like if you’ve already had an eye on someone say about “yay high, slightly sun kissed skin, plays a particular sport, etc.” you play with your hands a little bit saying if that were the case, then you’d probably be on your way back from a date.

Mattsukawa freezes, letting your backpack fall onto his floor with a muddle thump. From what he can infer, you do like him? He reasons with himself he will ask you once you say your good nights to his grandparents. It’s not very often they visit Miyagi, though the old couple might be the best wing people ever.

The digital clock reads close to 22:38 when you walk into Mattsukawa’s room. You noticed he had pushed a few pillows in the middle thus making you shake your head. It was an awfully sweet gesture, you think, ever since you read the westernized legend of King Arthur and how he laid a modesty barrier between he and the lady Guenevere. Behind you, you feel his presence hovering and you say in a low voice, “race ya!”

Mattsukawa chuckles as he takes five long steps and wins the short race. You on the other hand, practically tackle him on the mattress when you trip over his own school bag, forcing him to hold you steady by your waist. Is that a blush…? Oh my god. It is! your eyes glance at his cheekbones and his ears. His hands are warm, calloused, but stern in the support he gives you. The closeness of where your hand landed on his chest made his ebony eyes study your curious stare. The moonlight reflects in them and for the first time in a long time (technically since his first high school girlfriend broke things off with him), he senses that familiar increase in his heart rate.

Luckily the shouting had since dialed down and with the door closed behind you both, Mattsukawa chose to be brave this time. He brings you closer to him and when he leans down, you expected him to kiss you directly on the mouth, but no—he instead kisses your forehead whispering something along the lines of, “Ask me and I will.”

In your arms, you catch whiffs of his body wash: he smells of pine and bonfires, fireflies, and the quiet storms by the mountain valley. Your hands move away from his chest to wrap around his neck, toying with the ends of his outgrown hair. Mattsukawa’s immediate instinct was if he were to kiss you for real, he’d need to sit up since he wouldn’t trust himself (or you) would stop—you’ve been side by side like a second shadow since the first time you were invited over via Oikawa’s need to know who caused his teammate to be clearly smitten. You have a slight panic in your eyes when he sits up, yet your fear turns into a muted look of recognition as you readjusted yourself to straddle him properly. Gazing from your eyes to your lips and back again, you realize you haven’t said anything yet. Gods above knew you wanted him to kiss you, for years, your brain reminds you, because somehow making sure you were ok after nights like tonight made you start seeing your neighbor under a different light.

“You needn’t ask,” you tell him in a hushed tone, taking a deep breath, and on the exhale you continue.“You’re the only one who doesn’t need to—mmf?!”

Lips pressed against yours faster than you could finish that statement, Mattsukawa doesn’t apologize for the electricity he passed to you, but considering your gasp of surprise your eyes fluttered close when you feel a familiar hand rests against your cheek; tender and chaste like a secret shared in your shared past. His hands stay behind you, before wandering higher to cradle the back of your head. Unnecessarily warm, is a common thought both of you have prior to one common word dance to the forefront of your mind—more, give me more.

You in turn kiss him back, which makes you feel him smile against your pursed lips. It isn’t a violent one, not one where either of you are rushed, however with the way he’s making you feel like your body is on fire causes you slower the pace; his hands stay by your side, almost grazing your skin sighing into your half opened mouth. Your hair is tousled by him, keeping strands away from where your lips are. There is meaning and purpose behind everywhere you allow his lips to reach: calm mind on your forehead, inside jokes when he reaches the corner of your mouth, but when you pause before you kiss him again, you realize you never seen him this flushed before. It’s a sight you selfishly take mental snapshots of—there is a desperate nature in the way he calls your name as he holds a wrist of yours gently against his sternum. Below, your palm feels the heightened ramifications you did.

There is an apologetic phrase on the tip of his tongue, yet you remove your other hand from behind his shoulder to press your fingertips against his ajar lips. You shake your head saying, “it’s ok.”

He presses his forehead against your own, his voice is low like a short rumble of thunder as he calls you, “pretty,” rubbing your shoulders. In the dark, you notice how handsome his features naturally are especially when there are notes of strawberry pinks tinting the sides of his neck. Needless to say, you were amused about this bashful side of his.

“C’mere,” your voice has a coy tone and like any good person, Mattsukawa does as he is told. When you kiss him this time, you purposefully miss before tracing his jaw with your lips; kissing and sucking the taut skin of his neck. He groans as he grips the ends of your shirt with one hand, the other pushes the back of your head further into the juncture between his collarbone and neck, forcing you to remain following through with this kindness.

You hover painfully steady above his lips before you close the gap together. Mattsukawa’s eyes swears they have never seen anyone this effortlessly hot; sure lavender hues and roses would bloom around your head, like a spring sprite, but for him, he’s glad he took a chance on kissing you—and vice versa. Little things you notice when you kiss him this time: he knows how to hold you, obeys when you open your mouth a smidge, breathes in time with you, calls you nicknames under his breath which makes you dizzy.

“Finally,” is the last confession you’re able to coherently hear when he works on leaving a love bite on your collarbone. You inhale and exhale, cooling the skin behind his jaw, tugging him closer until he leaves your exposed bone alone only to recapture your lips in a teasingly slow kiss.

He tastes the remnants of your dinner and lavender tea when you open your mouth a bit wider for him, you inhale through your nose and exhale into his mouth, filling his lungs with more air for him to continue kissing you like this. Losing yourself in his touch, you feel his fingers run along the small of your back. Mattsukawa makes you take a seat on his lap securing his hold on you. He doesn’t leave your lips alone until they are bruised from returning every ounce of affection he gives you—you nearly knock heads and he chuckles saying you’ll be the one to ground him with your logic. You shake your head when you peck his lips once more.

“Not so fast,” his voice halts your movements. His hands fix the bottom of the your sleeping shirt while you tilt his head this way and that, amused at your blossoming bruises there; in return, he does the same, chuckling at where your fingers press against his neck.

“Admiring your work?”

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130 notes - Posted June 19, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

(⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃ 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆! (⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃

[in-the-noise]

just a thing <3

- aycie

The island seems normal at first, because, at first, your eyes can detect only an ambiguous mass. Only when it has swallowed you and the clouds, can you comprehend it and when you do, all the stories fall flat against your eyes as they wander the height and breadth of the island and you finally see it, silent and sleeping amidst grey rolling waters. It’s presence hums invasively under your thoughts as the fog shies away and the greyer skies behind provide a dismal, burning backdrop for the constant thrum of the monstrous machine below. Its most definitive feature has to be the holes in the ground, thousands of metres in diameter like vast and perfect scars littered around the base of the metal mountain, and your eyes can only travel up from those ghastly cavities, black and grinning at the base of the island. Onwards and upwards is the tottering progress of man, skinny and growing. The product of the constant grind of machinery is a large beast of parts and places, growths and spurts and just metal and metal and metal. And the metal moves with a mind, and speaks in an eerily musical clatter and clang as it laboriously heaves under the weight of itself and the burden of its own impossibility, so warped and altered and modified until the beast has been lost amidst the cogs that grate to hold it together. The sky pales against its silhouette, as iron breath beckons like fire, huffing a hidden rhythm, so you must go as it compels you to. And closer you get, and closer it comes. 

Then from the gaping mouths in the ground, comes the mindless crush of noise, manmade and rumbling, rolling like a tongue, enveloping the air around like a snaking heat. As you walk closer, the noise transforms, different to every ear, but unmistakably the noise becomes a song, dark and united and desperate from those yawning voids. Each syllable grinds against the ears and a glance into the singing abyss reveals an earthy spiral going down, down downwards into the heated dark and the ever-noisemaking queue of ant-like men and women with shadows that loll with the worms and bodies glazed. The shadows reveal with sly, winking glints, rows and rows of lethal curves slung over rows and rows of lilting shoulders. Descending and darkening, and always behind them and their minds and their mouths, and always behind you is the Song of the Mine.

unoffical issue #5

very much in a steampunk mood. i did quite like this piece though, especially "behind them and their minds and their mouths". this is also 100% fuel for my morbid obsession with industrial dystopias, they're just so good tho!!!! i also don't know how to indent stuff but im sure beavie will do it for me. that's it for this one.

stay noisy !

said with love,

aycie

[aeonianarchives]

Hey there! I was wondering if you would mind writing a request for me. One in which the fem!reader is a Dunedain and was friends with Aragorn since childhood. She joins the fellowship and grows really close to Boromir, seeing him as a brother. Aragorn is jealous, but then the reader tells him that she loves him. Thank you for considering!

I Love You Stupid

A/n: of course Anon, I forgot i wrote for Aragorn so I almost wrote a whole paragraph saying I don't write for him only to check my masterlist and find out i do, I know I have a 24 hour request turn around or well try to, but this will probs be written in that time but sit in my queue for a week or two cuz i have shit wifi at the moment and i need to post content while i have shit wifi when i go away. This is also my first time writing for him so please bare with me.

Pairing: Dúnedain Fem!Reader x Aragorn

Summary: Request by Anon

Ft: Jealous Aragorn, Brother Figure Boromir, Wingman Legolas, Thorin (Mention) is Alive

Ever since childhood you had grown up with Aragorn, you were almost attached at the hip, apart from the fact that, Haldir and his brothers had basically adopted you ever since they found you after the orc ambush on your parents convoy to the Greenwood, you were raised closely with him, given the both Elrond's twins and the twins were good friends.

You both joined the Dúnedain Rangers together and you traveled the wild together, you soon caught wind of of the secret council of Elrond being held of the ring, some how even the elven rulers and the wizards did not know how you knew most things in middle earth, so Elrond was not as surprised as Aragorn when you reveled yourself from the shadows.

"Ah Y/n, I was wondering when you would show yourself, it would be unlike you not to hear about this" Mithrandir said

"Lady Galadriel told me about it, she asked me to come as her representative" you returned it was true that the Lady Galadriel used you as her personal ranger some times as you had ties with the Galadrhim.

Boromir was quick to offer you a seat, "Please it is rude for me to keep a lady such as yourself standing" Boromir said.

"I prefer the stand" You told the Stewards son who nodded to you and took his seat again, you stayed silent even threw Boromir insulting Aragorn and the little fight which took place about if the ring should be destroyed or if Gondor should get it.

"The ring has to be destroyed, there is no other option, if the ring is not destroyed and Sauron should get it because the race of men is weak, then he would get so much stronger, it must be cast back into the fires in which it was forged no weapon by any craft we have here will break it" You chimed in

"And what would a ranger like you know" Boromir said.

"She knows plenty more than you know" Aragorn shot you sighed as Boromir and Aragorn got into another argument, soon you had pledged your sword like Aragorn to the hobbit, Legolas also swore his bow to the hobbit and gimli his axe, you slightly snickered remembering how bilbo told you when Legolas saw a drawing of Gimli in his father Gloin locket and called him a goblin mutant, but you said nothing, Boromir surprisingly offered to come along for the journey.

You soon learnt on your journey Boromir wasn't that bad a bit misogynistic but over all not that bad, he helped Merry and Pippin use swords, Aragorn even chimed in the help the two, you stood next to Legolas albeit with a height difference as he stood on a rock.

Sam was cooking, the hobbit had soon become the main cook of the fellowship, not that you minded, it would probably fall to you if not.

Boromir soon came up behind you, "what ya thinking about" Boromir said you somewhat jumped as he snuck up on you as you were lost in thought.

"Are ya thinking of the Elf, Ya were staring" Boromir said, Legolas quickly turned to you.

"No I was not, Legolas is a good mellon of mine Boromir, I was thinking about my parents reaction to me going on this quest, they are a bit, over protective of me" You responded.

"Aren't you the same age as Aragorn" Boromir said you nodded in response

"Aren't your parents i don't know dead" Boromir said you laughed

"Not my biological ones my elvish parents" You responded

"You were raised by elves" Boromir said

"Yeah, got a problem with that" You questioned Boromir

"No just shocked" Boromir said

"Y/n likes someone of her own race, which she has known for a long time" Legolas said, you shot the prince a glare

"Sometimes I hate you" You said to Legolas.

You had not noticed how you became close to Boromir, but Aragorn certainly had and wondered how he could let you fall for him, Legolas fell back in step with the Dúnedain Ranger.

"You know Aragorn, that's more Brotherly than it is romantic" Legolas whispered as you turned around and smiled at the two, Legolas fell back to walk with the hobbits as you moved to walk next to Aragorn.

"Oh Estel, Boromir is asking of embarrassing stories of you, I told him to go to Elrond or Elrond's twins if he wanted, Are you ok, is this about Arwen, I know you loved her but maybe you can find someone better" You said.

"How could I do better than an Elf" Aragorn said he noticed how quickly you shut up and moved to walk next to Boromir.

"You blew that" Legolas said walking next to him again.

The Fellowship soon set up Camp, Boromir and Gimli were talking to each other, Sam was talking to Frodo while cooking, Pippin and Merry were talking with Boromir and Gimli, You were sat next to Gandalf near the fire sharpening your sword.

You kept Aragorn in your peripheral vision as you chipped in with Boromir's conversation when it was directed your way, Aragorn was acting different he was distant compared to before, before Aragorn would come up with any reason to be with you.

"Y/N CATCH" Pippin yelled throwing you an apple, you stabbed it midair with your nice and took a bite out of it.

"Told you she could do it Sam, if she can cut an arrow in half of course she can do that" Pippin said, Gandalf chuckled choking on his pipe a little.

"That was a one time think Pippin, I will not be doing that again" You replied you could hear Legolas' silent laugh from behind you.

A Week later you had had enough of Aragorn moping around and ignoring you all the time especially since Gandalf fell in Moria and Boromir when Pippin and Merry got taken.

"Aragorn, look I know Boromir's and Gandalf death have been hard, especially as i grew to think of Boromir as a Brother but will you quit Ignoring me for once" You huffed as you picked up yet another piece of firewood and slammed it angrily into Aragorn's arms.

"Now is no time to get all sad over Arwen breaking up with you before you left Imladris, It was better for both of you, Arwen will sail to Valinor and you will become the King of Gondor" You said.

"That is not who I am, I am not a King and this isn't about their deaths or Arwen, it's about something completely different" Aragorn said.

"You are not Isildur, you won't make the same mistake he did, you maybe of his blood but you are not him, not all decedents in your case are like there ancestors, You are a better man than him, someone I can follow into battle and trust them" You said prodding Aragorn in the chest with a firewood stick you had picked up.

"I know I am not him, but you aren't the only one who wants be to become King" Aragorn said

"Hey, I get these uncanny feelings about the future more than often they are right, and you being king is one of them" You said as you set the stick down onto the rest Aragorn was holding.

"I think Legolas was right about one thing, you are jealous" You saud

"And why would i be Jealous" Aragorn said

"I did not notice it until I looked for it, but your in love with me aren't you, and you thought of Boromir was a threat as you thought I liked him in a romantic way, Aragorn never have you been so wrong" you said turning around to him.

"do you like Legolas" Aragorn said you laughed

"Oh Aragorn, I liked Legolas but I realized that was a stupid little crush which was a phase, I mean who wouldn't have you seen how hot that elf is i swear he gets it from his father, no he does get it from his father, I'm getting off topic" You walked towards Aragorn

"You really want to know who I like hmm" You said.

"It would be out of line to ask you" Aragorn said.

"I like Elladan" You teased, you watched as Aragorn's face dropped.

"Good" You said, Aragorn looked at you in shock.

"You do like me, I thought Legolas was pulling my Leg" You said you watched his face turn to confusion.

"You are so blind when it comes to feelings Aragorn, I love you dumbass and I always have, I just knew to leave you and Arwen be" You said.

"Now, we should get back to camp, before Legolas and Gimli think something bad happened to us" you said, Aragorn followed you back, you both set down the fire wood and sat down, Legolas slide besides Aragorn the two talked in hushed whispers before Legolas looked at you knowingly.

"You should set you blanket besides Y/n Aragorn if that is so, we wouldn't want Y/n to be defenseless on a night raid by orcs" you glared at Legolas

"Gimli, Did you know when Legolas saw your picture in your fathers locket he asked if you were a goblin mutant" You said the dwarf glared at Legolas

"A GOBLIN MUTANT NOW LADDIE YOU THOUGHT I WAS A GOBLIN MUTANT, I WILL MAKE YA LOOK LIKE A GOBLIN MUTANT" Gimli yelled

"How did you know about that" Legolas asked you.

"Feren tells me everything and surprisingly so does Thorin" you said, Aragorn came to sit next to you as Gimli and Legolas were fighting.

"You didn't need to set Gimli on him did you" Aragorn questioned, you laughed as you set your head on Aragorn's shoulder, he wrapped an arm around your waist.

"It was to funny to to see Gimli's reaction, I am surprised I held out this Long" you said turning your head to face Aragorn, he kisses you.

"Yuck" You said pushing him away

"I've never kissed someone with a beard before" You said

"I kiss you and you say yuck" Aragorn said offend, you laughed and hugged him.

A/n: sorry this is so late it to me a couple of days to even write this and then it would have be stuck in my long queue.

Star trek reference it Lord of the Rings fanfic, yes i do say so, and it fits very well if I do say so myself.

Elvish Translation:

Mellon - Friend

[matrixaffiliate]

Penumbra

New Story! FFN and AO3

Marlene and Sirius are working to get James and Lily together, but there might be some other benefits waiting in the shadows. Blackinnon Muggle AU.

For the amazing HazzaP! I hope you enjoy this little story! Love you, darling!

(This is 1970s muggle au mostly because I wanted Marlene to have a fringed leather jacket, and I was feeling self-serving.)

Penumbra

Marlene slid into the booth and frowned when Lily sat across from her.

"What are you doing?"

Lily looked toward the restaurant door before looking down at the table. "Trying to take your advice?"

"Oh my gosh, really?" Marlene almost bounced in her seat.

"Well don't make it weird!" Lily hissed. "For all you know one of our other friends might end up sitting next to me."

"It's just us tonight, remember? Everyone bailed except you, me, James and Sirius. And don't worry, I'll make sure Sirius gives the two of you plenty of space."

"Please don't be obvious about it!" Lily looked back at the door as James and Sirius walked in.

"Trust me, Lils."

"What's Lily trusting you with?" James laughed as he and Sirius approached their booth.

"The pizza order," Marlene stood up. "Black, help a girl out and carry drinks?"

Sirius gave her an amused smile. "Always a pleasure to help a lady, McKinnon."

"Brilliant," she snagged his leather jacket by the arm and tugged him away.

"To give you the heads up," Sirius' hand slid across her waist, his fingers dipping just beneath her leather jacket. "I'm going to make James sit next to Lily."

"Great minds, Black," Marlene let him think her smile was only for his plan lining up with hers and not for the way his fingers lit her up like a Christmas tree. She definitely needed to find someone to keep touching her like that at some point, but tonight was about Lily and James. Then she could look into finding Mr. Right, or even just Mr. Right Now. Why should Lily be the only one enjoying herself? "I will be pulling us away for the same reason."

"No one I'd rather work with." They came to the queue to order and Sirius looped one of her loose curls around his finger. "Are you opposed to leaving early if the occasion arises?"

Marlene smirked up at him. "If it gets Lily and James together then I'll leave with you right now."

"Patience, Marls," he dropped the curl and stepped back. "Keep your wits about you, yeah? They might need an extra push here or there."

"Same to you," she pulled her wallet from the pocket in her jacket.

"I've got this one," Sirius pushed her hand into her chest. "In celebration of James and Lily figuring themselves out."

"Let me pitch in," Marlene opened her wallet and handed him two tenners. "They haven't figured themselves out yet."

"Are you a betting woman?" He swatted her bills away, snagging the fringe of her leather jacket in the process.

"Are you really this juvenile?"

"If James and Lily aren't cozying up and wishing for us to bail in the next hour then I'll take your twenty quid."

"Betting means that you would give me twenty quid if it takes more than one hour." She bit her lip and grinned at him.

"I believe it does." He stepped closer, linking their pinkies together. "So, Marls, do we have a bet?"

"Is it really a bet if I want you to win?" She curled her fingers so the backs of their hands were pressed against each other.

"You were going to pitch in for the food and drinks anyway." He leant closer and Marlene had to focus on breathing. It had definitely been too long. She needed to get out and have a good snog as soon as Lily and James were safely off on the road to happily ever after. Her body was suggesting dangerous things with someone she was friends with first and foremost.

"You have yourself a deal."

Sirius' smirk went softer as he smiled down at her and she felt her breathing grow shallow.

"Are you two ready to order?"

Sirius turned from her, breaking the contact of their hands, and Marlene barely managed to keep from gasping as he moved to the cashier. "Alright McKinnon, what're we ordering?"

Marlene forced herself to laugh and join him at the counter. They placed their order and took their drinks and a stack of plates back to their booth.

Where both Marlene and Sirius nearly murdered their best friends.

"James, you are in my seat." She glared at him.

"What?" James' hand went straight for his hair. "I thought you'd like to sit next to Lily."

"Come on, James, don't rile McKinnon up. Just move so I can set these drinks down." Sirius gave an annoyed huff and Marlene bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

"Er, right," James stood and looked at Lily. "I guess we're sharing this side of the booth tonight."

Lily gave him a soft smile. "I don't mind."

Marlene helped Sirius set down the drinks and shared an eye roll with him. She really didn't want to win their bet. She wanted to stop hearing Lily pine for a man that obviously wanted her.

"What pizza did you order?" Lily asked once everyone was settled.

"Anchovies and pineapple," Marlene teased.

"And don't forget the green olives," Sirius smirked.

"Why do we put up with these two?" James looked at Lily.

She laughed and leant closer to him. "I don't know but we should definitely unionize and go on strike."

"I completely agree," James slung his arm around Lily's shoulders and Lily wasted no time in scooting closer to him. "We are on strike as best friends until you get us good pizza toppings."

Marlene could hardly keep from bouncing. "I guess we'll have to make due." She smirked at Sirius.

He winked at her. "If they're unionizing aren't we supposed to come down hard? Fire them for lack of work or something like that?"

"That sounds like effort," Marlene pouted. "Can't we just let them strike until they're bored of it?"

Sirius' hand bumped the side of her thigh and he leant close again. "Brilliant. We'll just wait them out."

He was so close. Marlene could see the different shades of gray in his eyes, the way his midnight hair fell perfectly around his face, and smell the leather of his jacket mixing with her own. She wanted to be closer. She wanted to see what would happen. She was never good at thinking before acting. And before she had really processed it, she was sliding her hand against his.

Sirius' eyes darkened, the gray fading away to black. His hand shifted to hers, fingers intertwining and grasping hers in an almost possessive way. Marlene felt her breath leave her entirely.

"We can wait." James brought her attention back from the feeling of Sirius' hand wrapped around hers and the way it made her want to feel his hand against more of her skin. "Pizza toppings are no light matter."

Sirius didn't let go of her hand as he turned back to James. "I think we could come to agreeable terms, but it might cut into your benefits."

"What does that even mean?" Lily laughed.

"He's trying to use his posh vocabulary to confuse us." James faux whispered. "Don't worry, I speak BS as well as he does." He turned back to Sirius. "You know that cutting benefits will only turn us to explore other options. You could lose everything because you weren't willing to work together on this."

Marlene scoffed and Sirius squeezed her hand.

"But you're assuming that we don't have other options lined up. Marlene and I are desirable people. There are always openings."

Marlene's heart skipped a beat at him calling her desirable.

"You wouldn't make it two weeks without us." Lily laughed.

"Yes," James nodded, "Lily's right. You rely on us too much to lose us. We demand fair pizza toppings."

Marlene leant closer to Sirius and faux whispered. "Is this the part where we laugh at them and tell them we're teasing?"

"Don't ruin the fun, Marls." He squeezed her hand. "Jamesie and I are enjoying making fun of our upbringings."

"Have fun then," Marlene grinned and looked back at Lily. "So how was your day?"

Lily bit her lip and glanced at James who was now pressed completely against her side. "It's going pretty good. What about you?"

Marlene forced her eyes to stay on her friend and not mimic the glance at the man sitting next to her. "Good, I snuck out of work early."

"I think the girls are tired of the game." James sighed.

"Eh, I get bored when you're not in top form anyway." Sirius shrugged and sat back.

James sputtered but Marlene didn't give it much notice. She was too focused on Sirius' thumb as it slid against hers.

She looked up at him, hoping to decipher what was happening between them. Sirius winked at her but his attention focused on their friends.

"What's on the pizza then?" Lily asked. "And please don't tease this time."

Marlene chuckled and tried to keep her mind on the conversation and less on what was or wasn't happening between her and Sirius. "The one the four of us like, but everyone else has something against it; pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms, and black olives."

"That's the only benefit of everyone bailing tonight." James chuckled. "We get the pizza we like."

As if summoned by magic, their number was called and Sirius let go of her hand. "I shall return with food."

Marlene watched him go, knowing that there was no reason she should follow him. They'd only ordered one pizza, she had brought the plates with their drinks, and so Sirius needed no help. But for a reason Marlene wasn't ready to think about, she wanted to follow him.

And when he returned with pizza and sat back down, he didn't grab her hand again. That brought up more feelings that Marlene really didn't want to try and think about. Sirius was her friend. And while she was very capable of looking at him and pointing out all the reasons girls fell at his feet, she didn't know if she wanted to give into her body and be one of them.

The conversation continued though as if Marlene wasn't struggling to decide if these feelings surrounding Sirius were worth pursuing. So she did her best to keep pushing James and Lily together while trying to enjoy her dinner. They'd been at the restaurant forty-five minutes when Sirius tapped her knee with his.

"I'm grabbing a refill," Sirius lifted his cup. "Hand them over."

"I'll help you." Marlene didn't miss a beat as she picked up hers and Lily's cups.

"You got them last time." Lily protested.

"Did you hear something?" Sirius grinned at Marlene as she scooted out of the booth.

"Not a thing," Marlene laughed and followed him as Lily shouted after them. Something about being obnoxious.

Sirius moved to rest against the wall as they waited and jerked his head, beckoning her to join him.

"I think it's going well."

"Me too," Marlene smiled up at him, "James hasn't let her out from under his arm for most of the evening."

"Ready to bail after we finish the pizza?"

"Really?"

"Did you bring Lily?"

"No, she drove this time."

"Perfect, because James rode the tube and I came on my bike. He and Lily can go home together and I'll drive you home."

"Lily and I live together." Marlene pointed out. "It doesn't make sense for me to go home with you. How are we going to pull this off?"

"Marls, you're brilliant!" Sirius grinned.

"What?"

"You said it didn't make sense for you to come home with me, instead of me to take you home. That's the answer! You come home with me." His eyes were bright and his grin filled his face.

"Wait," Marlene shook her head while pushing away the pesky feelings that there might be something there between her and Sirius if he wanted to take her home. "Are we going to make it look like we're hooking up?"

He stopped looking at her as he stepped up to the counter and set down the drinks. "Exactly. It's the perfect reason for them to be left on their own."

"We'd have to sell them pretty hard on it." Marlene set down her and Lily's drinks and glanced back at where James and Lily were cozying up on the booth.

"Not that hard."

Marlene gasped as Sirius stepped up against her, one hand coming to rest on her hip, the other gently tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. His gray eyes were nearly black as he looked down at her, and Marlene felt herself instinctively step into him, bringing her hand up to his chest to steady herself. He smirked and bent down to whisper in her ear.

"See? We've got this, Marls."

She couldn't think. He was too close. She was enveloped by Sirius, his touch, his scent, the way his breath wafted down her neck from her ear. "And what do we tell them tomorrow?"

"We'll talk about that after we're sure James and Lily are stuck going home together." His lips brushed against the shell of her ear and Marlene felt the sensation from her ear all the way down her spine.

"Are you sure you're just not trying to get out of our bet?"

He chuckled, his breath tickling her neck. "You know I never would have taken your money."

She did. She wouldn't have taken his either. Probably.

"So we're making James and Lily think we're hooking up?"

"And we'll go from there," the hand that had brushed away her hair ran the length of her arm, slipping along her hand before he intertwined their fingers.

Marlene would be lying if she didn't admit she liked the possibilities that existed in the phrase 'go from there.'

"Let's get these drinks and then get out of here." His fingers squeezed her waist, and Marlene gripped his leather jacket in her hand.

"Sirius-"

"Come on," he cut her off, pulling away and picking up their drinks. "We've got this, Marls."

So she followed him. What else was she going to do? Marlene tried to reason with her warring emotions. Pointing out that Sirius could very well be Mr. Right Now. It would be fun, and if it didn't go anywhere, then they'd laugh about it and just be friends. After all, it wasn't until he'd run his hand along her waist that she'd actually thought that way about him. She pushed away the voice that told her she'd more than once admitted that if she were going to hook up with any of their friends she would choose Sirius, including when he'd been within earshot.

Whatever. They'd be fine. She'd be fine. It was going to be fine.

Then they sat down and Sirius slung his arm casually over her shoulders. Marlene looked up at him and he winked as he smirked down at her.

"Hey."

Well, if they were putting on a show for James and Lily, Marlene figured she might as well make it a good one.

"Hey." She pushed up against him, bringing her back flush with his chest.

Then she turned back to the budding couple across the table.

James' eyebrows were creased down towards his nose while Lily's mouth was slightly agape.

Marlene gave them a pleasant smile and picked up her drink.

"Lily, did you drive?" Sirius shifted his arm around her shoulders to be able to slide his finger under Marlene's necklace, the choker sliding up with the action.

Marlene made a point of breathing out slowly.

"Er, yes." Lily managed to pick her jaw up from the table. Marlene bit her lip. She was sure that Lily thought this all her doing, that she was leading Sirius along with no intention of following through.

But Marlene was quickly realizing as Sirius wound her up that she had every intent of following through.

"You two alright?" James' brow furrowed further.

Marlene smirked. "Smashing, James."

Sirius bent low to whisper against her ear. "Are you ready to bail?"

She turned, her lips so close to his cheek she could feel his five o'clock shadow against her face. "I am if you are."

"More than." He pulled her closer and looked over at James and Lily. "Have fun you two. We'll see you later."

"Seriously?" James sputtered again.

"It's just Sirius, mate." Sirius laughed. "Make sure he gets home, Lily. I don't want to hear he took the tube home."

Marlene winked at Lily, who was gaping at her again, and let Sirius pull them away and out the door.

Sirius kept her pressed against him as they approached his bike.

"Now," he stopped them to lean back against his bike and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her into him so that she stood between his legs. "I'm going to tell you to call the next shot."

Marlene let her arms come to rest around his neck, loosely linking her fingers under his hair. Her heart was hammering but she was relishing the feel of being this close to him. "The next shot for what?"

"You and me." He leant in and Marlene thought he was going to kiss her but instead he rested his forehead against hers.

"So this is what you meant by we'll go from there?" She gave into desire and leant closer, bringing her nose to nuzzle along his, their lips now mere centimeters apart.

His grip on her waist tightened and she had to take a half a step forward, leaving absolutely no space between her hips and his. "What do you say, Marls?"

"Are you willing to let this be something?" She shifted to let her lips brush his as she spoke.

"I'm planning on it, McKinnon."

She could feel his smirk against her and deliberately licked her lips, the barest taste of pizza still there as her tongue brushed him. The sound that he responded with was guttural, primal, and she bit her lip as her stomach tightened.

"Me too," Marlene murmured before finally, deliberately, bringing her lips to his.

Sirius wasted no time in deepening the kiss, sliding his tongue against hers while pushing his hands under her leather jacket. Marlene matched him, pushing her hands into his hair, sighing at its softness, pressing more of her against him, savoring this moment where she and Sirius crossed the line from friends to something different, something more, something decidedly better.

"Come on," Sirius slowed their pace, "My flat is far more comfortable than balancing against my bike."

"The bike is sexy, Black." Marlene pulled his bottom lip between her teeth. "Don't underestimate her."

She felt Sirius' chuckle against her chest more than she heard it. "Not to worry, love, I'll make sure you don't miss her too much." He pulled away and climbed on, jerking his head for Marlene to follow suit.

Marlene pulled herself flush against him once she was on, and smiled when she felt Sirius' hand wrap around hers over his middle and give it a firm squeeze.

She hasn't realized how good it could feel, moving a friendship forward like this, but as Sirius pushed off and they started down the road toward his flat, Marlene didn't regret any of the evening.

And she didn't regret it in the morning either when Sirius woke her with soft kisses against her neck and shoulders. She didn't regret it when Lily was shocked that her going home with Sirius ended up not just being a plot to get Lily and James alone. She didn't regret it when they realized they'd been together for a year. And she didn't regret it while sitting next to Sirius at James and Lily's wedding as the maid of honor and Sirius the best man.

"Ready for your big speech?" Marlene slid her fingers against his palm before interlacing their fingers as they waited for the plates to be cleared.

"Of course, I've been ready since the first day James met Lils." He let go of her hand to trace her shoulder along the off the shoulder sleeve of her dress. "And I should tell you before I give it, I'd been planning to try and sweep you off your feet the night they figured themselves out."

Marlene blinked. "What?"

Sirius kissed her. "You'd been driving me mad. It just worked out that James and Lily could be pushed in the same night. But I was bloody determined, love."

Marlene kissed him, pulling her fingers through his hair as she laughed. "I'm glad you did. I love you."

"I love you too." Sirius ran a hand along her knee, his fingers caressing the skin exposed by the cut off her dress. Marlene caught his hand and interlaced their fingers. They had the entire night ahead of them.

"Why are you telling me this now?"

Sirius' smirk hit his lips with lightning speed. "Couldn't have you finding out in my speech could I?"

He kissed her cheek and then stood and held up his glass as he started his toast to James and Lily. He followed that immediately with his proposal to her.

Marlene didn't think she could be any happier as he slid the ring on her finger and kissed her with abandon.

[bakatenshii]

Blitz

Ushijima Wakatoshi x Reader (Haikyuu!!)

word count: 2.5k

TW: 18+, smut, exhibitionism, a spritz of omorashi

A/N: this is completely diff from what I’m used to and comfy with; it’s truly the softest thing I’ll ever write— for the real angel, Weese, who welcomed me into my first ever fandom with open arms. I wouldn’t be here without you, wouldn’t have met any of my best friends were it not for you. From the bottom of boku no kokoro, Happy Birthday <33

Weese’s Birthday Bash masterlist

blitz

/blits/

a sudden, energetic, and concerted effort, typically on a specific task.

(slang) heavily intoxicated

He gives credit where credit’s due, and in all fairness, you have been well-behaved, glued to his side til 2am that night. Might even be a new record; usually you’d have gone off and disappeared at the strike of midnight like you’ve got a pumpkin carriage awaiting, only it brings you to a different destination each time.

Whiskey mixers generally mean you end up at some twenty-four seven conbini chatting up the cashier to give you the karaage for a discounted price because you’ve ‘lost your wallet’. It’s never lost; Ushijima knows this because he’s chained it to your belt, lil lobster claw too rickety for your drunk fingers to maneuver.

Tequila shots are the killer; the ones that get his protective mode on overdrive, eyes scanning the streets littered with stumbling drunks until he finds his stumbling drunk. 

It’s currently quarter to three, which means it’s been a solid twenty minutes since you’ve wandered off. If he calculates the rate of distance in your drunken state, you couldn’t have traveled that far— two streets down, at most. He hopes, anyways.

Ushijima doesn’t like going out, doesn’t quite get the appeal of being shoved into crowds of people in a cramped room with perspiration mixing with other spilled fluids coating sticky skin. ‘It’s just ‘cause you’re too la-’ a hiccup, a giggle, ‘large, ushi.’ is your usual response. ‘Take up too much space.’

Ushijima goes out because you go out, and when you go out, your Find My Friends icon seems to like playing Pac-Man, navigating through the map like you’ve got dots to clear past every street and building. It worries him. So he goes out.

Tequila shots usually bring you to another club, whichever looks the most bustling, because you flock to crowds, like moth to flame. It’s your first character flaw.

“I’m not that drunk,” he whips his head to see your frame swaying outside the queue of a club entrance, bouncer leaning in close, too close.

Your second character flaw is that you’re too friendly. You tell him he’s too cold, too curt, but he thinks you’re just too outgoing. This is what happens when you’re so sociable.

It only takes him two long strides to cross over the street, extend out one long arm over to your shoulder, and pull you into his chest. The bouncer looks up at him, neck craning probably more than he’s used to, before spitting on the floor and turning back.

“Toooooshi,” he doesn’t think his name has that many vowels, but you’re pawing at his shirt, trying and failing to slither an arm around his waist. “‘m hungry.”

This is standard, this is the usual routine. He’s used to this now, “let’s go home, we have food at home.” After the third night out, he’s made a habit out of cooking before you leave. Because you’re always hungry, you always— “want Maccas,” you’re giggling.

“McDonald’s is going to be closed.” It’s a fact, there’s a slim chance you’ll make it before three, no point in wasting time. Besides, there’s food at home.

But you’re tugging at his arm and dragging him down the street, and he’s letting you, because the best way to appease you is to let you see for yourself. You’re bouncing with excited chirps, skipping down the road with grace that will always impress him given the stilts attached to your feet.

McDonald’s is closed.

It’s like he said, so he allows you to pout and sulk for a minute, run a hand down your back in comfort, before taking out his phone to call a cab. He can feel your shoulder bump into his chest, hands fidgeting with the hem of your short dress, “what’s wrong?”

You’re blushing, cheeks tinting over with a light shade of pink illuminated by the bright yellow lights, and it’d be cute if he wasn’t worried. “What’s wrong?”

Another tug at the black fabric, eyelashes fluttering to point towards the wall, the sign; anywhere except him. “I need to pee.”

It comes out so quietly, so docile, a contrast to your otherwise boisterous drunken state. He leans down, face brushing past your hair until it’s only a mere inch away.

“What’s that?”

He watches as your glossed lips push out into a pout, huffing out a, “I need to pee, Toshi, I need the toilet.” Your heels clack on the gravel a few times as if to prove a point.

“I’m calling a cab right now,” he reassures you, “we’ll be home soon.”

You don’t seem reassured. You seem more anxious, if anything. “No, Toshi, I need to pee now,” he can feel your fingers fidgeting with his shirt, yanking the fabric in nervous twitches.

He watches you chew on your lip, willing a solution out from the pink gloss staining your teeth, any solution—

“Alley.”

It’s barely left his mouth before your head’s whipping to glance at the dark narrow street hidden behind the fast food joint. It’s tight, or maybe you’re right, he’s just too broad, but he barely fits down the cramped road.

You’re not moving, though, just staring up at him expectantly as if sending him a message, a signal. He doesn’t really get it. “It’s fine, there’s no one on the streets right now.”

Your bottom lip snags under your teeth, doe eyes looking up through fluttering lashes as you shake your head. The tint on your cheeks grow darker, and he takes a few steps forward, shadowing your smaller frame in his large silhouette. “I’ll block you, you can go now.”

Ushijima’s not the best with people, he’s always been told this. He knows it himself, but he thinks he knows you pretty well, at least.

He’s lost.

He’s waiting for you to say something, anything, an explanation for your odd behaviour, but instead he feels dainty fingers tug on his shirt again before shoving him lightly.

“Turn around,” you won’t look at him, eyes fixed on the broken bottle on the dingy alleyway floor, “Don’t look.”

People are a mystery to Ushijima, but at this moment, you are an enigma.

All 200 pounds of pure muscle on him is stagnant. He’s confused; he’s seen you naked, seen you from all angles in all sorts of positions, he’s brushed his teeth while you were using the toilet before— he doesn’t get it. So he tells you.

Your fists meekly punch at his arm, at his chest, wherever they can reach, “It’s embarrassing,” you’re pouting now, and he thinks it’s cute. Under any other circumstances he’d lean over and kiss you, but not right now. Right now he wants understand what’s going on up in your mind.

“Why?”

It sets you into a frustrated huff, cheeks puffing out before a dejected sigh, “fine, whatever,” and then you’re squatting down, finally, to his relief. Your dress is hitched up only a fraction before he hears the trickling, but you don’t stand up when it stops.

His whole body freezes at the feeling of a warm hand pawing at his crotch. “What are you doing?” He snatches your hand off by the wrist, pulling it into him to stand you up; you don’t stand up— you fall, on your knees in front of him.

He’s used to you being a handful when you’re drunk, used to you falling all over the place, but the alleyway is soiled, filthy, not entirely appropriate for the thoughts he’s having with you on your knees. So he’s trying again, reaching down to grab hold of both your hands this time, and lugging you up.

You don’t budge, don’t even glance up at him, and he has half the heart to reach down and carry you out, but another hand lands on his crotch again and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the strain in his trousers.

“Toooooooshi,” you’re still not looking up at him, eyes fixated on the growing tent he’s presenting in front of your face. Another soft touch, another purr, and Ushijima knows he’s a lost cause.

He lets go of your wrists, bending down to wrap an arm around your knees and picks you up before standing you back up against the wall.

“Spread your legs.” It’s not really a suggestion.

He watches as you comply, thighs parting as far as the black lace still bound around them will allow, so he rips it down before pocketing it.

He can hear your whines of complaint, it’s your favourite pair, but it’s all drowned out with a gasp as he buries his face into your wet cunt. His hands wrap behind your thighs, large palms pushing them apart until they rest over his shoulders.

His tongue flicks up your drooling slit, lapping at the juices dribbling out your needy hole and down his chin. You’re whimpering now, hands shoving at his face, “stop, Toshi, I—” he looks up at you, gaze piercing through your flushed expression, “I just peed, ‘ts gross.”

“I know.”

“Toshi we’re—” a moan, nails digging into his scalp when he dips his tongue into your clenching hole, “in public, please,” your face whips to the side, anxiously scanning for passerby’s.

“I know,” he echos with a harsh squeeze of your thighs, fucking you down onto his tongue. He can feel a hand threading through his hair, gripping and pulling while the other is obediently clamped over your mouth in an attempt to muffle wanton moans.

“Toshi, stop,” you’re crying now, legs around his head trembling with every lap and lick into your dripping cunt, nose grazing that sensitive bud as he presses your body into the wall. The fingers meekly pushing at his face are chased by your hips bucking against it, and he can feel your hole clench around his muscle.

He doesn’t stop. 

He doesn’t stop because he can feel you coming undone, feel your tight cunny quiver with every thrust— and you do, with a loud sob of his name, before he removes his hand from under to clamp over your mouth.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” he doesn’t think you can hear him, your eyes rolling back and tongue pressing into the pads of his fingers.

He can still see your hole quivering when he stands back up and unbuckles his trousers. His aching erection springs free with a tug of his waistband, snapping up and wetting his shirt with pre.

Normally he would’ve prepared you better, laid you on your back and fucked you on his tongue and thick fingers until you’re wailing his name, legs shaking with the overstimulation. But he doesn’t have that luxury now, doesn’t have the soft mattress, the plush bedding to sink you into; he only has the brick wall digging into your back in a dingy alleyway.

So he sinks his cock into your drooling cunt, pushing his cockhead through the first ring of muscle. There’s nails clawing at his shoulders, back of his neck, anywhere they can reach, anywhere they can grasp.

It’s tight, so tight he doesn’t think he can fit, thinks he should’ve prepared you after all, but one look down at your tear-stricken face crumbles any inhibitions. His hips snap forward in the same breath his large palms find themselves back under your thighs, lifting you up against the wall.

The jagged wall is probably digging into your back, and normally he would’ve tried to appease the pain, shift the angle so you’re more comfortable, but right now all he can think about are your doughy walls sucking his cock in, one slow inch at a time.

It’s excruciating how tight you are; by the third inch you’re throwing your head into the crook of his neck, nails digging into his back trying to ease the stretch— Ushijima’s trying, too; trying to make sure he doesn’t drown in the feel of your fluttering walls and snap his hips forward until he can feel the kiss of your cervix on his cockhead.

It doesn’t work, not when you’re chanting his name like a mantra, crying about how full you feel, how much he’s stretching you out— you can feel him in your stomach.

He drops your body down into the thrust of his hips and buries his cock to hilt. Five seconds, then ten, then thirty; he lets you catch your breath, catch his breath, before you’re whimpering in his ear begging him to move.

There’s no time for modesty, an alleyway is hardly the setting for soft gentle sex. With a vice grip in the flesh of your ass, he hugs you into his chest and steadies a hand on the wall behind you.

He can feel your legs attempt to wrap around the width of his hips, his waist, can feel you cooing soft moans into his ears, can hear you sobbing his name like it’s the only word you know. Every piston of his hip echoes in the cramped alleyway, heavy balls papping against your mound.

He’s breathing in your moans, letting himself drown in you desperate whines of his name, “cum in me, Toshi, fill me up”— he’s shoving your pliant body into the harsh wall, arm moving down from the jagged surface to grip the soft flesh under your thigh.

In one swift movement he’s pinned your knees to your ears, limp calves bouncing off his sturdy shoulders as he pounds into you at an unrelenting pace.

Your moans turn to sobs, wails of Toshi, Toshi, Toshi; his breaths turn to grunts into promises to breed you so good, fill you up with his cum until it’s dripping out of your sweet lil cunny. There’s mini crescents marking up the back of his neck, dark purples and yellows running up along yours as he suctions onto new blank patches of skin.

Loud, unrhythmic squelching echos in the alleyway, his arms bouncing you onto his length until you twitch, spasm around his cock, and you’re coming undone for the second time that night with his name spilling out in broken sobs.

Ushijima doesn’t stop, fucks you through your squeals and shoves until he feels your greedy cunt milking his cock again, then he’s spilling into you with hot ropes of cum.

He doesn’t stop until your body’s gone pliant caged inside his, knees still pushed against the wall and saliva dribbling past your lolling tongue down to your messy pussy, mixing with creams of cum and slick and drool.

One limb at a time, he unfolds you and carries you in his arms, cradling your limp body into his chest. He looks down, admires your hazy gaze, pupils blown, and presses a gentle kiss onto your forehead.

A soft hum leaves your lips, or maybe a giggle, but you’re squirming in his arms, body leaning up until he can feel your soft lips grazing his ear.

“Toooshi,” you drawl, and he almost chokes at how fucked out you sound, the rasp in your voice sending dangerous jolts down to his no longer softening cock.

“Hm?” He’s debating on flagging a cab instead of calling one; can’t really reach into his pocket when you’re in his arms.

“Want Maccas.”

[mcheang]

Exclusive

Edna Mode was a renowned designer, famed for her harsh but accurate critiques, her fierce and practical lines, and of course, being the designer of the majority of superheroes.

And now she was hosting a fashionista gala, inviting those worthy of a Mode gala. As for those asking for an invite, Edna just asks who they are and calls security.

Lila, as the self-proclaimed BFF of Ladybug, and Gabriel’s muse, had already boasted of receiving the glamorous invitation. It didn’t just come in an envelope, it came out of the sky in a rosewood chest, accompanied by a bottle of wine and canapés. (Or so she says. Adrien and Marinette rolled their eyes. Chloé wasn’t paying attention)

Alya: Girl, I’m so jealous. But hey, maybe this will be a good thing. After all, Adrien is going with Kagami. Chloe will just stick with her mom. That means it’s a chance for you and Marinette to know each other better.

Oh yeah, did I mention that everyone knows Marinette is MDC?

Lila forced a grin but didn’t want to make any promises.

Imagine Lila’s rage to know she wasn’t given an invite because she was just a model. Adrien was the heir to a fashion company. She was not.

With all the bragging Lila did, she can’t back out or Chloe and Marinette will call out her absence. (Chloé learned about Lila being a guest from Sabrina later from gossiping)

So, she stole Marinette’s invitation. She did some editing and made her own customised invite, brandishing it for her class to see.

Marinette saw her invitation missing, rolled her eyes and reported the theft to Edna. Plz, everyone knows Edna invited her. She didn’t really need a piece of expensive paper.

The day of the gala arrived, and Lila brought out her invite.

The guard looked at his clipboard. “You’re not on the list.”

Lila: No, but I do have an invite. Obviously someone must have made a mistake with your list.

The guard snorted. “If that’s the case, then your fingerprints and eye scans should have already been registered. That’s what opens the doors.“

Lila gulped and thought about sneaking in with the next guest. But no such luck. Security made sure one person entered at a time.

As the security guard moved to push Lila back into the crowd of fans, Lila cried out that she knows Ladybug and Gabriel.

Guard: what’s your point?

Lila: You’ll be fired for this!

Guard: Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard this all before.

Another guard just scoffed. “You’re only a model. One of many in the industry. Miss Mode doesn’t care for models.”

Lila: what are models if not the face of fashion?

“Spoiled, stupid little stick figures with poofy lips who think only of themselves” Edna herself was at the entrance, wondering what was causing the disruption in her guest entrance flow.

Lila: How can you say that? Then why would Ladybug be my Best Friend?

Edna: the day Ladybug says she is your Best Friend is the day I wear crocs. And I don’t mean crocodile leather.

Edna points at a random guard. “You, get this so-called model out of the way. She is blocking the queue.

Oh by the way, Edna calling out Lila was caught on camera by the reporters.

One of them questioned why she was kicking out Gabriel’s muse when his son, a supermodel himself, was invited.

Edna: I did not invite the boy because of his face. I invited him because I saw potential (basically she realized he was Chat Noir. She would never invite Adrien otherwise. As seen from her quote, she doesn’t have a high opinion of models) That is, if he ever gets out of his father’s shadow. Because, let’s face it darling, what can Adrien do besides look pretty and play with swords and piano? You would think the boy would be in part of business meetings, but no. At this rate, Gabriel needs this gala to get out of that stuffy house. Realize that maybe his parenting methods are flawed compared to some other talented figures here. Look at Miss Kagami, focused on upholding her family legacy of fencing. MDC already knows how to run her own business after learning a bit from her parents. Even Audrey’s daughter has been joining in on becoming a fashion critic and throwing parties for political parties. But I must go, my guests await.

Back inside the party, guests were avoiding a seething Gabriel’s eyes. He had come to scout out the superhero guests, only to be called out by Edna on live tv.

Marinette went up to Edna and asked one of her fashion idols why she burned the Agrestes in public.

Edna: do you think Gabriel would change his parenting ways if we did not expose them to the influential figures of this industry, as well as the public eye? I guarantee you Adrien will be allowed more freedom of choice, lest Gabriel wants his son to be known as a coddled boy who can’t even make his own decisions.

Edna didn’t bother softening her sharp voice as she says these words.

Adrien flushed.

Quickly changing the subject, Marinette asked why Edna hated models.

Edna: it’s not that I hate them personally. I just hate their jobs and what they represent. Models nowadays are beautiful only according to the world standards. People who see them want to be like them, never mind that the models they see on the screen are airbrushed to unrealistic and impossible perfection. Now models focus only on their own appearance, trying to maintain their beauty as time ages them. They go on diets and become superficial. Whereas outside the modelling industry or such like, you don’t need to be stereotypically beautiful to be worthy. Where your worth is measured in kindness and bravery and talent and intelligence and anything beyond superficiality.

Adrien overheard and he frowned, not liking the idea where his appearance on ads is not exactly right. He only joined the company to make his father happy. But maybe it’s time he stepped into the business side of things and exit the modelling world. Bonus: no more Lila!

Edna snorted, “Though I must admit Gabriel surprised me with his newest model. Her attitude is lousy but she doesn’t strike me as a model. She just doesn’t have that model walk. But enough about the old man, my dear MDC, let’s talk about you. I love your gender-neutral line. And was wondering if you would like to join me in creating my next line of clothes for the Incredibles. A rare opportunity but I like style. Now take this offer before I change my mind.”

Marinette: wait, do I have to fly over or-

Edna: you are too excited, darling, but don’t worry, my assistants will send you the details.

Why are the Incredibles getting a new look? The kids are growing up and Edna wanted to move on to new styles.

As Marinette was flabbergasted, Audrey congratulated her for landing the job. Kagami and Adrien also beamed at her good fortune.

Even the Incredibles admitted they looked forward to working with her. Violet was a big fan.

Gabriel was seething and thought about akumatizing himself but come on, one villain against a room of superheroes? No thanks.

Drinking a glass of wine, he eventually admits that Edna had a point, however loudly and rudely it had been announced.

He would not be around forever and he wanted to leave the company in Adrien’s hands. In order for that to happen, his son needs to know business (if he can’t design, he can hire designers)

And yes, Lila was a lousy model. She survived by shooting with professional models who managed to overpower her mediocre work. But a deal was a deal. Besides, her contract was only for a year.

After the gala, Adrien happily quit modelling (aka Lila) to spend more time with his father, learning about how to run a company.

Marinette and Edna proudly claimed credit for the fashionable Incredibles.

Violet also became the talk of the school for her MDC exclusives.

Lila had been humiliated on air. Alya hesitated but finally did her research. At the end, she collapsed over the ruined credibility of her blog. But she can still get revenge by informing the principal, Ms Bustier and Mrs Rossi what Lila lied about. The perks of being a class vice president for a busy class president is that she also has the contacts list for emergencies.

Considering how Lila framed Marinette, there would be no suspension or detention. Only expulsion. Good luck finding a new school when Edna’s gala was a global topic.

When Lila returned to school for her last week (it takes time to gather evidence and get the attention of busy adults), nobody wanted to talk to her or even exchange glances. She quietly kept to herself, hoping for this to blow over soon. She was still a model working for Gabriel. She could befriend other supermodels (as if. Like they would want to befriend her after Edna called her out)

Hell, even her jobs were down. Gabriel just told her to take test shoots to fill up her portfolio until the hype died down (aka her contract expired)

When Lila was expelled, she was ready to be akumatized into Chameleon again. Except one problem. Everyone avoided her like hell so how could she kiss her target. Even Adrien was told to stay away lest his reputation be tarnished.

Ok, I admit it. I was hit by “I’m no Angel” quotes as I wrote this. But seriously, does anyone feel weird at the idea of trying to become thinner when your weight is just right, all the while you know there are people out there even thinner than you are and are starving, not because they want to be stereotypically thin, but because they cannot afford food?