#ring scaffolding

[tianjinwellmadescaffold]

Ringlock Scaffolding Bracket Manufacturing Video - Scaffold Side Bracket...

[ettadunham]

i love getting back into elden ring and immediately finding the most annoying dungeon that i missed during my previous playthrough <3

[thebookworm0001]

I am. so bad at noticing things oh my god.

[cressidagrey]

Mother Nature

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:   Oscar wants some peace and quiet after the Miami GP. 

Warnings and Notes: Do I like Hiking? Nope. But I feel like this is something Felicity and Oscar would actually do. Also one mention of a past eating disorder.

Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

The woods were still. Dew clung to the undergrowth, sunlight dappling in long golden patches through the trees. Birdsong filtered gently through the canopy. Somewhere far behind them, the world was still spinning—grid gossip, media soundbites, and Miami’s pastel chaos—but here, there was just the rhythm of boots on soil, the rustle of breeze, and Bee humming softly behind his ear.

Oscar exhaled.

They’d been walking since early morning, starting near Leith Hill Tower, climbing steadily through the forest. He could feel the weight of Bee in the carrier against his back—her chin tucked sleepily on his shoulder now, fingers tangled in the strap of his hoodie. Nearly four, and still not quite ready to do the whole hike herself, but stubborn enough to demand she start on her own legs before eventually giving in to the ride.

Felicity walked just ahead of him, hair tied in a loose braid, a thermos clipped to her backpack and mud already splattered up her leggings. She turned slightly to look back at him, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. He nodded—still good—and she smiled before turning back to the path.

God, he’d missed this.

No cameras. No ring lights. No microphones shaped like martini glasses. Just trees, and silence, and the two people he wanted most.

They used to do this nearly every week. During the Enstone year, when everything else was grim and grey—when the apartment walls were too thin and the furniture too cheap and Oscar’s future too uncertain—they hiked. Surrey hills. South Downs. Sometimes just long walks through fields behind the village shops. Back then, Felicity was the only thing steady. She kept him grounded, even when everything else felt like scaffolding ready to fall.

In 2020, when Bee was born, and those first weeks were a blur of monitors and sterile NICU silence, Oscar had felt like he was held together by tape. 

When they finally brought her home—tiny, scarred, brilliant—he started running with her. Not to get fitter. Not to train. But because movement meant control, and control meant he didn’t fall apart. Sometimes, when Bee couldn’t sleep and Felicity hadn’t eaten, he’d strap her into the jogger pram and run until her breathing slowed and his own heart calmed.

She’d grown up like that—wrapped against him as miles passed. He wasn’t sure she even knew that most dads didn’t take their toddlers running on country roads while naming trees and talking about downforce.

Ten miles in, and she was still content, even if sleepy. Occasionally mumbling “leaf,” or “mud,” or once, “Papa sweaty,” with absolute disdain.

Oscar huffed a laugh, glancing at Felicity again. She was crouched by a small patch of wildflowers, showing Bee something—a bee, probably, or a rock that looked like a dinosaur. She never pointed out grand things. Always the quiet ones. The hidden ones. And Bee absorbed it all.

They hiked in silence for a little while longer. The trail narrowed, and Oscar adjusted Bee��s weight, listening to her snuffle behind him.

He didn’t say it out loud—he rarely did—but these were the moments that made it all feel worth it. Not the podiums or the contracts. Not the headlines or the hype. Just this.

By the time they reached the zenith,Bee was fast asleep.

She’d nodded off somewhere around mile 10, one chubby cheek smushed against Oscar’s shoulder, her breath warm and rhythmic against the nape of his neck. Her tiny hands still clutched the strap of the carrier, though her fingers twitched every now and then like she was dreaming of climbing trees or chasing chickens back home.

The trail on the way down was easier. Looser, winding, gentle underfoot.

Oscar shifted his weight slightly, careful not to jostle her. He could feel the soft heaviness of her sleep against him, her body completely relaxed in that trustful way toddlers had when they felt safe.

He slowed his pace just a little.

Ahead of him, Felicity had paused by the edge of the trail to wait for him. Her hair was falling out of its braid, and she had a leaf stuck to her sock. She looked up and smiled at the sight of him trudging down the path, their daughter a bundled little koala against his back.

“She’s out?” she asked softly.

“Completely,” he said. “Didn’t even fight it this time.”

Felicity grinned. “Must’ve inherited my stamina.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “She sprinted through a patch of nettles earlier. You were the one who stopped to name all the moss.”

“It was rare moss,” she said, mock offended. “And I was educating your child.”

“She fell asleep halfway through your speech about root systems.”

“Honestly, so rude of her.”

He chuckled, stepping closer. Felicity brushed a few strands of hair off Bee’s forehead where they’d stuck to his hoodie. Her fingers lingered for a moment, just long enough to fix the strap, and then dropped.

They kept walking.

Below them, the hills began to roll out into open fields. A dog barked faintly somewhere in the distance. The world was waking up.

Oscar didn’t say much on the descent. He didn’t have to. Felicity’s arm brushed his every now and then. Bee’s tiny exhales tickled the back of his neck.

The gravel crunched underfoot as they finally stepped into the small car park near Leith Hill’s edge.

Oscar’s legs ached — that deep, familiar pull from too many miles and not enough downhill grace — but he didn’t mind. Not when Bee was still fast asleep, a warm, limp little weight against his back, her curls damp with sweat and her hand tucked under her chin like she was curled into bed.

Felicity walked a little ahead, already fishing the car keys out of her jacket. “She’s really not going to wake up, huh?”

“Out like a light,” Oscar murmured. “I think we broke her.”

“We did let her climb half the hill like a goat before remembering she’s three.”

“She insisted on it. Said she wanted to beat her personal best.”

“Her personal best is usually a tree stump.”

Oscar laughed quietly as they reached the car. Felicity opened the back door with a practiced flick, then held it open with her hip while reaching up to help unbuckle the carrier.

“Okay,” she whispered, hands gentle on the straps. “Let’s tag-team this.”

Oscar tilted his shoulders, careful not to jostle Bee, and crouched slightly. “You take her arms, I’ll handle the leg straps.”

“On three?”

“One… two…”

Bee gave a soft snore.

“Abort,” Felicity said quickly, freezing mid-unclip. “She’s twitching.”

Oscar paused, holding perfectly still as their daughter’s brow furrowed slightly in her sleep — then settled again, cheek smushed adorably against his hoodie.

They both exhaled like they were defusing a bomb.

Felicity tried again, this time even slower, managing to slide Bee’s arms out of the straps without waking her. Oscar crouched lower, catching her under the arms as she slowly sagged into him like a sleepy sandbag.

“She’s dead weight,” he whispered, adjusting his hold. “Like carrying a damp loaf of bread.”

“A very cute loaf,” Felicity murmured, brushing Bee’s curls off her face as she flopped sleepily against Oscar’s chest, her thumb halfway to her mouth.

“Think I can strap her into the car seat without waking her?”

“You drive F1 cars for a living,” Felicity said. “I believe in you.”

Oscar grinned.

Between the two of them, with the skill of sleep-deprived parents everywhere, they managed it. Bee stirred once — a little whimper, a scrunched brow — but Oscar whispered, “Shh, it’s okay, Bumblebee,” and stroked her back, and she settled again like nothing had happened.

They both shut their doors quietly.

Inside the car, the air was cooler. Bee’s head lolled to the side, soft breaths misting the window. Oscar twisted in his seat to check her one more time.

“She’s still out,” he said, voice low.

Felicity glanced back too, then smiled, soft and proud. “That was her longest hike yet.”

Oscar reached for her hand across the center console and laced their fingers together. “She’ll be climbing mountains soon.”

“She already does,” Felicity said. “Just on your back.”

Oscar leaned his head against the seat and smiled.

This.

This was what peace looked like.

Not headlines. Not trophies.

Just this. 

***

The drive home was quiet.

Bee stayed asleep the entire way, her head slumped to the side in her car seat, thumb still curled near her mouth. Felicity had kicked off her boots and tucked her feet under her on the passenger seat, absently scrolling through photos on her phone — most of them blurry shots of Bee pointing at squirrels or Oscar carrying her up the ridge trail like a human pack mule.

They’d barely cleared Dorking when Oscar turned into the McDonald’s drive-thru.

Felicity blinked up. “What are you doing?”

“Making an executive decision,” Oscar said solemnly.

“I literally made lentil stew last night,” she muttered. “We have prepped meals. We have hummus.”

“We also just walked nearly twenty miles with a toddler and haven’t eaten since noon.”

“You had trail mix.”

“I had five sad almonds and a raisin.”

Felicity opened her mouth — paused — then closed it again. “Fine.”

“You’re not going to make me a chart about preservatives later, are you?” Oscar asked as they waited.

Felicity just sighed. “Only if you order fries.”

Oscar pulled up to the speaker. “Can I get one chocolate milkshake and two vanilla, please?”

Bee stirred faintly in the back.

“Make that one vanilla, one strawberry,” Felicity said. “Vanilla is her sleepy choice.”

Oscar grinned at her. “So you do want one.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered.

The voice on the speaker confirmed the order, and a minute later, Oscar was handing over three sweating plastic cups with those too-thick red straws. He passed one to Felicity, who took it like someone receiving contraband.

“I can,” Oscar said cheerfully, taking a long slurp. “You made your own peanut butter last week, you’ve earned it.”

Felicity narrowed her eyes, but the first sip hit her tongue and she visibly wilted. “Oh no. It’s perfect. This is why I don’t let myself have them.”

Oscar glanced sideways at her — head tipped against the window, ponytail loose, cheeks pink from the wind, lashes smudged slightly under her eyes. She looked tired, and soft, and so, so alive.

He thought — not for the first time — about the girl she used to be.

When they were 14 and she was so thin that she looked like a gust of wind could carry her away. When she didn’t eat because that felt like the one thing in her life that she could control. 

Teenage Felicity would have looked at a McDonald’s milkshake like it was poison.

And here she was. 23 now. Ponytail falling out, curls soft around her face, pink-cheeked and barefoot in his passenger seat. Drinking vanilla milkshake without apology.

His heart ached with how proud he was of her.

“Don’t tell the sourdough,” she sighed.

Oscar laughed.

“Bee,” Oscar called gently. “Want a milkshake?”

His daughter’s eyes opened in slow motion, and the second she saw the cup in his hand, she sat bolt upright like she'd been summoned by sugar-based witchcraft. “Strawberry?!”

Felicity sighed. “You have created a monster.”

Oscar passed the cup back. “And I love her.”

Bee clutched the milkshake with both hands and immediately slurped like it was her life source. Then she leaned her head against the side of her car seat and sighed in bliss.

Oscar looked over at Felicity, who was halfway through hers now and trying to look unimpressed. “You can admit it. McDonald’s milkshake is your weakness.”

She took another long sip and gave him a deeply betrayed look.

“I’ll deny everything,” she said. “This never happened.”

Oscar raised his cup in toast. “To our health queen, momentarily dethroned by the glory of vanilla extract and industrial-grade dairy stabiliser.”

Felicity bumped her cup against his with a resigned sigh. “God help me if Bee remembers this.”

Bee, licking artificial strawberry off her straw, chirped: “Best. Hike. Ever.”

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was theirs.

And right now, it tasted like strawberry milkshake and everything being exactly enough.

***

Instagram Post - @/oscarpiastri ✅

Comments: 

@/maxfewtrell: 🤨 i blinked and oscar turned into a poet

@/yourgfcarla: she’s SO PRETTY it’s giving forest nymph who knows how to rebuild a gearbox

@/brakebiasfanclub: he really said: you don’t get to know her, you just get to witness that she exists 🫢

@/formulawives: "still the best part"??? WE'RE SO UNWELL

@/f1updatesdaily who took this picture of oscar’s mysterious engineer wife. was it oscar. is oscar the wife guy of the year. discuss.

@/sourdough_sinners not her looking like a woodland elf who makes spreadsheets for fun

@/f1wifelore why does this feel like a Victorian love letter via Instagram

@/felicitysfanpage i am once again asking for her skincare routine and engine oil preferences

@/danielricciardo she’s out of your league. respectfully.

@/maxverstappen1 did you hike or was this just a nature photoshoot disguised as cardio

@/mclaren Nature looks good on you, Oscar 🍃

@/sophiagracewrites this feels like page 237 of a novel where the main character realizes they’ve been in love the whole time

@/user193847 you guys he’s in love love 💀💀💀

@/f1girlsbookclub oscar piastri hikes??? like with boots and effort????

@/tiregirlie420 idk what i expected from him but it was NOT forest-core husband energy

@/slowpitstopfan excuse me?? he hikes?? regularly??? does McLaren know about this??

@/gaslythotwife I thought he got his cardio in by being emotionally evasive 😭

@/helmetontilt the real plot twist isn’t the mystery wife. it’s that oscar piastri willingly walks uphill in his free time.

@/brakesbeforeboys nah the idea of oscar being like “let’s get some air” and just vanishing into the HILLS is doing things to me

@/be.forreal do we think he uses a hydration pack. i need to know if oscar piastri owns a hydration pack.

@/gridwivesanonymous HE’S NOT EVEN TAGGING HER BUT HE IS GIVING HER “SOFT FOCUS IN THE GOLDEN HOUR LIGHT” ENERGY. THIS IS MARRIAGE. THIS IS A HIKE-BASED LOVE STORY.

@/notyourpitstop just realized that means he wears fleece. like fleece and hiking boots. i’m so unwell.

@/pitlanepropaganda

me: he's a calm analytical driver with an insane corner exit

also me, looking at this post: HE’S A WHIMSICAL FOREST HUSBAND WHO HOLDS HER HAND OVER TREE ROOTS

[jezebelblues]

𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 | 𝐇.𝐒 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐞 ��𝐚𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐘𝐍 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭.

𝐂𝐖: requested exrry blurb (thank u anon!), slight angst, happy ending, fem!reader, actress!reader, unedited.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 5k

❏ HI ! it’s been such a long time :( but i’m hoping i’m finally through with writers block. i feel like this doesn’t exactlyyyy fit anon’s request but i hope u liked it even a lil bit! i’m not 100% happy w this but i really wanna get something out so this will just have to suffice. missed yall <3

masterlist

there are moments in every love story when the world rearranges itself, tilts just enough to change the course of everything. it's the way a cigarette burns unevenly when the wind interferes, how a misplaced step shifts the dancer's rhythm, or the way a train leaves the station one minute too soon. for harry and YN, their love had been both a symphony and a storm, a masterpiece constructed on fragile scaffolding. in its final act, it had unraveled quietly, with only the sound of two hearts breaking in unison.

they hadn’t spoken in two years. two years of silences punctuated only by the occasional headline, the brush of a photo on a magazine rack, his voice threading through the speakers of a café. the world, it seemed, refused to let her forget him. but there he was now, not a photograph or a memory, but him. real, palpable, standing at the edge of her periphery like a ghost who hadn’t yet decided if it would haunt her or let her go.

YN leaned against the balustrade, clutching a glass of something that tasted more sour than it should have. the event itself was a haze of champagne flutes and low conversations, an industry soirée dripping in muted opulence. her dress was a deep shade of dusk, clinging to her like a second skin, and she felt beautiful in it—had felt beautiful in it—until she saw him.

harry was dressed as he always was: an effortless mosaic of contradictions. the suit was tailored to perfection, but his hair, unruly curls with the hint of rebellion, softened the sharp edges. there was no mistaking the tilt of his head, the way his eyes skimmed the room with an almost reluctant ease. she wondered if he’d seen her yet, if he’d feel that same quiet thrum in his chest when he did.

as if on cue, his eyes met hers.

the evening wasn’t designed for heartache. the sky, opalescent and blushing, rippled with the soft hues of twilight. lights strung through the manicured gardens of the estate flickered like fireflies caught in some eternal dance, glasses catching the shimmer like constellations in orbit. laughter rippled through the space, every corner alive with movement and conversation, yet harry could feel only the staccato of his pulse, sharp and relentless.

he wasn't supposed to see her tonight. it wasn't part of the plan—then again, plans were always shaky things when it came to them, built on the hope that tomorrow wouldn't bring a gust strong enough to dismantle it all.

it wasn’t a moment of cinematic epiphany. there was no gasp, no clinking glass slipping from trembling fingers. it was quieter than that, heavier. their eyes had met, and the weight of two years folded between them like a tide coming in—inevitable, undeniable.

his gaze dropped to her hands, searching for a ring, as though her life might have accelerated in the time since they'd parted. nothing. his chest tightened with something unnamable—relief? regret? both?

the last time they’d been in the same room, the air had been filled with shouting and static. their words had ricocheted off walls that had once heard laughter. they had been too much and not enough, two meteors colliding, destroying everything they touched in their desperate attempt to remain whole.

she loved him. god, how she had loved him. loves.

their love had been big. not in the way people tell stories about epic romances, but in the way it consumed everything around it. they fought like gods waging war. they loved like the first spring after a century of winter. they tore each other apart and put each other back together, over and over, until they couldn't remember what they had looked like before.

they stood like that for what felt like hours but must've been seconds, suspended in a quiet kind of agony. the people around them blurred into shapes, the air alive with the hum of champagne-fueled conversations and the laughter of people who had no concept of loss beyond the polite kind—misplaced keys, a delayed flight, the end of a film they'd rather not have finished. the only thing that seemed real was the chasm between them—filled with every moment they'd ever shared, every word spoken and unspoken, every touch and tear and promise.

he was walking toward her now. she could feel it in her chest before she saw it—the air shifting, the atoms around her realigning themselves to make room for his presence.

YN was radiant, in the way she always had been�� light incarnate. her eyes, the same shade of longing he remembered, tried not to meet his own, but of course, they did. she's only human, and humans have always been drawn to the things that ruin them.

“YN.” he breathed when he was close enough, her name falling from his lips like a prayer he wasn’t sure he was allowed to utter.

“harry.” his name tasted unfamiliar on her tongue, like a word spoken in a foreign language after years of disuse.

there were too many things she wanted to say, too many memories fighting to rise to the surface. she remembered the way his hands had once mapped her skin like a cartographer desperate to chart every inch. she remembered mornings spent tangled in sheets, the sunlight spilling over their laughter. she remembered the fights, the nights spent in separate rooms, the echoes of their own voices loud in the spaces between them.

“you look—” he started, then stopped, as though the right words had slipped through his fingers.

“so do you.”

silence bloomed between them, heavy and awkward, like a third presence neither of them invited. she takes a sip of her drink to fill it, but the taste is sour, bitter. or maybe that's just her.

he couldn’t tell how long they just stood there. time had a way of folding in on itself since her, the days bleeding into nights, the minutes stretching and collapsing all at once. einstein once said time was relative, but harry was sure he hadn't meant this.

his lips parted, “i didn’t think you’d be here.”

“neither did i.”

the truth was, she almost hadn’t come. it was only her publicist’s insistence that had dragged her out of her apartment and into this room filled with people who didn’t really know her. but now, standing here in front of him, she wondered if some part of her had known—had hoped.

there was a question hanging in the air between them, not uttered, but loud enough to fill the silence. had they made a mistake?

he remembers how they agreed it was for the best—right person, wrong time. they'd parted with a kiss that tasted of salt and regret, a mutual agreement born not out of lack of love, but out of too much of it.

but how could it be for the best when the air at home still smelled like her, when her name was stitched into the fabric of every song he wrote? he thought of the way she used to rest her head against his chest at night, the way her fingers traced lazy patterns along his skin, as if she were memorizing him in braille. the intimacy of it—the quiet kind, the kind that felt like forever—had undone him. no one ever teaches you how to live without forever.

the first time they met, they were children pretending to be adults. a festival in the desert, both of them younger and wilder, sweat-soaked and sunburnt and drunk on music. they danced in a crowd of thousands, but it felt like the earth shrank to the size of a postage stamp, and they were the only two people left. he had kissed her that night, tequila and the promise of something infinite lingering on his tongue.

“i’ve missed you,” he admitted, so softly she almost didn’t hear it.

her heart stuttered, the words settling into the cracks she hadn’t known were still there. “me too.”

and just like that, the world rearranged itself again.

it had been three days, but the memory of her face still lingered on the edges of harry’s consciousness like the afterimage of a camera flash. no matter how many times he blinked, it refused to fade. he felt haunted—not in the dramatic sense of ghosts rattling chains, but in the quiet, insidious way grief lingers, reshaping the air around it. she had looked beautiful, devastatingly so. and when their eyes had met, he swore he felt time buckle under the weight of something he couldn’t acknowledge, not yet.

it was morning now, or what passed for it in january—a hesitant kind of light filtering through the clouds, pale and thin like it didn’t quite belong. harry sat at his kitchen table, a cup of tea cooling between his hands. the mug had been a gift from gemma years ago, the words world’s okayest brother faded from too many cycles through the dishwasher. he liked its imperfection, the way it felt worn and familiar. it reminded him of things that didn’t change, which was a comfort on days like these.

the newspapers were spread out in front of him, though he wasn’t reading them. his eyes kept drifting to the same headline over and over: YN stuns at charity gala, sparking reunion rumors. there was a picture, of course. she was outside, her dress a shadow clinging to her frame, her gaze distant and heavy with thoughts he couldn’t begin to guess at.

it was cruel, he thought, how the world always seemed to capture her in a way that felt so achingly intimate. even in the stillness of a photograph, she looked alive, as though she might step off the page and straight into his arms.

but she wouldn’t.

he hadn’t expected to see her, not after all this time. the last two years had been a lesson in avoidance—of places she might be, of mutual friends who still spoke her name with a fondness that made his chest ache. he had buried himself in work, in music, in anything that might fill the spaces she had left behind. and for a while, it had worked. or at least, it had felt like it did.

until three days ago.

“you’re brooding.”

the voice startled him, and he looked up to find jeff standing in the doorway, a coffee cup in one hand and a knowing look in the other.

“morning to you, too,” harry muttered, running a hand through his hair.

he raised an eyebrow. “you’ve been staring at that paper for the better part of an hour. do you want to talk about it, or should i just pretend i don’t notice?”

“not much to talk about, yeah?”

“uh-huh.” he set his coffee down and slid into the chair opposite him. “you saw her.”

“yeah.”

“and?”

harry sighed, “i dunno. s’like… seeing her again made everything i’ve been trying to forget just resurface. two fucking years of nothing and then—” he gestured vaguely, another sigh falling from his lips.

“you still care about her.”

“‘course i do,” harry said, almost sharply. “but that doesn’t mean it changes anything. timing wasn’t right—we missed out.”

jeff studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “you know, timing’s a funny thing. but things do change, harry. don’t lose something you never needed to lose in the first place.”

the words hit harder than harry wanted to admit. he didn’t respond, instead lifting his mug to his lips and taking a long sip.

the tea had gone cold.

–

the email arrived in the late afternoon, slipping into her inbox like an intruder she hadn’t invited. YN stared at the screen for a long time, her tea cooling on the windowsill beside her. she didn’t open it right away; instead, she just sat there, the glow of her laptop casting faint shadows on the walls of her living room.

harry’s name stared back at her, bold and impossible to ignore. two years of silence, and now this.

the day had started out quiet. she’d spent the morning working through a script, her highlighter uncapping and capping in time with the low hum of the music she had on in the background. a storm had rolled in sometime around noon, the sky turning the color of damp stone. she liked storms—their chaos, the way they reminded her of things bigger than herself.

she didn’t like this.

her thumb hovered over the trackpad, indecisive. opening the email felt like a betrayal of all the walls she’d built, but leaving it unread felt equally unbearable. the memory of seeing him at the gala, standing there like something carved out of memory and moonlight, tugged at her resolve.

so, she clicked.

subject: reaching out

from: hs@—

to: YN@—

i wasn’t sure if this was still your email. if it’s not, i guess someone else is reading this, which would be… awkward. but if it is you, then: hey.

i know it’s been a while. seeing you the other night caught me off guard. in a good way. you looked beautiful. not that that’s news or anything, but still. it felt worth saying.

i’ve been thinking about you. not in a way that expects anything, just thinking. like in the way you’re in the lyrics i write without thinking. or when i see a blank sheet of paper i think of the origami you’d make on a whim.

this probably sounds ridiculous. i don’t really know what i’m trying to say. maybe just that it was good to see you.

for old times sake: all my stars and moons,

H.

all my stars and moons.

he used to say it with a lopsided smile, his voice soft, reverent, like it was the only way he could capture what she meant to him.

it wasn't just an i love you—it was a promise, a vow that she had been his beginning and his end. her reply had always been equally unorthodox, a kind of shared language only they understood.

she read the email twice, then a third time, the words tumbling through her mind like loose change in a pocket.

it wasn’t much. it wasn’t an apology or an admission or even an invitation. but it was something—a crack in the silence, a thread pulled loose from fabric.

her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her mind a cacophony of what-ifs. she didn’t know what to say—didn’t know if she should say anything.

the cursor blinked at her, patient and unyielding. YN rested her chin in her hand, staring at the blank reply box as if it might conjure the words for her. the storm outside continued its symphony, wind rattling the windowpanes in uneven bursts. it felt fitting—this chaotic, uncertain moment mirrored by the world beyond her walls.

she had typed and deleted half a dozen responses already, each one feeling either too much or not enough.

harry, she’d started, but even his name felt loaded, like a weight she couldn’t quite lift.

it’s good to hear from you. no, too polite, too distant, too not them.

why now? the most honest question, but also the one she didn’t have the courage to ask outright.

she leaned back in her chair, exhaling sharply. part of her wanted to ignore it. to close her laptop, pour another cup of tea, and pretend she hadn’t read it. but that wasn’t who she was—not with him.

because no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much they had broken each other, there was still that small, stubborn part of her that believed in the rightness of them.

she let her fingers hover over the keyboard, her thoughts coalescing into something that felt almost like clarity.

harry,

it is still my email. though if it weren’t, i’d like to think whoever got this would’ve found it endearing.

i don’t know how to describe how it felt seeing you again. unexpected doesn’t feel like enough. i wasn’t ready for it, i guess. not that anyone’s ever really ready to run into their past like that. believe me when i say that you looked even more beautiful.

your email was nice to read, though i’m not sure how to respond to it. i don’t know if i have the right words anymore, or if i ever did. but i’ve been thinking about you too. i’m not sure that ever really stopped, if i’m honest. it’s strange, isn’t it? how someone can take up so much space in your mind, even after so much time has passed.

it’s hard to know what else to say. part of me wonders if we made a mistake. you’re making me remember paper cranes on your coffee table, of mornings where the sunlight always seemed brighter on your side of the bed. remembering makes it harder to pretend like none of it mattered.

but it did. it still does. in ways i can't always explain, and maybe that's why i don't know how to respond. anyway, i guess i just wanted to say that it was good to see you, too.

forever and a day,

YN.

her finger hovered over the send button, her heart hammering in her chest. there was no taking it back once it was gone, no undoing the vulnerability she had laid bare. but she clicked it anyway, the whoosh of the email sending ringing loud in the quiet of her apartment.

forever and a day.

it had been her answer to him, her way of telling him that love wasn't bound by time or space, that it was infinite. it had been their secret, the thread woven through the chaos of their lives.

she didn’t know what would come next. maybe nothing. maybe everything. so, she waited—which only let things unravel further.

the emails became their lifeline over the past few days, a tenuous thread bridging the gap between the past and whatever they were doing now. it had started cautiously—polite acknowledgments, carefully chosen words that skirted too close to old wounds. but as the hours and days wore on, their messages grew longer, softer, laced with the quiet intimacy of people rediscovering the shape of each other.

harry had spent more time staring at his screen than he cared to admit, his fingers hovering over the keys as he tried to balance honesty with restraint. they wrote about everything and nothing—her latest film, a quiet piece shot in the polish countryside, his afternoons spent in the studio, the strange emptiness of passing the time during a break.

sometimes, they slipped into the past. little anecdotes laced with humor or wistfulness, as though they were tiptoeing around the weight of what they’d once shared. he’d told her about the tulips he passed by in the shop one evening, how it made him think of her, if he’d ever buy such a thing for her again—and she’d replied with a teasing remark about how he’d always overthought these things.

it felt natural in a way neither of them had anticipated, like a rhythm they’d rediscovered without meaning to. but beneath the easy flow of words, there was a tension—an unspoken question threading its way through every sentence: what now?

and then, her last email.

he’d read it three times before he noticed the address tucked neatly at the bottom, like an afterthought.

subject: RE: late night thoughts

from: YN@—

to: hs@—

h,

i don’t know why i’m telling you this, but the tulips? i would’ve liked them :)

anyway, you’re right! it’s easier to write like this, but it also feels a bit ridiculous, doesn’t it? like we’re pen pals in some old novel. maybe we should talk.

here’s my address. i’ve moved since before everything happened between us. if you’re ever around, stop by. no pressure though.

YN

harry had laughed aloud when he saw it, shaking his head in disbelief. she hadn’t given him her number, but her address? it was such a maddeningly her thing to do.

he stared at the screen for a while afterward, debating what it meant, whether he should go, what he’d say if he did. and then, as if fate had decided for him, he found himself standing in another flower shop the next afternoon, staring at a display of tulips.

the shopkeeper had been kind, if a bit amused by his indecision. “you can’t go wrong with red,” she’d said, handing him a bunch wrapped in simple brown paper. “everyone likes red, yeah?”

he’d nodded, though his mind had been elsewhere, spiraling through a thousand scenarios of how this meeting might go.

and now, here he was, standing outside her building with the flowers clutched in one hand, his other hand shoved into the pocket of his coat.

he felt ridiculous. what was he doing here, showing up like this? but the thought of turning back felt worse. he buzzed her apartment, his heart pounding as he waited for her voice to crackle through the intercom.

“hello?”

“oh, YN. hi! it’s harry.”

a pause and the breathiest giggle, so quiet harry wasn’t sure if it was her or the crackle of the intercom. “come up.”

once up, she opened the door before he could knock, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of her apartment. she looked different and yet entirely the same—her hair pulled back, her sweater falling loosely over her frame, the kind of effortless beauty that had always undone him.

“hi.”

“hi,” he echoed, offering her a tentative smile.

she glanced at the tulips in his hand, her lips twitching into a small, knowing grin. “you brought flowers.”

“yeah,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “thought about daisies. or lilies. but tulips–”

“you overthought it.”

“probably,” he said, handing them to her. “but you said you would’ve liked them.”

she took the flowers, her fingers brushing his briefly. “i do.”

he hesitated, shifting on his feet. “you didn’t give me your number, but you gave me your address. thought that was funny.”

her laugh was soft, almost shy. “guess i figured if you wanted to talk, you’d show up.”

“and here i am.”

“here you are.”

she stepped aside, letting him in, her apartment warm and inviting in contrast to the chill outside. the space was a bit small but full of character—books stacked haphazardly on shelves, a record player in the corner, the faint scent of tea lingering in the air.

“s’bigger than the last one.”

she hummed, setting the tulips on the counter and reaching for a vase. “it’s cozy.”

he watched her move, his chest tightening at the familiarity of it all—the way she tilted her head when she was concentrating, the slight curve of her mouth as she arranged the flowers.

“i’m surprised you actually came over.”

“‘course i did,” he said, his gaze steady. “you asked.”

“i didn’t think you would.”

he frowned slightly, “oh,” he paused, “why not?”

she shrugged, turning back to the flowers. “it’s been a long time, i guess. people change.”

“how much d’you think changes in two years?”

her hands stilled, her fingers brushing against the edge of a petal. she didn’t look at him, but he could see the way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath caught.

“i don’t know what this is,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“s’just us talking. that’s all.”

they settled at the island in her kitchen eventually, stools drawn close but not close enough. it wasn’t purposeful—not exactly—but the gap between them felt intentional in its own way, a hesitation they hadn’t yet learned how to breach.

the space was quiet, save for the soft hum of the rain outside and the faint creak of the wood beneath them. the overhead light pooled in warm, golden tones across the countertop, casting long shadows that blurred the edges of the moment.

YN fit into the space like she always did—carefully, like she was trying to take up less room than she was owed. one knee tucked against her chest, her arms wrapped loosely around it, while her other leg dangled from the stool, her toes brushing just lightly against the floor. she turned slightly, her side leaning against the edge of the island, her eyes steady but unreadable.

his own body had never been built for this kind of furniture—too long limbs, too much of him for the delicate frame of the stool. he had to spread his legs wide, one foot braced against the floor to keep himself steady, his elbows resting on the countertop. his fingers toyed with the lip of a glass left abandoned,something to keep them occupied, something to keep them from reaching for her.

and then she said it.

“you’ve written songs about me.”

a statement, not a question. a fact pulled from the quiet places of their past, dusted off and placed between them like an offering.

harry felt the heat climb his neck before he could stop it, the corners of his mouth betraying him with the telltale pull of a smile. a man of twenty-nine reduced to something pink-cheeked and bashful, like a schoolboy caught in the act. his dimples carved deep, his fingers tightening around the glass as if he could pour all of his flustered energy into the curve of it.

“see that head of yours hasn’t gotten any smaller.”

his voice came easy, light with humor, a well-aimed deflection meant to soften the truth. but the truth was written all over him, in the way his gaze lingered, in the way his body angled toward hers as if he couldn’t help but close the distance.

she laughed, and the sound curled into his chest, tucked itself between his ribs like something meant to live there. her cheeks had gone pink too, though whether from the warmth of the room or the warmth of his attention, he wasn’t sure.

she pressed her temple against her knee, a slow, knowing smile stretching across her lips before she murmured—“red wine and ginger ale.”

it was enough to knock the breath from him, to make something stir deep in his gut, something familiar, aching, unshakable.

his grip tightened around the glass, knuckles going white. because of course she remembered. of course she had caught that line, plucked it from the verse and turned it over in her palm like a rare coin.

it had been a memory—hers, theirs, tucked into the lyrics like a secret, hidden in plain sight.

a dinner in chiswick, years ago, where he had ordered exactly that, red wine with ginger ale, because he liked the way the bitterness and sweetness met on his tongue. she had looked at him like he’d just confessed to some great crime, her nose scrunching, her lips parting in that wide-eyed, incredulous way.

“you’re disgusting.”

he had laughed, offered her a sip, only for her to recoil in mock horror. and later, in the taxi home, when he had kissed her, her lips had curled into a smile against his, and she had whispered against his mouth—

“m’never letting you live it down, baby.”

and she hadn’t. for months. for years. because she had hated the drink, but she had loved him, and that was enough.

and now, here she was, saying it back to him, plucking the words from a song meant for millions and holding them up to the light, a knowing glint in her gaze.

“you remember that?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost disbelieving.

“i remember everything.”

the words settled in his stomach, warm and heavy. he stared at her for a long moment, the air between them stretching thin.

he could still taste the memory of her, even now. and he wonders if she knows she’s still his favorite lyric.

time continued to stretch around them, hesitated words and heavy pauses, stolen glances and knuckles that barely grazed each other in fleeting touches.

they moved after that, standing from the stools as if a forced step back would be enough space to stop what hummed between them.

she turned to face him, her eyes searching his. for a moment, the air felt electric, heavy with everything they weren’t saying.

she lingered there, before her body angled toward the window as though she might drift outside. the soft light overhead caught the lines of her face, the curve of her shoulders.

she was beautiful in the way the stars were—distant but unmistakably present, a quiet inevitability against the darkness.

and just like the stars, she had always been there, even when he couldn't see her.

he crossed the room slowly, as though afraid that the floor might give out beneath him. his hands were empty now, his thoughts stripped bare. she turned slightly as he came closer, her eyes meeting his, and he could feel the pull of her, the way she seemed to realign the very fabric of the air between them.

YN could feel it, the frequency only the two of them could hear, a static that crackles in the air between bodies too familiar to be strangers, too distant to be anything else. the static that translated into pins and needles along their lips. the static, buzzing heat in their chest, not fire, not yet—but the ember that never fully died, flickering in the place where love was buried but never truly laid to rest.

"you came back.” she echoed from before, though it was less saturated in disbelief but rather dripping with solace.

he looked up, his throat tightening—the ache of déjà vu wrapped in silk. his body remembers before his mind does—remembers the press of his palm against the small of her back, the weight of his mouth against hers, the way her breath used to tremble when she whispered his name.

you never left he wanted to say, but the syllables tangled in his throat, thick as honey, heavy as grief. because she hadn’t—not really. she lingered in each pause between heartbeats, in the empty quiet of rooms too big and beds too cold.

so, he keeps his mouth shut. he leans in, nose barely grazing hers. she can feel the flutter of his eyelashes against her cheek as his head tilts, he can feel the tremble of her breath.

he was merely a shipwreck, his body leaning toward the tide even as his mind screamed to stay ashore. but the tide is warm, and the tide is her, and oh—how easy it would be to drown again.

the collapse of distance, the death of restraint.

the air between them is thick with ruin and remembrance, a graveyard of every night they spent apart, every moment they spent pretending this wasn’t inevitable.

but the body is merciless in its remembering.

her breath stutters again as his fingertips ghost over her jaw, tracing the path of old devotion, the map of a love that never truly faded. it’s not a hesitation, not a question—it’s reverence, the final breath before a prayer is spoken. and then—

then he kisses her.

it’s not soft, not gentle. it’s every unsaid word, every agonizing hour, every night spent staring at the ceiling wondering if the she felt it too. it’s the pull of gravity, of fate, of something written into constellations.

his mouth slants over hers like a plea, like an apology, like a man succumbing. and she—she meets him with a hunger that borders on violent, fingers fisting in his collar, dragging him closer, closer, as if she could consume him, as if she could crawl inside his ribs and carve her name there all over again.

it tasted like champagne and ripe fruit, like summer bursting behind teeth and getting stuck there. peaches, maybe, or strawberries picked in the height of july. his tongue slid against hers like silk against satin, heady—red wine drunk too quickly, the dizzied sweetness of berries crushed between thumb and forefinger.

it didn’t seek, did not demand; it reclaimed, a vow remade in flesh.

his tongue curled, coaxed, tangled in the wet heat of her mouth. it was slow, decadent—the first pull of opium in the lungs, the hush of velvet being drawn through greedy fingers.

and when he deepened it—when he pulled her flush, let the kiss bleed into something savored, something syrup-thick, cursive against the roof of her mouth—she tasted it:

forgiveness, the hands of a clock rewinding.

not spoken, not granted, but exchanged in the language of tongue and teeth. of breath shared between gasps, of bodies rediscovering the art of belonging.

when they part, it is not for lack of wanting.

it’s for breath, for sanity, for the simple fear that if they do not stop now, they never will. she licked her lips—not to rid herself of him, but to commit him to memory.

"YN.” he murmured, her name nothing more than a breath, a vow, a benediction.

she swallowed, throat tight, her pulse a bird trapped beneath her skin. she wanted to say something, anything—wanted to capture this moment in words before it slipped through her fingers like sand.

but there was no language for this.

there was no word for what it meant to be kissed like that—like time had never moved forward, like they had never parted, like the years apart were nothing more than a cruel trick of the universe. no word for the way his tongue had found hers, the way he had kissed her not just with his lips, but with the sum of his longing, the marrow-deep ache of missing her. no word for the way she had melted into him, the way her mouth had answered his like it had been waiting all this time.

so she didn’t speak.

instead, she pressed her fingers against his mouth, feeling the shape of his lips beneath them, like trying to hold onto a dream before waking. and maybe he understood, because he only smiled—soft, knowing, his hands still firm against her skin.

all my stars and moons, he had said once.

forever and a day, she had answered.

[thewertsearch]

JOHN: are you sure you can't make it go any faster? JOHN: i mean, not to sound too demanding, but… JOHN: didn't you say you can teleport stuff? JOHN: why not teleport us there? JADE: i cant! JADE: not here, at least

I thought as much. Jade's powers probably don't work in the Furthest Ring, because if they did, she could have brought Rose, Dave and the trolls to this Prospitian ship during Cascade. Her teleportation is probably limited to contiguous areas of conventional space, and the Hussieverse is anything but conventional.

JADE: becs powers draw from the green sun JADE: and the green sun presides over our universe JADE: many universes actually! and the sessions that created them, as well as the sessions created within them JADE: including the trolls universe and their session JADE: think of it like a giant solar system, but instead of planets revolving around the sun, there are many universes

Back when Rose was outlining the Tumor plan to Dave, I referred to the Green Sun as a core of reality - and it seems that's even more true than I thought.

In addition to powering the First Guardians' magic, the Sun also serves as the metaphysical nexus point of all Sburb-generated universes, as well as their associated sessions. Since we've never been given any reason to believe that non-Sburb universes exist, the Sun appears to 'preside' over all possible universes.

It almost sounds like the Sun is reality - and its creation was masterminded by Doc Scratch. The more you think about it, the worse it gets.

JADE: so, bec was able to teleport anywhere in the universe he wanted in an instant, much faster than light JADE: jack was able to do this too, within our session, and then when i inherited those powers from jadesprite, so could i JADE: but we could only teleport locally JADE: which means, bec could jump to anywhere in our universe, but not to another universe, or into a session JADE: and jack could jump to anywhere in our session, but not outside it

In other words, First Guardians can only teleport to locations they could physically travel to, from their current position.

During Cascade, for example, Jade could teleport to anywhere in her session, but it was impossible for her to reach other sessions, because those sessions didn't have a consistent physical location relative to her own. Similarly, Bec could teleport from Earth to anywhere else in his universe, but not into sessionspace, for the same reason an observer on Earth couldn't point towards a Sburb session. They're on different planes entirely.

tl;dr: to reach a given location via Space, Jade needs a well-defined direction to move in...

...and since moving to another session involves Furthest Ring travel, no such direction exists.

JADE: we cant even jump to the green sun itself, even though we sort of serve as a gateway to it, and all its energy

This, I believe, is the one notable exception to the rule above.

No matter where they currently are, a First Guardian can always open a portal to the Green Sun.

It doesn't sound like they can enter this portal themselves, though. Well, I suppose that makes sense - after all, they are the portal, and you can't move through your own body.

Could Jade reach into that portal, and fetch someone from the Sun, though? I suppose if that was possible, Jack would've just pulled Aradia right back out again, so I think the portal is completely inaccessible to the Guardian who embodies it.

JADE: and once we leave the suns domain, our travel is limited by the speed of light, like everyone else! JADE: for example, the furthest ring is not in the suns domain JADE: it is more like the suns medium, allowing it to exist

The Sun's domain includes, at minimum, every Sburb session in existence, alongside every universe they've produced. The Ring, however, can't be a domain, because it's not really part of conventional reality.

Yes, it may be the scaffolding on which reality is built, but the scaffolding is not part of the building.

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part thirty: daniel

word count: 6.5k (the longest yet!)

warnings: the chapter contains violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.

twenty-nine | thirty | thirty-one

“It’s an ambush! You guys need to get out, now!”

It hit like ice in the chest.

Lando didn’t flinch, but Max tensed beside him. Across the space, Yuki caught the movement, eyes narrowing.

“Something wrong?” Pierre asked, still smiling.

Lando didn’t answer. His hand had already shifted slightly inside his coat, fingertips brushing the handle of the gun holstered at his side. His gaze swept the site—not panicked, but fast and sharp. Calculating.

He saw it now. The strategically lengthy tirades, the disproportionately coy smile, the knives hanging from Tsunoda’s belt. The very way Pierre had come crawling out of the woodwork so many years after the two of them knowing each other, bearing grand promises of riches and partnerships one random night as if by some happenstance of the universe.

It had been clean. Too clean.

They’d been setting him up from the start.

For a second, there was silence.

A beat where everything held still—where the unfinished beams of the club echoed with the sound of wind and the faint hum of construction generators. Where the world hesitated.

But the moment Oscar’s warning hit his ear, Lando knew it was already too late to leave clean.

And then—

Gunfire cracked through the air like a whip.

Chaos shattered the night.

He didn’t move a muscle—but Max did. A flicker of instinct. He reached beneath his jacket just as the first gunshot cracked like thunder, shattering a window high above them. Concrete dust rained down like snow.

Max Fewtrell was the first to move, shoving Lando sideways behind a stack of cement bags just as bullets ripped through where he’d been standing seconds before. Lando rolled, coat flying back as he drew his weapon, ears already ringing with the sudden roar of violence. He could hear yelling—Pierre barking orders in French, someone screaming from the upper levels, the grinding roar of an engine kicking to life from outside.

Max was crouched low beside him, already firing back.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, reloading with quick, trained hands. “This is a setup. Gasly sold us out.”

“No shit,” Lando snapped, voice tight. He pressed a finger to his earpiece, voice low but sharp. “Oscar—”

“I’m– I’m pinned,” Oscar replied, breathless, the sound of a sniper rifle clattering. “They knew I was up here. One on the roof, at least. Maybe two?”

The space proceeded to explode into chaos.

From the shadows behind the scaffolding, two men emerged—automatic rifles raised. Ocon opened fire, bullets chewing into the rusted metal frames just a few feet from Lando’s head. Max shoved him hard behind a steel beam, returning fire in tight, disciplined bursts.

Another shot. 

Closer this time. 

Sniper–?

No, two of them. 

Oscar was pinned.

Lando’s voice was calm in the comms. “We’re lit up. I want eyes on every goddamn angle. Now.”

Outside, Logan heard it and reacted instantly. Tires screeched as his car skid right to the construction fencing, engine still running as he jumped out with his Glock already in hand.

Pierre stood there, unmoved in the middle of it all, not flinching as bullets flew overhead. Just watching. A slow smile curling over his lips.

“I told you,” he said quietly, as Yuki ducked and slipped out of view. “Like old times, eh?”

Lando’s eyes narrowed.

“You dirty fucking bastard. You set this up!”

Pierre shrugged, the smirk never falling. “Hmm, well, not all the credit is for me.”

From the mezzanine above, another figure emerged—calm, tailored, hair brushed back like a goddamn crown prince.

Charles Leclerc.

The bastard walked like it was a catwalk, not a warzone. Confident. Inevitable. Behind him, his two brothers flanked him like twin lions, guns in hand, their eyes on Lando.

Charles’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a blade. “You are not stupid, Lando. You knew the drugs were not yours to touch. You thought your little poison had wings? Thought Noxium would not be noticed, would not clip into our market?”

Lando’s blood turned to ice.

The Leclercs.

This wasn’t just about territory. It was a message, a reckoning.

“Lando Norris, you made yourself a Reaper,” Charles said, tone dropping to something low and sinister. “Now I’m here to remind you who builds the coffins.”

Then, all hell broke loose.

Blood already smeared across one cheek, Logan crashed through the door like a thunderbolt, gun drawn, firing clean and fast. He shoved one of the Leclerc brothers – the younger one, Arthur– near the scaffolding before yelling, “They’ve got snipers in the east lot too. I knifed one, but there’s another crawling the perimeter!”

Another voice cut in—Carlos, gritting into his own comm, “We are three minutes out. Hold your ground.”

“They brought a whole bloody army,” Max spat, ducking behind a crumbling pillar. “What the fuck happened? What– What’d we miss?”

Lando’s eyes narrowed. His mind, even under fire, was already stringing the pieces together.

Pierre—too smooth, too cooperative. That sly grin, the way he stalled in the beginning. He hadn’t been offering a deal: he’d been buying time.

And now… now Lando understood why — Charles Leclerc.

He didn’t look rushed or angry. He looked like he’d been waiting for this – like he’d dreamed of it, like vengeance was a dinner he planned to eat slowly.

“Lando Norris,” Charles sang, casual as if greeting an old friend, a gun loose in his right hand as he searched to see where the response would sound from. There was something gleeful hidden in those dark eyes as he smiled, his accent curling like smoke. “You’ve been trespassing.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t touch any of your shit. I kept my hands to m’self.”

“You used to,” Charles said, walking closer to the sound of the Brit’s voice, hunting him down. “Clubs, casinos, protection—yes, those were yours. I left them to you, quite generous of me.”

Lando and Max panted under their breaths, exchanging a glance as they hear the sound of vintage Italian leather shoes echoing through the structure.

They did not come here to die today.

“But the drugs, Lando? Your precious Noxium? That’s our family’s lifeline. That was supposed to be ours. You knew that.”

A beat.

“You knew exactly what you were doing.”

And just like that, the game changed.

This wasn’t about territory. This wasn’t business. This was personal.

Pierre hadn’t betrayed Lando for profit. He’d done it for Charles. – the two of them childhood friends, tied in blood and sweat and secrets.

The entire fucking meeting had been a blood-stained invitation.

A time and place for the Reaper to bleed.

More of Lando’s men were beginning to come into view—Carlos barreling in from the back alley with Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo at his heels. The air turned molten, full of dust and fire and bullet heat, as the fight exploded across the half-built club.

Lando didn’t flinch.

He stood up from behind the scaffolding, straining his stance, eyes locked on Charles across the smoke with a gun pointed directly at his face.

“You made your point,” Lando said. “Now let’s see if you can survive it.”

Carlos burst in through a side entrance, firing clean and close-quartered, and with Daniel Ricciardo coming in hot behind him. “They’re on all sides! There’s more behind the loading dock—three minimum!”

Oscar’s voice snapped through the earpiece, breathless: “I’m compromised! This idiot came for the high ground first—fucking amateurs, but I got my hands full. Someone need to cover Lando!”

Max reloaded beside him, jaw tight, knuckles bloodied. “We’ve got five minutes if we’re lucky. Less if the Leclercs brought every cousin they’ve got.”

Logan dragged a wounded shooter behind a stack of pallets and pressed Lando’s spare piece into his hand. “What’s the plan, boss?”

Lando stood, finally—face unreadable, coat streaked with dust, his hand steady on the grip of his weapon. His eyes locked with Charles’s above.

“You wanted a Reaper?” he growled, voice low and lethal. “You’re about to meet him.”

Gunfire erupted through the half-constructed club, lighting up the darkness like a battlefield. The acrid scent of gunpowder mixed with the heavy, oily stench of fresh concrete and steel, filling the air with a metallic tang. Every corner was a potential trap, every noise a chance at death. Shadows flitted across the space, their movements quick and deliberate. The chaos was alive, its pulse thumping in time with the gunfire.

Carlos crouched low behind a hole in the drywall, his hands working fast and fluid as he reloaded, exchanging one clip for another. The sharp, precise motions were second nature—no hesitation, no mistakes. Daniel, grimacing in pain, leaned against a load-bearing column to catch his breath, blood beginning to stain his shirt.. Still, his finger never left the trigger, a smug grin permanently etched into his face, like he was still having fun.

Across the battlefield, Yuki’s voice crackled over the opposing team’s comms. The orders were clipped, cold, spoken in rapid Japanese. They were well-organized, methodical—an efficient machine moving in perfect synchrony.

But Lando’s men were just as sharp.

Lando finally backed Charles into a corner, smirking as he pulled the gun from his holster. Charles was a smart enough man with enough experience to recognize that glimmer in the obsidian of Lando’s eyes.

It was the call of death.

A sign of the true Reaper.

For a split second, everything went quiet. Around them, the usual chaos felt like it slowed, or at least faded into background noise. The silence was only a moment, a breath, but it was enough to make the hairs on the back of Lando’s neck rise. It was the calm in the storm, the strange lull that only ever happens in real fights—everything paused for that single heartbeat.

Somewhere around him, he could identify the distant sounds of Logan holding the line at the loading bay, steady shots ringing out from his position. Oscar, with what was probably a broken rib, was still picking off targets from above, his shots sharp and deliberate. Daniel and Carlos surveyed in overlapping circles, ready for the next of their attackers to come from almost any direction. Max Verstappen had his hands full, the sound of each merciless blow Pierre received echoing through the surrounding structure.

Logan. Oscar. Daniel. Carlos.  Max Verstappen.

Max.

Max.

Where’s Max?

That was when Lando Norris made his only mistake. He glanced beside him to check for Max Fewtrell – just a flick of his eyes, barely noticeable at all.

But it was enough.

From where he stood, Charles Leclerc saw it instantly. It wasn’t much—a small crack, a human moment, the briefest flicker of emotion. 

But it was too late for Lando to take it back.

“Go for him,” Leclerc barked, the command bellowing even from where the Monagesque stood cornered. “The one he looked at!”

Instantly, both Lorenzo and Arthur Leclerc turned and began flanking from the left. Yuki Tsunoda circled from the right. The rest moved like a pack of wolves, closing in with a singular focus.

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“Shit– Fewtrell!”

Max had just ducked back into cover when he noticed the incoming attack. The men moved with precision, intent on isolating him, forcing him into a corner.

Without a second thought, Lando moved. He slid behind a piece of cover, coming up just enough to fire two quick shots— forcing Gasly’s rookie to drop to clutch at the new gaping wounds in his thigh. Lando sprinted, reaching Max just as bullets began to ping off the exposed rebar behind them.

Max coughed, wiping dust from his face. “Just for me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Lando shot back, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him closer towards Logan’s position. “Get moving. Don’t stop.”

They barely made it to safety. Barely.

But Lando wasn’t done yet. He was hit—a baton crashing into his ribs. He hadn’t seen Lorenzo closing in. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, sending him crashing back against the cold concrete floor. Pain exploded through him, but there was no time to dwell on it.

Bootsteps. One set, then another. 

They were too close.

Lando blinked through the haze of pain, looking up just as a shadow fell over him. The silhouette of a dark figure, the distinct profile of his Monagesque rival with his pistol raised.

Ready.

For a heartbeat, Lando’s world slowed. The figure took a fraction of a second too long, but it was enough.

Then, instinct took over.

With a brutal twist, Lando wrenched a utility knife from his boot and drove it into the man’s calf. There was no finesse – just raw, brutal violence. Charles screamed in agony, and consequently,  his grip on the gun faltered.

Lando knocked the weapon away with a vicious swipe, rolling to his feet, grabbing the gun as it fell. Two rounds rang out—straight into the man’s vest. Another figure lunged from the side. Lando ducked, the movement fluid, his elbow slamming into the attacker’s ribs before he shot him down, quick and efficient.

It wasn’t quiet enough.

A bullet ricocheted off the metal overhead, only narrowly missing Lando’s head. The noise echoed in his skull, ringing in his ears.

Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the blood—his own, someone else’s. His arm shook, barely holding onto the gun, but he didn’t lower it. 

Not yet. Not until they knew.

Lando stepped back, firing two shots into the ceiling—loud, commanding.

The message was clear.

Back. The. Fuck. Off.

The remaining attackers hesitated, then one by one, they began to pull back, retreating beyond the skeleton of the unfinished building like rats scurrying for cover. Lando blinked, and Charles Leclerc was already gone.

Oscar’s voice crackled in his ear, rough and breathless. “They’re, uh– They’re clearing. We can pull back now.”

Slowly, carefully, the team began to regroup. Every move felt like a struggle. The adrenaline was still coursing through their veins, but they were all battered, bruised. 

Alive, if only just.

Even as they watched their adversaries disappear into the night, the air still crackled with the aftershocks of violence.

Carlos was the first to lower his weapon fully. His face was split open at the brow, blood crusting in a jagged line down the side of his temple. His shirt, ripped at the sleeve, clung to him like a second skin. He exhaled shakily, then staggered to one knee beside the busted crate he’d used for cover.

Oscar emerged next—limping, rifle slack in his grip, sweat-soaked curls stuck to his forehead. His mouth was a hard line, his eyes unreadable behind the dim flicker of overhead bulbs that hadn’t stopped buzzing since the first shot. He didn’t say anything. Just sat down against the nearest concrete pillar and pressed the heel of his palm into the ribs he’d likely cracked during the fight.

Logan was the last one in.

He slid in through the back corridor, bloody knuckles and bruises blooming along his arms like mottled paint. There was a cut just beneath his jaw that he hadn’t bothered to wipe. “I got two of ‘em,” he muttered, voice gravel. “Lost one. Maybe.”

No one answered.

Max sat crumpled on the ground, elbows propped on his knees. He kept his head down, hands open in front of him like he wasn’t sure what to do with them now. His shirt was half torn, the side of his face swollen and bruised. One of his fingers was bent at an odd angle, but he didn’t seem to have noticed yet.

Lando stood at the edge of it all, his black pistol still in hand, his shirt torn at the collar, his left cheekbone already beginning to turn a shade of yellow. His breathing was steady, but his pulse was loud enough to feel in his teeth. He hadn’t spoken since the last shot fired.

The silence between them was almost reverent, but it wasn’t quite relief yet.

Carlos coughed, winced, and forced himself upright. “Everyone—?”

Oscar glanced toward the far corridor. Then shook his head, once, sharply. “No one else came in after us.”  

Logan’s lips parted, but he didn’t ask the question they were all thinking. He didn’t have to.

There were five of them here.

Just five.

Lando still hadn’t moved. His eyes scanned the wreckage—the spent shells littering the ground, the smear of blood across the broken wall, the shape of his own shadow in the flickering light.

He finally turned toward the group. His expression was quiet and composed, his eyes dark. 

No one spoke for a while.

The dust settled like ash around them, and all they could hear was the distant thrum of city life bleeding back into the broken building—the sirens, the grind of tires, some fuckin’ bird chirping in the aftermath of what felt like a warzone.

Lando drew a breath, and it tasted like copper and regret.

His palm was still stained with someone’s blood. Maybe his, maybe not. Everything felt too wrecked to tell.

He turned.

Carlos was seated now, his head leaning back against the unfinished wall, his arm slung across his torso with a long-sleeve shirt acting as a makeshift bandage. His lip was split, those large brown eyes of his glassier than his boss had ever seen them. But he gave Lando a weak thumbs-up when their eyes met, and Lando didn’t have the heart not to give him a small smile back.

Carlos, who could’ve gone anywhere. NASA, Mercedes — any of the places that would’ve worshipped that brilliant mind of his. But he stayed—for his dad. He wanted to give the old man the life he’d always dreamed of, something to reward him for all he’s given up for a boy of the same name.

The Spaniard had definitely made Lando proud today.

Logan was also crouched nearby, his jacket torn, his knuckles split. His shoulders were tense, but his eyes kept darting, sharp and alert. He’d never let himself rest before the job was done. Lando remembers the kid he met years ago, straight outta Florida, all sunburn and bright eyes and nerves. The kind of kid who wanted to be someone. Lando had seen himself in that hunger. When Lando looked at him, Logan looked at him with a bright smile, eager to show how unaffected he was.

With their complementary shiners, Lando could see a bit of himself in Logan tonight too.

Oscar was still perched on the stairwell, holding his ribs. It seemed he preferred the higher vantage point, even now. There was blood on his shirt, darker closer to the part near the hem that covered his hip. Lando couldn’t tell how deep the wound was, but Oscar hadn’t let go of his rifle. He’d never even blinked when the chaos had hit. In fact, he was the reason they weren’t all dead.

Oscar was the reason Lando got the warning at all.

Then there was Max Fewtrell, slumped against the doorway as he pressed a cold cloth to the side of his head. He’d nearly been hit. No, he was hit—grazed across the temple, just enough to make Lando’s heart stop when he had seen the blood.

Fewtrell had always been different. It would be untrue to say he was just the same as the others. Even Lando knew, deep down, that he was different – not just a soldier, not just a friend. He was the only one who could get under Lando’s skin in a way that felt familial. He was the only one who could call him out on his shit and still get a small smile after. And today, Lando had almost lost him. 

All because of one second – one look. 

One look had almost cost Lando the only man he considered his brother.

He dragged a hand down his face, smearing dust into the blood on his skin, and counted again.

Carlos. Logan. Oscar. Fewtrell. Verstappen.

His gaze swept the room again.

Wait.

Where’s—

Where the fuck is Daniel?

He turned around, his eyes scanning the place again—back over the entryway, the busted scaffolding, the stairwell. He pushed himself to remember. 

Where had Daniel been when the shooting started? He was right behind Lando, wasn’t he? Left side?

“Anyone seen Ricciardo?” Lando asked.

No one answers. Max looked up, blinking. Logan shifted uncomfortably. Carlos doesn’t move at all. Oscar just swore under his breath.

And that’s when it really hit Lando.

He didn’t see it coming. He missed the trap. He was smarter than that, for fuck’s sake – he’d known there would be one. But he let himself get cocky, and now someone who mattered —someone who trusted him— might be gone. Because they’d gone for his soft spot, and once again, he didn’t even realize it was exposed.

He stares at the cracked floor for a second. The sharp sting in his lungs returns, but it wasn’t from the smoke.

It was guilt.

“Keep eyes out,” he mutters, and then louder, firmer, “Find him.”

They’d only just begun to search—Logan darting toward a side hallway, Oscar cautiously peering around a corner, Carlos gritting his teeth as he pushed himself upright—when a figure emerged from behind an unfinished stairwell.

“Daniel?” Max’s voice cut through first, rough and tight with disbelief.

The others turned, and there he was.

The Aussie was dragging one foot behind the other, his shoulders hunched, his arms limp at his sides. His shirt was torn, stained dark with blood and soot. Cuts lined his jaw and temple. His face was pale, slack with exhaustion. But he was there. Alive. Moving—if just barely.

“Daniel, where were you, mate?” Fewtrell was already beginning to approach closer, concern overtaking the limp in his own step. “We were all—”

“I don’t know how it happened,” Daniel mumbled, the words tumbling out slurred and slow. His eyes were wide and glassy, not really seeing them.

“What?” Logan called, squinting toward him through the dark and the dust that had yet to settle. “Daniel—what are you talking about?”

“I didn’t know how to get it out,” Daniel said again, voice starting to hitch. His breathing was shallow now, labored. “I tried… heh, I tried—but, em,—”

Lando stepped forward, cutting through the rest of the voices. He moved fast, closing the distance and bracing Daniel by both shoulders, steadying him before he could collapse. His grip was firm, but his touch betrayed a flicker of fear—trying to keep Daniel upright, keep him here.

“Daniel,” he said, locking eyes with him. “What the fuck are you talking ‘bout, mate?”

Daniel wavered again. His knees buckled slightly, and Lando instinctively pulled him closer, adjusting his stance to hold him better.

And that’s when he saw it.

The hilt of a kris dagger protruded from between Daniel’s shoulder blades, dark metal glinting beneath the soot and blood. It was carved—elegant, almost ceremonial. A sickle curve, buried deep enough to split ribs and tear through anything in its path.

Lando froze, his breath caught hard in his lungs. The others hadn’t seen it yet, the wound still hidden from view. But he had.

Daniel was starting to sag forward now, strength draining from his limbs as his blood soaked through Lando’s hands. His eyes lost focus. His breaths came in short, wet gasps.

“Oh my god…” Lando whispered, arms tightening around him, desperate to keep him from slipping any further. “Daniel…”

Daniel blinked, as if trying to stay awake. His jaw trembled. “I didn’t know how to tell you, mate,” he whispered, broken and shaking. “Didn’t wanna ruin your win…”

Lando’s head dropped, throat closing up around the swell of panic. He shook his head, once, fiercely.

This didn’t feel like a win.

They didn’t go home.

There was nowhere to go. Not until they knew, at least.

So they dragged Daniel back to one of their safehouses, a cramped, peeling basement below a now-closed tailor’s. By the time they set him down, Oscar was already yelling for gauze and towels, trying to stop the bleeding that wouldn’t comply with his will. Carlos had the med kit ripped open before Oscar could even finish asking, and Max Verstappen pulled his navy hoodie off, balling it up and handing it over with a trembling hand that no one commented on like it was the only thing that might help.

Lando followed in silence, pale and smeared with blood all over. Even after he yanked that godforsaken blade from where it had embedded itself deep into the flesh of Daniel’s back, his hands never quite stopped shaking.

And Daniel? 

Daniel was still cracking jokes, sense of humor still just as intact as the day Lando had found the only mechanic on Monte Carlo who was open at 3 AM. The Brit had searched every nook and cranny of this city in hopes of finding someone, anyone, who could save his precious car – that first McLaren he’d ever bought with his own money.

Daniel always did know how to fix the unfixable.

“'S not that bad, right?” he slurs, eyes fluttering open. “I mean— m'still prettier than Max,” he quips with a bad wink in the direction where he has to assume his old friend is.

Someone laughed — maybe Verstappen. Maybe it was a choked sob.

It was hard to tell, really.

Oscar worked fast, just as he always did. But even he hesitated, just for a second, when he peeled Max’s hoodie back so he could get a better look at the wound again. It wasn‘t just deep—it was designed to stay. The kris’s path was cruel and clever, curved to tear what couldn’t be stitched.

Still, no one said it, because saying it would make it real.

Carlos hovered nearby, quietly wringing a rag in a bowl of water that had long since turned red. Max knelt by Daniel’s head, talking to him softly in English when the familiar Dutch didn’t stick. Logan paced the length of the dimly lit room like a caged dog. Oscar wouldn’t stop moving, fidgeting with his makeshift tools, his sleeves, anything he could reasonably reach.

Lando didn’t have the heart to tell the kid off.

Instead, Lando just sat there, his hands coated in Daniel’s blood, his jaw clenched so tight it clicked.

Every so often, Daniel would stir – breath hitching, jokes fading.

Then one hour became two. Two then became four. When Max stroked his curls away from his forehead where they were matted with sweat, he could feel his friend’s skin grow colder. The silences began to stretch longer.

But still—at least he was breathing.

That was the spark – that was what kept them from falling apart.

“He’s strong,” Max blurted out, the sincerity of his words making him sound younger, more innocent. “He’s– He’s fucking strong, alright? He’ll pull through.”

“His color’s holding,” Carlos added, cautiously optimistic. “This is good, yes?”

Oscar didn’t say anything. He’d seen too much to lie.

Lando refused to blink. In all the hours they spend there, he refused to sleep, refused to even think of a version of this scenario where Daniel didn’t wake up and make fun of them all for being so damn dramatic.

From his seat by the head of the table turned makeshift bed, Lando just kept whispering, “You’re fine. You’re fine, Danny. We’re gonna get through this. You’re gonna be okay.”

But everyone else knew what a wound like that meant, what a life like this meant for each of them. They all knew what Lando couldn't say.

It was only a matter of time.

They all knew what business they were in.

No one got into this line of work thinking they’d make it to fifty with a pension and a neat little garden. Nobody had gotten here by accident. Not a single one of them could claim ignorance. They were in the kind of game where exits came in body bags, and grief was a cost you factored into the ledgers. They were gamblers, all of them—risking limb and life on a daily basis, trading safety for control, comfort for power.

But Daniel was different. 

He always had been, really.

He knew the darkness, saw it clearer than most, in fact. But still—somehow—he stayed good, better, kinder. He always laughed harder, held on longer. Daniel Ricciardo carried hope like a flare he refused to drop, even when the wind howled and the rain came in sideways.

He was, despite everything, the best of them.

That made it worse. Because none of them were surprised that he’d gone down for them, only sickened by how easily it could’ve been anyone else. That it was him hurt in their place.

The truth was that, despite everything, none of them ever imagined it’d be Danny.

Not Danny Ric, with his crooked grin and dumb jokes and the kind of laughter that made you forget how goddamn dark it always was. Not Daniel, who remembered birthdays and brought back stupid souvenirs and called them all mate like it meant something.

He wasn’t soft—God, no. He was ruthless when he had to be. Everyone knew that Ricciardo could flip a man with a wrench and a grin and walk away whistling.

But still, he was hopeful. The great tragedy of Daniel Ricciardo was that he was the most hopeful of them all. He was the brightest, the one who cracked the darkest rooms open with his smile and made them forget, if only for a moment, that they were criminals. He knew the worst of them and still chose to be the best of them. He was the one who, even after watching what this world had done to people, still somehow believed they were worth saving.

So when he took the blade to the back—a fucking kris, curved and cruel and ancient like some sick ceremonial final blow—something shifted. Something broke, not just in his body, but in all of them.

He was light, in a world of shadows, and now, the light was flickering.

The way they moved—the urgency, the silence, the glances they exchanged—it was in the air like blood in the water.

Oscar got up to do the bandaging again. His hands were steady, but his jaw ticked with restraint. Max kept shifting on his feet like he wanted to hit something. Carlos leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyes glassy but dry. Logan sat on the steps with his head bowed, silent.

Lando went to kneel by Daniel, stripped of the usual iron-clad armor he wears around his boys. There was no sharp grin, no cocky tilt of the chin – just open pain in his eyes as he watched one of his oldest friends fade in front of him.

Daniel’s hand was clammy in his. His lips parted, then closed again like he was trying to say something and forgetting what.

Lando leaned in. “Still with me?”

Daniel smiled, just barely. “Yeah, boss.”

It gutted him, that smile. 

That fucking smile.

Blood loss. Organ damage. Shock. Oscar had said the words without flinching, clinical and grim. But Lando saw the way his hands shook when he stepped back. The way Logan had to steady him without making it obvious.

Carlos sat with his elbows on his knees, silent. Max leaned against the wall, arms crossed too tight, jaw locked. Even he looked like something in him was unraveling, thread by careful thread.

None of them were crying, but there was rawness in the air. This was part of the life. But that didn’t mean they had to like it.

Lando cleared his throat. “We’re gonna get them for this. Tsunoda’s gonna pay. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Yeah?” Daniel murmured, barely audible. “You better.”

“I will,” Lando promised. “Don’t you worry, yeah? They’re already dead.”

Daniel exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a laugh. “Tell Leclerc I said… ‘fuck you.’ In French.”

Carlos smiled, just a little. “Pretty sure he speaks English too, mate.”

They all chuckled, but just a bit – if only because Daniel would’ve wanted them to, even now.

Max Verstappen stepped closer and crouched down beside him. “You remember the job in Monza?” he asks.

“God…” Daniel sighed. “The bar fight?”

“You did start it.”

“Yeah,” Daniel breathed. “But I ended it too.”

Lando grinned despite the ache in his chest. “Damn right you did.”

More stories followed after that, each of them giving a piece of their memory, something bright, something bold, something that felt like it’d live on in the stars even after tonight. Each anecdote was an attempt at trading grief for something warmer, at holding on with words when their hands couldn’t seem to do enough.

It was Lando who took charge, just as it always has been. So they each spoke to him now — not over Daniel, but to him. Around him, as though he were already halfway out the door.

He was still breathing, but it was slower now. Softer, like even his body knew it was time to rest.

Daniel coughed again—wet, weak, red trailing from the corner of his mouth—and Lando stood.

He moved like he wasn’t thinking anymore. The muscles of his body moved purely on instinct, some muscle memory he developed over the year, the rhythm that helped him embody his role.

The Boss. The one who made the calls when no one else could.

He crouched by Daniel’s side, his own hand firm on the older man’s shoulder. Lando’s thumb brushed over his knuckles, his voice steady as a dying star.

“Daniel,” he said softly. “Stay with us.”

Daniel’s eyes fluttered open. “M’trying.”

“I know.” Lando swallowed, glancing briefly at the others, then back. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but he looked paler than he did a moment ago, almost sickly. “You did good. You hear me? You did everything right.”

Daniel gave the ghost of a smile. “Always do.”

Max huffed. “Liar.”

Carlos looked up. “Worst liar I ever met.”

Daniel laughed. It shook his whole chest and sent him into another coughing fit. Logan was there instantly, cloth in hand, wiping at the corner of his mouth.

Daniel blinked slowly. “We… Did we win?”

Lando nodded once. “We’re alive. You did that.”

Silence fell again. Then Daniel sighed, a long, low exhale like he’d finally finished something. His eyes slid closed again, lips parted. Still breathing, but lighter now, quieter.

“Is this it?” Logan asked quietly, not to anyone in particular.

But they all looked to Lando, because that’s what they did. That’s what Daniel had always done, too. They trusted Lando to lead.

Perhaps that was Daniel’s fatal mistake.

Instead of looking back at them, Lando stood slowly, his gaze on Daniel and his face unreadable. A long moment passed, Lando taking a deep breath before he spoke.

“Let him rest.”

They knew what that meant. None of them argued. None of them begged or made some desperate play for hope. 

Instead, they took turns stepping forward. Each of them said their piece in quiet tones, fragments of affection, of memories. Carlos pressed a kiss to his forehead. Max Fewtrell squeezed his uninsured shoulder in a gesture that he could only hope conveyed everything he could barely bring himself to say — a lifetime of gratitude and camaraderie and unspent love in a single gesture.

Oscar took off his watch and set it beside him—the same way Daniel had done once, years ago, after Oscar’s first mission went sideways. Max just sat down beside him and said, “Thanks for being better than us, Daniel.”

Logan lingered the longest. The young boy held his hand, told him a joke that made absolutely no sense, laughed for both of them, then walked out without a word.

In the end, it was Lando that remained.

Lando stayed until the others were gone, until it was just him and Daniel and the silence that pressed against the windows like night fog.

He crouched down again, brushed back a curl from Daniel’s sweat-matted hair.

“I’ll take care of them,” he told him. Even though he wore a smile, his voice was raw now, lower. “I swear to God, I’ll take care of all of them.”

A pause. Then—

“I’ll miss you, mate.”

He waited.

No reply came — just the smallest, shakiest breath.

“Alright, mate. It’s okay now.”

Daniel’s eyelids fluttered, the last spark of awareness lingering. Lando raised his hand, pressing it to his forehead gently.

“Sleep.”

And so, Daniel did. As he complied with his boss’s command one final time, he finally sank into a long, long sleep, and the room, once full of ghosts and grit and blood and noise, fell silent.

Lando stood, let out one long, shaking breath and walked out the door.

Behind him, Daniel Ricciardo lay still at last.

He didn’t remember the turns he took to get there.

The streets blurred past in streaks of black and neon, headlights beaming through the fog, buildings bleeding into one another like a watercolor left in the rain. The ringing in his ears hadn’t yet stopped since the ambush, low and echoey. Blood clung to what remained of his button-down in thick patches, sticky where it soaked through the torn fabric at his ribs. His knuckles were raw, the skin rough and dark, and the gash at his eyebrow had reopened, leaking warmth down the side of his face.

But still, somehow, he made it.

His hand shook as he raised it to knock. He missed the first time, fingers grazing the metal plate: 307. He tried again, firmer this time. The wood felt solid under his palm. He leaned on it, barely upright.

When the door opened, she stood in the frame like a ghost from a better life—oversized hoodie, messy bun, the kind of comfort he didn’t deserve. Her eyes went wide. She didn’t move.

His name—the wrong one, but right enough for now—fell from her lips in a cracked, breathless whisper.

“Oh my god! Liam—!”

He swayed, shoulder bumping the frame. That was all it took to snap her into motion.

“Here– Come in. Just, come in—”

She reached for him instinctively, one arm around his back, the other catching his wrist. He let her guide him inside, his weight leaning heavy on her as she pulled the door shut behind them. The lock clicked into place, and for the first time all night, something inside him uncoiled a little.

She was already scanning him with wide, panicked eyes. “What the hell happened to you?”

Her fingers ghosted over the edge of his shirt, where the blood was streaked all across his side. “Are you—oh my god, are you shot?”

“No.” His voice was wrecked, low and frayed. “Not really. Just… tired.”

She didn’t believe him. He could see it in the pinch of her brow. But she nodded, just once, and steered him toward the couch. He sank into it like a man unspooling, body slumping under the weight of pain and adrenaline finally running out.

She crouched beside him, her eyes rapidly tracing every scrape, every bruise, every place he flinched when her touch came too close. Her hands hovered, unsure—his temple? His ribs? The blood at his collarbone? Where was she supposed to start–

He caught her wrist gently.

“This was the closest place, and I…”

“And you...?” she asked softly, worry swirling in those eyes he hadn’t seen in so long.

He swallowed, his voice shaky for a different reason entirely when he looked up to answer her.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

a/n: and so there it is — my pièce de résistance! this chapter is probably my favorite that i've written so far lol. i'd love to hear what you guys think!

[emmg]

Only, Only, Only

Oh look, it's the Emmrich-crying-after-a-handjob one shot that has haunted me for two weeks.

Read below or on AO3

Some things fade, some things harden. Emmrich had learned this early. His family was buried under a collapsed roof before he was even old enough to understand the shape of loss. Fine. Well—not fine, but irreversible. The world yawned forward. 

There are two ways to have a family: by birth or by acquisition. The first had failed him. The second required effort, but effort could be elegant. And Emmrich was elegant. In youth, prettiness had been his scaffold, a fragile, lacquered thing—white teeth, kohl at the eyes, wrists perfumed just so. He had known, instinctively, that beauty was a door left ajar, and slipping through it was only a matter of timing. But beauty alone was flimsy, ephemeral. The real trick was what came after. 

He had been good at what came after. He had learned how to be a mirror, how to reflect back desire, how to build not just love but the idea of love, to construct it from suggestion and possibility. Later, when youth’s shimmer had dimmed into something more polished, he acquired. With acquisition came leverage, and with leverage, a different kind of beauty. One did not need to glow when one could glint. He could extend a hand, let the gold catch the light, let the rings speak in the hushed, implicit way that wealth always did. Stability, security. The prettiest promise of all. 

So he did not get married. It never happened. What of it? Girls, those spun-glass things, dreamed of marriage before they understood the weight of it, the slow suffocation of arrangements made with a blind eye to happiness. The nobler the girl, the bleaker the dream. The lesser ones, at least, had necessity to excuse them, and necessity, he had found, was sometimes kinder. His mother had married outside of it and yet she had smiled more, laughed more, despite the rawness of her hands, than any aristocrat pacing gloomily through town, swallowed by velvet and regret. 

And boys? Boys dreamed too, though not like him. He was of a different order, a creature with too many wants, too many hungers. He did not reach; he engulfed. His hands, splayed wide, could take anything, everything, fold it inward, knead it into something resembling love. The question was never whether he would one day say marry me?—only how quickly the words would leave his mouth.

“How did you lose your virginity?” Rook asks, peering over the rim of a glass filled with something that is, in principle, wine but in practice more of a solvent, stolen from Lucanis’ pantry-bedroom. 

“Oh,” he says, caught slightly off guard. “The usual way.” 

“Which is?” 

“With love, darling.” 

A beat. Then, again: “Which is?” 

He sighs, tipping his glass, watching the sluggish swirl of liquid. How was it? So long ago now. A tangle of hot hands, warm breath, the enthusiastic fumbling of inexperience. That singular astonishment—the body no longer enclosed, no longer entirely one’s own. Mouths parted not only for kisses. The more he prods at the memory, the more it softens at the edges, dissolving into something distant, something already half-forgotten. And what had come of it? A few repetitions, hurried and half-lit, until the whole thing ended so politely they might as well have signed papers and shaken hands. A miscalculated venture, yielding little but two rather undistinguished little climaxes. 

“I believe,” he says at last, “I was briefly incapacitated.” 

“Ah. Came too quickly?” 

He exhales, faintly amused. A flicker of a smile, nothing more. “Rook,” he says, shaking his head. “One really ought to maintain a certain discretion.” 

“You know how it was for me,” she insists. 

“I do.” 

“Because you were there.” 

“Indeed.” 

“And you did not marry them?” she presses. “Emmrich, you bought me gold earrings after I sucked your—” 

“No,” he says, neatly severing the sentence. Then, after a pause, “I did not.” 

There is a reason one does not make decisions in the steep descent of pleasure. Thought falters, limbs slacken, everything becomes terribly possible. The haze lingers for a moment, then lifts—for most. But for him, it never quite lifted. It remained, a kind of giddy fever, a half-conscious certainty. I think I might love you before. I certainly do love you after. Shall we pick out rings in the morning?

And yet, every time he might have said it, the words were swallowed—by lips pressed to his, by a hand at his throat, by laughter, the kind that smooths over awkwardness. Year after year, decade after decade, something always arrived just in time to silence him. A coincidence, surely. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they had all, in their own quiet way, agreed: Not from you, Emmrich. Not quite like that.

A moment ago, he had been young—precisely as young as Rook, or so it had seemed. But now, quite suddenly, the illusion dissolves. Age settles in, not in any particular ache or stiffness, but in the quiet awareness of time itself, of a widening distance between himself and the careless way she moves. 

He watches as she stands and discards her glass. She stretches, arms lifting, spine lengthening, her ribs briefly visible beneath the fabric of her blouse. A shift of weight, heel to toe, as she hums something airy and formless, a tune he does not know. 

Then, as if completing some personal choreography, she takes his glass as well, drains what remains, taps his knee—twice, quick, impatient. He hesitates just a moment before uncrossing his legs. And with that, she drapes herself into his lap, as if he were nothing more than a conveniently placed chair. Long hair spilling over his shoulder, long limbs finding their arrangement, long years ahead of her—years she does not yet know to count. 

“So it wasn’t love,” she concludes. 

“Pardon?” He blinks, as if waking. 

“Your first time,” she clarifies. “Or you would have married them. You do everything with love, Emmrich. And everyone. Heh. Get it?” 

His gaze drifts past her shoulder, settling on a thin crack in the wall, the kind that appears slowly, until one day it is simply there, fully formed, waiting to be noticed. 

“Oh,” he says finally. “Yes, yes, the love was there.” From him, yes. Always from him. 

Rook hums, softly, absently, the sound barely shaped into melody, more like breath passing through parted lips. It settles around him, light as dust in a shaft of sunlight. He could fall asleep like this, her mouth moving somewhere above his ear, forming notes without thought, without meaning, as his mind drifts elsewhere. 

To the after. The quiet, improbable after. When the gods are dead, when she no longer carries whatever nameless burden she believes is hers to bear. When there is no cause left to champion, no duty pressing at her heels. Then, perhaps, he could be selfish; lean in, tilt his head just so, and say, Shall we go to Nevarra, darling? Leave all this behind? Forget about obligations, about debts that are not our own?

If she will come, of course. And he very much hopes she will. 

The moment turns, shifts on some invisible hinge. There is an elegance to it, but not the kind one learns; rather, the thoughtless grace of a cat that sometimes lands well and sometimes does not. She touches his chin, frowns slightly, as though adjusting something misaligned, and then, quite abruptly, rests her palm against him through his trousers. 

“Oh,” he says again. 

It is embarrassing, really, the immediacy of it. More from the thought of her, the mere fact of her. An erection for possibilities—ridiculous. A climax, potentially, at the idea of picking out matching pillowcases. To be undone not by her mouth, not by the warm embrace of her body—well, yes, by those too, inevitably—but also, absurdly, by the way she looks at him, by the way she smiles, wide and guileless, for him, just for him. 

At this rate, he might not even need her hand next time. Perhaps he’ll just dissolve entirely when she asks if he’d like another cup of tea. Would you like sugar, darling? Oh, wonderful, an orgasm of domesticity.

"Does this feel nice?" she asks, freeing his cock. 

“Yes,” he murmurs, though it hardly matters, the answer already evident. 

She releases him just long enough to blow a breath of warm air against her palm, but it dissipates too quickly. Dissatisfied, she presses it to his cheek instead, leeching the heat directly from his skin. He laughs, turning his head just enough to graze her wrist with a slow kiss.

He closes his eyes, tilts his head back slightly, surrendering to the moment as she touches him again, fingers curling around him, now warm, now sure. A few slow strokes, languid and sweet, before she pulls away.

Then, a sound: the wet parting of lips, a flicker of tongue, the thin, elastic stretch of saliva snapping. He does not have to look to know what she is doing. When her hand returns, slick and soft, it glides over him so easily, so perfectly, that he shudders at the sensation.

"What if I told you I'm jealous of them?"

“Of who, darling?”

“Those people you loved,” Rook says.

She twists her wrist, tightens her grip, snaps at the air between them like a dog biting at a bone just out of reach. The motion alone is enough to make his hips jolt forward, his cock pushing blindly into the tight heat of her hand. It shudders against her palm, slick with sweat, with saliva, with its own leaking want. She spreads it, works it in, fingers tightening, releasing, tap-tap-tapping against the sensitive ridge just to watch him flinch.

“Oh.”

He wants to say something better than that. Something articulate, something lovely and precise, about how those old loves are nothing now, how their outlines have blurred, their names lost to time, how nothing before her seems to have truly happened. But all he manages is, “Oh,” again and again, a broken refrain.

Because he is watching her lips now. Pink and parted, a flicker of tongue just visible between them, poised as if about to speak, or taste, or ruin him completely. And he remembers—oh, how he remembers—the way they feel around him, the warm, obscene pressure, the way she sucks, licks, hollows her cheeks just so. The way she always pauses first, takes him in hand, lets the flat of her tongue drag slow over the head, tasting him before swallowing him down. He remembers, and he whimpers, wrecked by the thought alone.

He is, after all, like any other man. It is a humiliating realization, though not a new one. A mouth, an opening of thighs, a flash of tongue, the yielding softness of a cunt, the stiff insistence of a cock—these things could undo anyone. But for him, for him especially, it is worse. It is words that ruin him completely. Sweet ones, meaningless ones, even badly chosen ones, so long as they are offered up with the illusion of sincerity. Because he is sentimental, embarrassingly so, because he sees the world in pale, translucent pinks, because he imagines fingers intertwined over matching wedding bands, because he is the sort of man who believes that being loved—even briefly, even falsely—might be enough to justify everything.

He has spent years preparing for that. Decades of practice. He knows the gestures, the arrangement of words, the precise architecture of romance. He knows how to select flowers with the right meaning: tulips for declarations, lilies for purity, lavender for quiet, enduring devotion. He knows how to make himself desirable. He has built his whole life around it.

And yet, the moment she touches him, all of it dissolves. Whatever carefully curated refinement he has spent years cultivating—wasted. His spine bends into a crude, instinctual arch, his breath stumbles, his thoughts blur into static. The moment her hand curls around him, the moment she strokes, slow and assured, all that is left of him is want, absurdly simple and absurdly predictable.

He can only hope that when the moment passes—when the blood leaves his cock and returns to his brain—there is something else in him she will still find worth keeping.

Eventually, somehow, he finds words.

“There is only you—oh—only you.”

“I know,” Rook says. Nods. Smiles. Tightens her grip. Strokes him harder. “I want you to only fuck me, only kiss me, only come in my mouth, only bend me over your desk, only, only, only—” She bites her lip, almost thoughtful, then breathes out a small laugh. “Only me to sit on your cock, to rub myself off on you until I’m soaked, only me to squeeze you so tight you can’t even think, only me to ride you until you’re shaking, until you’re begging, until you hurt or I do.”

His fingers twitch at his sides.

She is breathless now, though not from effort; her hand does not falter. If anything, her rhythm steadies, as though she is determined to wring something from him, something more than this.

“I want,” she says, then again, rasping with urgency. “I want to be hoarse in the morning because you fucked my throat so hard it left a bruise. And I want it to be something you’ve done only to me.”

He watches sweat gather at the base of her throat, the damp fabric of her shirt clinging, pressing to her breasts in translucent patches. He could tear it. He could pull it away with one sharp motion.

“I want—” she starts again, her voice slipping, stuttering, as if she is losing the thread of thought even as she speaks it. “I want to go to your Grand Necropolis and let it be only me. I want them to look and think—and think—and want you—” she swallows, blinking, chasing her own logic, “—and know you are only mine.”

Rook wants the way a dragon does: completely, devastatingly, without dignity or proportion. And so does he, though it has taken him longer to admit it. He has spent years dressing the thing up, polishing it until it gleamed, presenting it as something dainty, something civilized. He has hidden it in bouquets, in well-chosen words, in gifts wrapped so finely they might be mistaken for gestures instead of claims.

It is a thing with weight, with hunger, with an awful, clinging need. It does not sit lightly in the chest. It does not allow for division. He has never wanted affection portioned out, balanced, tempered with reason. He has wanted to be swallowed whole, wanted the ones he loved to love him back with the same singular, unthinking devotion—to make a shrine of him, to strip themselves of anything that was not his. He realizes this now, with startling clarity, as she works him closer to orgasm. It is not right, he knows. It is not sane.

But he wants it anyway. Wants it exactly as she does. Wants it the way poets want their muses, the way men kill their gods in fits of heresy. Wants it as much as he wants to lay offerings at her feet, to press flowers into her hands, to lace jewels through her hair.

Only, only, only.

He has his own onlys. Only her to stroll with through the quiet, gold-lit streets, to turn her head toward shop windows. Only her to introduce to Nevarran customs, watching as she absorbs them, twists them to suit her own purposes. Only her to drape in gold, in rings, in bracelets, in necklaces delicate enough to snap between his fingers if he ever pulled too hard. Only her to choose something as absurdly domestic as a new rug with, standing in a marketplace, pretending she cares about the weave pattern. Only her to take to bed, to press down into the mattress at night, to split open, to fill, to adore. Only her to stretch beneath him, body pliant, flushed, her breath coming fast as he spills deep inside her, slow and heavy, until it leaks out of her, down her thighs, maybe—if fate is feeling particularly indulgent—settling into something permanent.

As she said: only, only, only.

He barely feels it coming, barely registers the inevitable cresting of it, the creeping heat, until suddenly it breaks over him, shattering whatever thin thread of restraint he had left. A sharp gasp leaves him as his body tenses, as he presses in close, buries his face in the curve of her shoulder, breath wheezing, breaking, whistling.

And then he is spilling over her fingers in thick, pulsing bursts—again, and again, and again. His cock twitches helplessly in her grip, and she does not let go, does not stop, only slows, lets her fist tighten, strokes him through the aftershocks, dragging out every last tremor. His hips jerk upward, lazy and unthinking, chasing the sensation even as pleasure fades into something unbearably sensitive.

He feels warm, feverish, his body strangely weightless, as if he might slip right out of himself if he let go. Then the opposite—a sudden awareness of his grip on her, of the way his fingers have pressed too hard, have left their shape in her skin. He loosens them, exhales. Watches as she lets go of his cock, now softening in her hand, lifts her fingers, tilts her wrist to observe the slow, glistening trail of him running down her palm.

She hums, thoughtful, then licks it away, unhurried, making sure he is watching. Her tongue follows the path all the way down, tracing it to her wrist, collecting every last drop with the kind of idle efficiency one might use to clean sugar from their fingertips. When she is satisfied, she smiles and leans in to kiss him. He dodges, turns his head at the last second, hides his face against her neck instead. His lips press there, soft, aimless, as he feels his eyes mist over.

It isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last. He would stop it if he could, would hold himself together, make himself presentable, but the tears arrive without permission, without reason, a slow gathering before the inevitable spill. The sobs are quiet, barely shaped into sound, but undeniable. He wishes he could explain it—offer some neat, comprehensible reason—but he cannot even explain it to himself.

It is happiness, yes, but happiness at such a magnitude it ceases to be light. It is weight, warmth, excess. It is the unbearable pleasure of existing in this moment, of being seen, of being wanted. It is the way she looks—so flushed, so content, as if she has won something. The way she smells, her skin carrying traces of salt and sweat and something almost floral, though he knows that is just her. The way everything seems suddenly, painfully clear in the soft blur of the after.

So he kisses her throat, presses his face against the delicate heat of her skin so she does not have to see him—again.Her pulse thrums beneath his lips, steady, indifferent to his unraveling.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

“You,” he confesses, and the word stumbles out on a wretched little hiccup. "Oh, I love you, Rook, I love you."

Into her shoulder, her collarbone, the sharp little ridge of her chin. It is always like this when they take their time. He is overcome, disassembled into words, and she lets him speak, lets him spill his fevered little future into the space between them, lets him press love into her skin as if he might leave it there, like a bruise, like something that cannot be washed away.

I love you tangled with you will like Nevarra, you simply do not know it well enough.

I love you and what is your favorite gemstone, my darling, tell me, so I may drape you in it, so I may weigh you down in it.

I love you and yes, of course, white is a real color, you are right to prefer it, you are always right, I would argue the sky is green if it pleased you.

I love you and oh, let us get you a grave dowry of your own, gold, gold, the only metal fit for permanence, the eternal one…

On and on, breathless and half-senseless.

He feels her lips press against the top of his head, a fleeting warmth, her breath stirring through his hair before she pushes him back, gently, just enough to see him properly. Her hands find his face, cradle it between them, and he feels it—the faint, tacky imprint of her palm, the one that had worked him to pleasure, now pressed against his cheek. The scent of himself lingers there, musk and salt and his favored soap. He breathes it in, caught between embarrassment and satisfaction, as she watches him with that slow, considering gaze.

“You sweet man,” Rook murmurs. 

He shuts his eyes a little tighter, as if that might stave off whatever comes next. It does not. 

“Do you know,” she inquires, fingers sifting through his hair, “how to remove something from the surface of the eye when it refuses to be dislodged by any other means?” 

“You could attempt to flush it out,” he supplies. 

“No.” 

She waits until he looks at her, properly yet reluctantly, before placing a kiss high on his cheekbone, then another. Over his eye, his closed lid, the damp fringe of his lashes. A sigh, a small thing. She parts her lips and pushes the tip of her tongue past the crease of the palpebral fissure, past the soft resistance of his lashes, until the wet muscle makes contact with the convex surface of the sclera. A slow, dragging stroke over the waterline. Warm and slick, collecting the saline residue, the mineral tang of dried tears, the body’s quiet mechanisms of defense. Her breath, close and humid; her smile, somehow wide.  

She pulls back, just barely. Just enough to make him want her to do it again.

“I want you to fuck my thighs,” she says, kissing his forehead. “And I want you to come on my breasts. Paint my face with it. Make it filthy. Make it disgraceful. And—” She hesitates. “Fuck, I don’t know.” Another kiss, heavier this time, lips catching on his skin. “I want to do everything you’ve done with all those others until they don’t exist.” She kisses the tip of his nose. “Anything. Everything. All of it, Emmrich. You made me bleed once. You can make me bleed again, if you want.”

He remembers. Of course, he remembers. The red bloom on the sheets, the sharp flare of it against pale fabric. How she should have cried, how it was he who had hidden his face in his hands. The clumsy, amused way she had reassured him, her I’ve never wanted anyone before you, anyway, let's go eat now.

How, days later, he had lowered himself between her thighs, pressing his face into the flushed heat of her, not as apology, not even as atonement, but as something far more base. How the scent of her filled his lungs, how the first press of his tongue against her was slow, searching, before he found his rhythm, before he found what made her gasp, what made her fingers twist hard in his hair. How she lifted her hips, seeking more, how her legs tensed, flexed, her thighs threatening to close around his head.

How she had asked, does it taste nice? and how he had answered, of course, of course it does, so very frantic and earnest. Then, because words were not enough, because words could be questioned, he kissed her, so she would know, so she would never doubt.

And afterward, unspooled, too loose-limbed for silence, he had spoken, ever verbose. How her hair was neither one color nor another, something between, something shifting, just like her eyes—not quite gray, not quite blue. How long it was, how it could be woven into three perfect braids, how he could do it, he was good at it, very good at it, would she like him to? Would she sit between his knees, would she let him gather the strands, twist them carefully, neatly, the way he had once learned, the way his fingers still remembered? Would she let him braid her hair in the morning and unbraid it at night?

She had only hummed, smiling absently, eyes half-lidded. Suddenly how about I suck your cock now? He had nearly wept, had wanted to say no, no—yes, yes—please, yes, of course, yes, but only if you want to, Rook, dear, only if you truly want to, though I want it, how can I not, but I also want to sit with you in the morning and pour you tea, or coffee, and talk about the weather, about books you cannot read, about nothing at all, I want—

And then oh, she had done it, and his brain cracked apart like an egg against the edge of something sharp, and everything spilled out in a gasping, mindless chorus of thank you, thank you, thank you.

Rook’s mouth finds his closed eye again.

He forces himself to think clinically, to name each part in anatomical terms, as if reciting from a textbook. Cornea, aqueous humor, sclera. The smooth convexity of the eye, the way the thin membrane of the conjunctiva seals over it like a second skin. If he does not—if he lets himself think in any other way—he will cry harder. His face will flush in blotches, his breath will stutter, his nose will run, and worst of all, he will whisper Rook, Rook, Rook until she tells him to shut up and leaves. Because no one has ever told him I love you like this, without the words. No one has kissed away the tears left in the wake of an embarrassingly quick orgasm. No one has smiled as he silently arranged their life together in his mind, measuring out their future like fabric meant to be cut.

He ought to laugh—ought to flinch, ought to fold back into himself—but instead, another tear escapes, slipping down his cheek, chased by a sharp, ugly sob. She catches it with her lips, her breath hitching slightly as she presses closer. 

Lick, lick, lick. Kiss, kiss, kiss. 

Perhaps she could take more. Sink her teeth deep, rupture it, let the viscous ruin run hot down her tongue. Perhaps she could swallow him piece by piece, until something of him remains there, behind her teeth, held fast. That would be lovely. 

“Did I get it?” she asks, drawing back 

“Yes, darling,” he breathes, faint and deliriously happy. "You did." 

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 1: Welcome To A New Kind Of Tension]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “American Idiot” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“What do you think, should we kill ourselves now or later?” Rio is spinning his Beretta M9 around on his index finger. This is not advisable. He doesn’t care.

Your hands are gripping the skeletal latticework of the transmission tower, steel hot enough to burn you; no electricity hums in the power lines suspended above your heads. Your eyes are on the horizon, golden June sunlight over fields no one has planted. Weeds are growing up through the earth, feral and defiantly useless, reclaiming their land just like the deer are, and the rabbits and the opossums and the turtles and the squirrels and the doves. The reign of humanity is over. Now you’re prey animals too. “Let’s wait.”

“For what?”

“Maybe someone will save us.”

“Ain’t nobody coming, Chips!” Rio says. “We’re a hundred feet off the ground in the middle of nowhere, motherfucking Catawissa, Pennsylvania, and we haven’t run into anyone since that Amish family back in Lightstreet, and I wouldn’t count on them driving by in their horse and buggy to pick us up.”

“We’re about sixty feet off the ground.”

“Okay, Bob the Builder, why don’t you whip up a helicopter or something to get us out of here?” Rio’s M9 has one bullet left in it, yours has three, nowhere near enough. At the bottom of the tower is a swarm of fifty-four zombies; you’ve counted them twice. There are no cute euphemisms: walkers, biters, the infected. They were once people and now they’re not. They wear the vestiges of their former lives, like how those who believe in reincarnation see meaning in birthmarks: here you were stabbed, there you were kissed by your true love. They lurch and snarl and hiss in their professional attire, college t-shirts, Vans and Jordans, septum piercings, wedding rings. They decompose in a miasma of metallic blood and spoiled meat. Parker had been the last one to the transmission tower, and they grabbed him by the legs. Now they’re chewing the gristle off his bones: disconnected ligaments that swing like strands of cobwebs, scarlet threads of muscle. “Oh shit,” Rio says, looking down. “We’ve got a smart one.”

Most zombies don’t have the fine motor skills to climb, swim, or open doors, but every once in a while—just like out of every 5,000 or 10,000 or however many ordinary humans you’ll pull the lever on the genetic slot machine and get a Picasso or a kid who can score a 1600 on the SATs—you run into an overachiever. This zombie, a teenage boy with red hair and a blue plaid shirt, is slowly scaling the tower. He’s already ten feet off the ground.

Rio aims his M9, semiautomatic, packs a punch but won’t break your arm with the recoil. “Fuck off, Ed Sheeran!” He fires and misses; the bullet grazes the boy’s shoulder. He groans dramatically and asks you in defeat: “Will you take care of that, please?”

You pull your pistol out of your holster and lean away from the tower to get a better angle, holding onto the scaffolding with one hand. You feel Rio’s large fingers close around your wrist, ready to yank you back if you slip. You click off the safety with your thumb, peer through the front sight, aim and wait until you’re sure. It’s a headshot: shards of skull ricochet off steel beams, half-rotten brains spray out in a mist. The carcass plummets to the earth.

“All this horror, all this catastrophe.” Rio’s eyes, dark like a mineshaft, drift mischievously back to you. “We could…distract each other.”

He’s not serious; this is a game you play. “No thanks.”

“You don’t want to die a virgin.”

“I do if you’re the only other person up here.”

“You deny a condemned man his final wish?”

“We’re not dying,” you insist. “What about Sophie?”

“Sophie would understand given the circumstances. She would want me to be happy.”

“What if we have sex and then immediately thereafter get rescued? You’d be a cheater. You’d be consumed by guilt. You’d never be able to take me back to your parents’ doomsday prepper cult commune in bumblefuck Oregon to wait out the apocalypse in peace.”

“You’re going to appreciate those doomsday preppers when you’re eating Chef Boyardee out of a can instead of shuffling around as a reanimated corpse.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I will,” you muse. “So you agree we’re going to get off this tower somehow.”

Rio sighs and whistles a morose tune: what a shame. “You should have gone out with that Marine at Corpus Christi.”

You frown, repentant, wistful. There’s nothing on the horizon except fields and trees and black storm clouds of crows taking flight. “I was afraid of making a mistake.”

“And now look at you. About to die as pure as Pope Francis.”

“How did this happen?! We’re not idiots, we’re goddamn professionals!” You re-holster your M9. You’re still wearing your uniforms from when you went AWOL, stealing away from Saratoga Springs like rats from a sinking ship.

“I’ll tell you exactly how this happened. You let that loser Parker come with us even though I knew it was a bad idea—”

“I couldn’t just leave him there! He started crying!”

“And he had one job, which was to check the oil in the Humvee, and clearly he failed because…” Rio glances at his watch. “Approximately four hours ago, the engine started smoking and the whole thing died on us, so we had to get out and walk, like we’re pioneers or some shit, and then that hoard down there came out of nowhere, and the only place left to go was up. Freaking Parker. I could murder that guy.” An awkward pause. “I mean, the zombies beat me to it. But still.”

“He had two jobs. He was also carrying the extra ammo.”

“Don’t remind me.” Rio isn’t messing around with his M9 anymore. He’s contemplating it as the sun hovers just past noon, hot and shadowless. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Two.”

“Good. Don’t use them.”

You look at him, this man you’ve known for over four years, this man you’ve traveled the world with. You’ve already gone so much farther than Oregon together. How is it possible that what was once a six hour flight is now a month-long journey that might kill you? “It’s not over yet, Rio.”

“Remember what you promised me.”

His hushed voice in the moonlit indigo of the Humvee the night you left Saratoga Springs: Don’t let me die alone. “We’re going to be okay. We’re going to make it to Oregon.” Then you grin, sweltering summer air breathing over you, humid, heavy, the screeching of insects in the trees. “But if it comes to that, I’d be happy to shoot you first.”

Rio smiles as the zombies below growl and claw at the steel framework of the transmission tower. Flesh peels off their fingers until you can see the gore-stained white of their bones. “Don’t miss.”

“I rarely do.”

“Do you have any more packs of Cheddar Whales in your pockets or—?” He cuts off as he spots something in the distance. His eyes go wide, his jaw drops open. “What…what is that?!”

It’s an SUV, massive, dark blue, rumbling across the field in a dust storm of displaced earth. It’s headed straight towards you. There is someone standing up through the sunroof, short dark hair that whips wildly in the wind, binoculars. You can hear the engine revving and, faintly, Kanye West’s Gold Digger. As the SUV nears the tower, Sunroof Kid ducks inside and closes the hatch.

Rio explodes into hysterical, rapturous laughter. “Oh my God, we’re saved! We’re not going to die up here! Oh, thank you, Jesus, thank you. I’m never going to jack off on Sundays again.”

The SUV, still accelerating, plows through the mob of zombies. Severed limbs go flying; bones crunch and snap. There’s a woman driving, you can see now through the slightly tinted windows. She puts the monstrous vehicle and reverse and does another pass. Zombies paw futilely at the sides of the SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, as it turns out. They smack their open, soggy palms on the windows; they gnaw and lick at the bumpers and the wheel wells. The Tahoe circles to regain speed, the engine growling, a bear, a dragon, and barrels into the remaining ambulatory zombies. The hoard is now largely incapacitated. Rio is cheering and clapping his hands.

The Tahoe’s doors open, and your rescuers appear. There are two men wielding baseball bats: one with long dark curly hair, the other tall and blonde, and there’s something wrong with his face, the left side, though you are too far away to see clearly. They move rapidly through the battlefield of felled, moaning bodies, swinging their bats and crushing skulls. There’s another blonde guy, shorter, softer, pink with sunburn, wearing plastic sunglasses and a teal polo with a popped collar. He’s spinning a golf club in his right hand. He is followed out of the Tahoe by one last blonde, spindly and swift, stalking the perimeter with a compound bow, a quiver of arrows secured to his belt. Rio is singing along to Gold Digger, drumming his fists on the steel beams.

“Now, I ain’t sayin’ you a gold digger, you got needs

You don’t want a dude to smoke, but he can’t buy weed

You go out to eat, he can’t pay, y’all can’t leave

There’s dishes in the back, he gotta roll up his sleeves…”

The driver wriggles out of the Tahoe with some difficulty; she is seven or eight months pregnant. “Stay in the car,” Madame Driver tells someone inside as she slams the door shut. She’s holding a hammer and sets about euthanizing the zombies still squirming on the ground and gnashing their cracked teeth at her.

Golf Club says: “Jace, bro, that’s so embarrassing. You’re gonna let her do that?”

Curly—or, rather, Jace—shrugs. “Exercise is good for the baby.”

All three blondes respond at once in a chorus of appalled disapproval. Interestingly, your rescuers have British accents. From within the Tahoe, someone turns off the CD player. This is wise; noise tends to attract more zombies. Madame Driver, unaffected, puts her hammer through the eye socket of a former Arby’s employee.

Jace flings back: “She likes helping! It would be sexist to tell her she’s not allowed to!”

The Scarred Man looks up at you and Rio and salutes, two fingers glanced off his forehead. You begin climbing down the scalding rungs of the transmission tower to meet them.

“Oh fuck, Aemond, you gotta deal with this,” Golf Club says. He is holding a yowling zombie at arm’s length by the straps of its overalls. It’s tiny, maybe a kindergartener. “You know I can’t kill the little kid ones.”

The Scarred Man, Aemond, turns to him. He’s wearing a maroon Harvard University t-shirt. “You have to learn how to do things yourself. I might not always be around.”

Golf Club scoffs. “As if I’d outlive you.”

“Go on. You can do it,” Aemond says. Behind him, more people are emerging from the Chevy Tahoe: Binoculars Buddy, a slight girl with shifting, watchful eyes, a blonde woman in a billowing sundress and with a burlap messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Golf Club is still struggling. “Aw, Aemond, man, he’s got light-up sneakers!”

Jace strides over irritably. “Aegon, you’re so fucking useless…” He kicks the miniature zombie to the dirt, raises his bloodied baseball bat, and brings it down on a skull that disintegrates like an overripe Halloween pumpkin. “You’re welcome.”

“Get bit, you poodle.”

Rio hits the ground first, his boots thumping against untamed earth. Aemond sets his baseball bat aside and reaches out to offer assistance as you dangle from a white-hot steel beam. “No,” Rio tells him roughly. “Back up.”

Aemond shows his palms and complies, retreating several paces. Rio helps you down. Now you can see Aemond’s face perfectly. There’s a relatively fresh wound running down the left half of his face, the violent red of burgeoning scar tissue, clear stitches; his eye has been sutured shut. But that’s not why you’re staring at him. His other eye is a focused, hypnotic blue, his short blonde hair disheveled. He keeps touching his chin, a nervous tick. Immediately, there’s something you like about him. He gives you the impression of someone who has gotten very good at hiding how afraid he is. Aemond looks away from your gaze, thinking you’re horrified by his injury. Then, reluctantly, he comes back. There’s forbidden temptation the lines of his ravaged face, a curiosity, a hesitation.

“Thank you for saving us,” you say to your rescuers, tearing your attention from Aemond. It’s not easy. “That was really, really cool of you, and we know you didn’t have to do it. So thanks.”

“Yeah,” Rio adds. “Sorry your Tahoe is covered in guts now.”

Aemond turns to confer silently with his companions, then asks you: “Where are you headed?”

“Odessa, Oregon.”

He nods. “We’re going to California.”

“NorCal,” Jace says, holding his baseball bat across his shoulders. “Bay Area.”

“Are you two together?” Aegon asks.

“Yeah,” Rio says, misunderstanding the question.

“Not like that,” you clarify. “He has a wife and baby, that’s what’s in Oregon.”

“So you’re single,” Aegon says, grinning toothily. His fellow travelers—family? friends? classmates? a combination thereof?—grumble and roll their eyes.

“Um, I mean, yeah, technically…?”

“Aemond’s also single,” Madame Driver informs you, relishing the chaos.

“He’s single but deformed and traumatized,” Aegon says. “I am mentally uninjured.”

You chuckle awkwardly. Your eyes, by their own volition, flick back to Aemond. He peers down at the ground then up at you again, smiling, a little sheepish, a little wicked.

Aegon groans, swinging his golf club around. “Man, come on.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Aemond replies.

“No, it’s just right there, all over your fucked up face.”

Madame Driver feigns a sympathetic frown at Aegon. “How sad. Guess you won’t have anyone to give your syphilis to.”

“I don’t have syphilis,” Aegon tells you. Then, to the others: “I can’t be the only single guy! It’s pathetic!”

“I’m single,” Archery Team says brightly.

“You’re like twelve. You don’t count.”

“I’m seventeen!”

“Are you Army?” Aemond asks you and Rio.

“Navy,” Rio replies. “We were stationed at Saratoga Springs in upstate New York.”

Aemond is fascinated. “You’re deserters?”

“What are you gonna do about it, Brit Boy?” Rio says. Aemond blinks at him. Aegon cackles, drawing huge circles in the air with his golf club.

“Everyone’s deserting,” you explain diplomatically.

“They were going to evacuate the base and send everyone left into New York City,” Rio says. “Fuck that, we’d heard things, we weren’t about to go on some suicide mission. We weren’t even in a combat unit for Christ’s sake, we’re Seabees.”

“You’re what?” Aemond asks, puzzled.

“We do construction. That’s why we were still at the base. If they’re putting us on the front lines, the situation is desperate. I’m not going in the meatgrinder. I’m not gonna be like those Hitler Youth kids sent to Russia.”

Aegon is squinting behind his sunglasses, truly lost. “Huh?”

“We should go west together,” Aemond suggests. He’s attempting to sound casual.

“I thought we didn’t want to travel with strangers, Aemond,” Jace says pointedly, mocking him. “I thought they couldn’t be trusted, Aemond. I thought they might slit our throats and steal our Tahoe in the dead of night, Aemond.”

“We’re useful!” Rio bargains. “We can shoot things!”

Aegon is very confused. “I thought you did construction.”

“Everyone has to go through basic training,” Aemond tells him impatiently, watching you.

“She got the Marksmanship Medal,” Rio says, grinning, proud.

“A lot of people get that,” you demur immediately.

“We can give you guys weapons training,” Rio continues. “You seem…like you probably don’t know about guns. Like you read a lot of books.” He gestures to Aegon. “Except that one.”

Aegon snickers, unoffended, still swinging his golf club around. “I don’t read books. I read maps.”

“Okay, lets do it,” Aemond says. “We’ll stick together across the Midwest and split up before we get to the Pacific. That puts us at ten people, and there’s safety in numbers.”

“Why do you get to make all the decisions?!” Jace demands. “Who signed that fucking contract? I didn’t consent to those terms.”

“Because that’s what Criston told us the last time the phones worked,” Aegon replies smugly. “He said Aemond’s in charge. So he is. If you want to find your way to California on your own, you’re welcome to try.”

“Who’s Criston?” you ask.

“Our fake dad,” Aegon says.

“Oh, your stepdad?”

“No, our mom is still married to our dad, he just sucks.”

“He does suck,” Archery Team confirms.

Rio tells you: “Hey, Chips, you’re standing in a torso.”

“Am I?” You look down. Your boots are buried to the ankles in the rotting gore of a bare midsection with only one limp arm still attached. You step out of it and shake off the bits of decomposing organs. “Gnarly. Thanks.” You spot Parker’s backpack containing the extra ammunition, pick it up out of the dirt, and throw it over your shoulders.

“Chips?” Aemond says. “Like…chocolate chips?”

“No, like woodchips. I’m a carpenter. I mean, I was a carpenter, I guess. That’s what I did in the Navy. Some people call the carpenters Chips.”

“I was an electrician,” Rio says. “So clearly, now that all the power is down, that turned out to be a fantastic career path.” Then he formally introduces himself. “Hi everyone, I’m Rio.”

Aegon perks up. “Oh, like the Rio Grande.”

Rio pretends to be scandalized. “Wow, racist.”

“So racist,” you agree.

Aegon’s chubby pink face fills with horror. “No, wait, I didn’t…um…”

Rio laughs and taps the nametag on his chest, black letters stitched over green camouflage: Osorio.

“His first name’s Bryan,” you say. “But no one calls him that.”

“My mom calls me Bryan. Sophie calls me Bryan.”

Aemond points at his companions, one after the other. “That’s my brother Aegon and my sister Helaena. Jace and Luke are our cousins. Then Baela and Rhaena are their girlfriends. Well, Baela…she’s kind of a fiancée. But there’s no official ring yet.”

Jace says: “Unfortunately, all the jewelry stores were looted on account of the apocalypse.”

“And I’m Daeron,” Archery Team says buoyantly, waving. Then he shields his eyes as he notices something at the edge of the field. “Oh, guys…?”

There are zombies approaching with clumsy, staggering strides, only a few now, but more will follow. That’s the thing; they are in seemingly endless supply. It’s easy to get too comfortable with them, to think of them as slow and mindless, even comical, even pitiful. But they can surprise you. And it only takes one bite to become just like them.

“Time to return to the Tahoe,” Baela announces, waddling towards the driver’s seat. Rhaena climbs in the passenger’s side. The rest of you pile into the back. The SUV has nine seats; Aegon crouches on the floor without being asked to. He’s unfolding a map he pulled from the pocket of his salmon-colored shorts and laying it flat across Rio’s knees so everyone can see. Baela turns the key in the ignition and the Tahoe rumbles to life. You spot a few red gas cans under the seats. If you can’t find more when that runs out—siphoning it out of other vehicles, stumbling across a gas station that is miraculously not drained dry—you’ll be walking, biking, or skateboarding to the West Coast. Or embracing the Amish lifestyle with a horse and buggy.

“We were planning to swing by Fort Indiantown Gap,” you tell Aemond. He twists around in his seat to look at you, that absorbed crystalline blue gaze. “That’s where we were headed before our Humvee broke down. It’s a National Guard Training Center. It’s probably cleaned out like everywhere else, but if it’s not…we might be able to find some guns and ammo there.”

“Where is it?”

“An hour south of here, just outside of Harrisburg.”

Baela is watching Aemond in the rearview mirror. He gives her a nod. “How do I get there?” Baela asks you.

“South on Route 42. Did you see the signs on your way in…?”

“Yup. Got it.” Baela steers the Tahoe across the field, kicking up a vortex of parched soil. She intentionally runs down four zombies before swerving left onto a two-lane road. Then she turns up the volume on the CD player: War Pigs by Black Sabbath. “It’s a mixtape,” she informs you.

Aegon points to southcentral Pennsylvania on a map of the United States of America, highway arteries and local route veins. “We’re here,” he says, sliding around on the floor of the Tahoe as Baela drives. His index finger traces the path; it’s a precarious balance between avoiding the most heavily populated areas and still having access to the necessary trappings of civilization: supplies to scavenge, roads to follow, buildings to take shelter in. “We’ll stop by Fort Indiantown Gap and then head northwest, thread the needle between Pittsburgh and Cleveland, stay south of Detroit and Chicago, cut across Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, that top part of Utah, then go our separate ways in Nevada. Oh my God, it’s just like the Oregon Trail! Do you guys remember that game?! Fording rivers, getting dysentery, hunting bison to extinction?” He starts humming the theme song.

Jace smirks, chomping on a Twizzler. “Hope you don’t die of a snakebite or something. That’d be awful.”

Aegon ignores him and refolds the map. “Rio! Fuck, marry, kill. The last three first ladies before Biden.”

Rhaena says, exasperated: “Aegon, you have to stop asking people that. It’s inappropriate.”

“Oh, easy,” Rio replies. “I’m fucking Laura Bush.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Aegon gives him a high five.

“And then I have to marry Michelle.”

“You gotta.”

“Which means Melania gets the grape Flavor Aid.”

“It’s the only logical answer.”

“I’d fuck Melania,” Jace says.

“Of course you would, you sick, sick man,” Aegon mutters, rolling down a window and sticking his head out like a golden retriever, his sunglasses still on, his blonde hair flapping in the wind. There’s a tattoo in black ink on his forearm, you notice for the first time: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fort Indiantown Gap is a ghost town like a gold seam emptied, an oil well run dry, a collapsed coal mine. There’s no central armory but instead a series of arms rooms, one for each unit. Every single scrap of lethal metal is gone: no pistols, no rifles, no grenade launchers or machine guns, no ammo, not even pocketknives, although you do find clean PT uniforms for you and Rio to change into, t-shirts and running shorts and sneakers. Clothes are surprisingly difficult to acquire now. Most stores have either been looted or overrun by zombies, and Amazon is tragically no longer delivering. You can break into houses that seem abandoned, but then you have to hope the people who lived there just so happened to be your size and also aren’t waiting inside to eat you. It’s not usually a wise gamble.

You study Aemond and his companions as you move through the base clearing buildings, you and Rio with loaded M9s in your holsters and clutching borrowed baseball bats; gunshots are best avoided if possible so as not to attract unwanted attention. Aemond and Jace take point, almost always; Aegon hovers on Aemond’s blind left side, wagging his golf club around, occasionally slapping Aemond’s shoulder to remind him he’s there. Daeron prowls at the back and on the periphery. Baela pretends she isn’t struggling to keep up. Luke and Rhaena are the lookouts. Helaena fills her burlap messenger bag with small treasures you don’t even notice her accumulating: bottles of Advil, batteries, lighters, pens, tweezers, Band-Aids, Uno cards. You encounter only three zombies, easily decommissioned. Fort Indiantown Gap must have been evacuated weeks ago. You wonder what pointless battles her soldiers died in. Everyone knows the dead have won.

What the abandoned base lacks in weaponry it makes up for in food. You find a chow hall with an untouched kitchen, a wealth of shelf-stable delicacies: chili, saltine crackers, applesauce, fruit cocktail with bright red gems of cherries, peanut butter, strawberry jelly, green beans, carrots, peas, beets, tuna fish, chicken noodle soup. You feast—a Thanksgiving, a Last Supper—then settle into the barracks next door as the sun begins to set. There are plenty of bunkbeds and a closet full of pillows and sheets. Someone always has to be up to keep watch; Daeron and Jace immediately go to sleep so they can get some rest before they are shaken awake sometime around 2 or 3 a.m. Baela says she’s going to lie down for a minute and almost immediately begins snoring. Helaena makes silent amendments in her notebook; she keeps an inventory of everything the group has, needs, or wants.

Outside, Rio and Aegon are engaged in a spirited game of Uno. Luke is sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Tahoe with his binoculars. Rhaena is beside him softly reading a book out loud: The Hunger Games. Aemond is on a wooden bench on the front porch of the barracks, watching the sun sink into the west. When he notices you, he seems pleased. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’m sorry we wasted your gas to come here.”

“No, it was a good idea. It was worth a shot. And now we have a safe place to sleep tonight.” His eye drops lower, his scarred brow crinkles in concern. “What happened to your hands?”

“My hands?” In the haze of the adrenaline, you didn’t even notice. Your palms are blistered, swollen and stinging. “Oh. It was the transmission tower. The steel beams got really hot while we were up there. I’ll be okay.”

“Let me bandage them. You don’t want to get an infection.”

“Really, I’m fine, I shouldn’t inconvenience—”

“Sit down,” Aemond insists. You take a seat on the bench while he goes to the Tahoe to fetch a black nylon bag about the size of a briefcase. Rio casts you a furtive, crafty grin. It’s nothing, you mouth back, more to convince yourself than him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears; your cheeks are warm. You haven’t felt like this since you almost agreed to go on a date with that Marine you met at Corpus Christi, where your battalion had been dispatched to build a series of new airplane hangars. Aemond returns to the bench and begins wiping down your palms with antiseptic. “Sorry if this stings.”

It does, but you’re grateful for the distraction. “It isn’t too bad.”

“You’re not from Oregon.” He’s noticed your accent.

“Kentucky,” you confess.

“You aren’t making a stop at home before traveling west?”

“Why would I want to go back there?”

Aemond looks at you uncertainly; he can’t tell if you’re joking. You like the way his voice goes quiet when it’s just the two of you. You like the way he barely shows his teeth when he talks, like he’s keeping secrets.

After a moment, as the sky begins to turn to orange and pink and lilac, you continue. “People join the Army for a paycheck and a place to sleep, free college, health insurance. People join the Marines to prove they’re the best. People join the Air Force because they want to be in the military but think they’re too smart for grunt work. And people join the Navy to get away from home. I wanted to get far, far, far away.”

Aemond smiles. “Are you far enough yet?” He doesn’t mean by miles. He means the fact that the world will never be the same. Now he’s coating your hands in a thick white ointment, cool and blissful.

“I was afraid of so many things, and now none of them matter.”

“We all have brand new things to be afraid of.” He gets a roll of gauze and begins to wrap your palms, careful to keep your fingers and thumbs unencumbered.

“Aemond?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to your face?”

He shrugs. He’s trying not to be resentful about it; he can’t change it anyway. “We were scavenging supplies from a Home Depot. We had to board up the house and wait until things…got quieter and it was safe to travel out of Boston.” And by got quieter, he means that the initial wave passed, the zombies began to wander out of the cities and disperse, the survivors were hunkered down and not participating in gunfights or Vikings-style pillaging in the streets. “A piece of sheet metal fell on me from the top shelf. Aegon and Jace dragged me home, they thought I was dying.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. Who treated it?”

“I did.”

You can’t disguise your shock. “You…you stitched up your own face?”

He smirks, finishing the bandages on your hands. “I was in medical school before all this.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I was an intern. So definitely not a doctor, but the closest thing to one I had access to. And I had taken some things from the hospital when everything went to hell. So I got a little mirror, and I lidocained myself very generously, and I started suturing.”

You don’t know what to say. His eye?? He stitched his eye shut?? “I mean…you did a great job.”

“I’m aware I look like Frankenstein, but I guess it’s better than not being here at all.”

“No, seriously. You look amazing, Aemond.”

He stares at you, bewildered. You realize how bizarre it must sound. You both start laughing as Aemond packs his supplies back into his medical kit. He touches his fingertips to his chin a few times—restless, meditative—then stands to return inside the barracks. “I’m…going to go check on Helaena.”

“Yeah. Cool. See ya.” You don’t watch him leave. This takes intentional effort.

Seconds pass anonymously: no time you need to be anywhere, nothing late, nothing early, no television premiers, no football games, no State Of The Unions, no time zones to do mental math over. You aren’t even sure what day it is. The earth has erased your invisible prisons. Now all that remain are the real ones: weather, terrain, disease, predators.

There is the creaking of weight on the porch steps. You warn him: “I’m not interested in your commentary.”

Rio winks as he says: “Maybe you won’t die a virgin after all.”

[fear-is-truth]

contains : adderall addiction ⋆ fluff ⋆ ooc kai(?) ⸝⸝

THE TELEVISION IS ON MUTE, STAINING A COLD, NAVY-BLUE WASH ACROSS THE FURNISHED BASEMENT. the channel is fox news, of course. the unnaturally orange face belonging to the president of the USA fills the screen mid-speech—chin jutted, mouth working through a passionate vow about national pride and border security, according to the chyron beneath him, scrolling in grim all-caps. kai probably left it running for the ambient rage, or for whatever sick little thrill he gets watching the world burn in real time.

shoulders hunched forward, he’s standing dead-centre and motionless in the halo of his own ideology. the black button-up is rumpled across his back, mandarin collar cinched against the base.

you watch kai through the blue light and think—not for the first time—that this colour belongs to him. not just because of the hair; though that helps. (you remember that with clarity: standing behind him at the bathroom sink, manic panic staining your nail beds a shade called “shockwave” that lingered for days. your blue, on his skin. his blue, embedded beneath yours.)

he is stained into you now, as much as you are into him.

but it’s more than that. the atmosphere kai walks in. unreachable. cold, even when he’s burning. a depthless ocean hue that is bloodless and lunar. what comes to mind are halogen lights in parking decks. metal benches in the early morning frost. the sky, mere minutes before sunrise—beautiful, but only because it cannot be touched.

he’s never looked more like himself than right now, bathed in blue.

whatever amphetamine cocktail had been juicing his synapses has long since burned out, the scaffolding it held up is collapsing. now all what’s left is the debris: fatigue, dysphoria, and the sick, granular awareness of being fallible. he’s been white-knuckling the descent through the dopamine drought. his hair’s matted at the crown, that synthetic blue dulled to limp, oily whorls.

kai also hasn’t eaten. you’d know. last thing he touched was a manwich and a pepsi cola you brought down per his request. that was twenty-something hours ago.

“i brought you water.”

you speak up, stepping in further. the glass sweats in your hand, thin trails of condensation slipping down to your wrist. kai’s back stays to you, shoulders set, face tilted slightly toward the television. you’re not sure he even heard you.

but then he turns—eyes flicking to yours. deep-set and ringed with fatigue, red veins spidering across the whites. but what alarms you the most is what sits beneath the exhaustion: manic lucidity.

a silent standoff commences before finally, he snatches the glass from your hand. a swift, contemptuous swipe that’s meant to communicate disgust. kai drinks with mechanical force, throat bobbing as he drains it in four loud gulps. then bends and plants it on the coffee table hard, glass thunking against wood. there. i did what you wanted. happy now?

“you need food,” you say, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose. for a thirty-year-old man, he can be such a fucking child sometimes.

“it’s been over twenty hours since you ate.”

his lip lifts into a sneer. “you keeping a fucking spreadsheet or something?”

before you can say anything, he’s pacing again.

“i need to figure it out,” he groans, muffled, face buried in his hands. “there’s a—oh, fuck. i can’t think.” the frustration in it borders on petulant.

“you’ll figure it out in no time. come sit with me,” you offer, lowering yourself onto the couch, right by the armrest. you pat the cushion beside you.

“c’mon. you’ll still be king of the couch.”

“don’t try to baby me. i’m not—” he breaks off, sucks a breath through his teeth. “—some fucking. invalid.” the heel of his hand digs into his temple, as if pressure alone might cauterise the neurochemical nosedive. no such luck, the inflated cognition has calcified into obsessive circular thoughts. his brain is oatmeal, and nothing is divine anymore.

“i’m not trying to baby you. and you’re not an invalid.” keeping your tone gentle, careful not to further provoke his ire or damage his ego. “but your serotonin’s bottomed out and you’ve been cycling stimulant psychosis for at god knows how long.”

he shoots you a dirty look. annoyed, but not disbelieving. despite his hatred for being told what to do, kai’s always respected psych jargon.

“prolonged amphetamine exposure,” you add, for good measure, “fucks up limbic regulation. impulse control. makes you suggestible.”

you regret it instantly. ironic, considering you’re the one coaxing him down.

“i’m not lying down.”

“never said you had to.”

he stands there another second, swaying slightly from exhaustion, before dragging out his surrender in that usual brand of theatrical contempt.

“five minutes.”

he drops onto the couch stiffly, like it hurts his pride to bend. one thigh bouncing with leftover chemical irritation, arms crossed like a barricade over his chest. you press a hand to his nape, and only when he doesn’t resist do you coax him sideways, easing his head into your lap. your fingers slide through his hair, a bit oily and gross. he tenses for a moment.

“this,” he slurs, eyes half-lidded now, “is symbolic castration. you’re undermining my authority in my own home.”

“uh-huh.” your thumb smooths along his temple. “and if i organise the sock drawer, that’s a full-blown coup.”

that gets a snort. tired, grudging. he turns his head slightly in your lap, cheek pressing to your thigh.

“don’t get cheeky with me, woman.”

[ugotnojamzzz]

Chapter 21

Genre: Mafia!au , Slowburn, Angst, Hurt, eventual smut, TW (it is a mafia!AU, after all)

Pairing: Mafia!Jungkook x reader

Disclaimer: It’s getting hot in here. Also TW violence. English isn’t my native language. Also, don’t come for me over the theme, people. It’s an Alternate Universe, which means the bangtan boys are essentially what I like to call meat puppets to serve the storyline. This is obviously not a projection of their actual real-life personas.

Wordcount: 3.7k

Masterlist

Chapter 20

—

Y/N could barely hear herself think through the noise.

The pit was a furnace of sound—roaring voices piled over bone-rattling bass, the rattle of metal scaffolding under the weight of bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, screaming for blood. The air reeked of sweat, spilled liquor, gun oil, and blood so old it had long since soaked into the concrete.

They entered from a private side entrance.

Restless men clung to the rails that ringed the cage, barking out bets like curses. Women leaned over balconies in skintight dresses and painted-on smiles, smoke curling from their lips, their eyes dull and hungry. The smell of sweat and cash pressed in from all sides.

And at the center of it all—the ring. Lit like a stage. Steel-meshed. Unforgiving.

It was violent and gloriously alive.

But Y/N was in no mood to indulge.

The last time they’d taken her out in public, it had nearly started a war. Word of her presence at the Rat Hole had spread like gasoline meeting flame.

She knew Namjoon wasn’t about to make that mistake twice.

The pit was controlled territory. Concrete corridors, high walls, sharp-eyed security at every choke point. Here, Namjoon didn’t need an entourage or backup. Just her. Just him. And a crowd too smart to forget whose turf they were standing on.

He walked ahead with unhurried steps, as if guiding her through the jaws of this beast was nothing more than an evening stroll. She followed in silence, jaw tight, ribs still tender where Soyeon’s knee had connected days earlier.

Namjoon hadn’t explained why he wanted her here.

He hadn’t needed to.

It was clear that this was no casual outing.

It was a message.

And it wasn’t subtle.

The Park clan would hear. They always did. And when word reached the mountains—reached him, her brother—he’d remember exactly what Namjoon wanted him to keep in mind.

The Tigers still had his sister. And should they be tempted, they could do to her exactly what the ravens had done to Soyeon’s team.

Their seats were impossible to miss—center, raised just above the cage like a throne overlooking an execution. A velvet-lined bench with guards stationed at both ends, each one armed and unsmiling. The moment they arrived, a woman in a tight black dress appeared and placed a drink in Namjoon’s hand.

Y/N sat beside him, spine straight, boots planted, eyes sweeping the chaos below. The cage loomed beneath them, lit from above, the floor already streaked with blood.

She felt the weight of every eye.

The vast majority of the crowd kept their attention on the ring—screaming, chanting, jostling for better views—but here and there, heads turned. Men paused mid-conversation. Women stared too long. Some with curiosity. Some with suspicion.

Namjoon didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he just didn’t care. That was the point, after all.

He leaned back, one ankle resting on his opposite knee, glass balanced lazily in his fingers, gaze fixed on the ring like this was just another Friday night.

“You didn’t bring me here for the ambiance,” Y/N muttered under her breath.

His mouth twitched. Not a smile.

“No,” he stated. “I brought you for a show.”

“To watch,” she said, “or to be?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

The implication hung between them like smoke.

You’re here so they remember who is holding the leash.

You’re here so your brother knows we’re not afraid to pull it.

A roar surged through the pit as one of the fighters was thrown against the cage wall with a sickening crack.

The man bounced off the steel like a ragdoll, blood streaking the mesh, and collapsed in a twisted heap. His opponent didn’t wait for the ref. He lunged—grabbing him by the hair and slamming his face into the floor once, twice, three brutal times until the mat turned red and the man stopped moving.

The crowd lost their minds.

Bets screamed out over the noise. Bottles slammed on tables. Punches thrown amongst the crowd.

Y/N didn’t flinch.

But her eyes narrowed when she looked down at the victor.

A mountain of a man. He looked almost seven feet tall, all bulk and brutality. Bald, his skin was a patchwork of scars, tattoos curling up his back like snakes. He stood in the middle of the cage, chest heaving, sweat glistening under the floodlights. Blood dripped from his elbow. None of it looked like his.

The announcer didn’t even wait for the ref to check a pulse.

He stepped into the cage, mic in hand, voice already booming.

“AND THAT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IS WHAT HAPPENS TO ANYONE STUPID ENOUGH TO STAND IN HIS WAY—”

Another cheer, louder this time. The floor practically shook beneath their feet.

“Give it up for the undefeated, the undisputed, the—” he turned in a circle, milking the crowd, “—MONSTER OF ILSAN, YOUR MAINLAND MAULER, THE LAST FUCKING THING YOU’LL EVER SEE—”

The man raised his arms, soaked in blood and victory.

“IM DAE-WON!”

The crowd erupted.

“See, that’s what I don’t get about places like this,” Y/N leaned back, unimpressed. “No one in their right mind would bet against a guy like that.”

Namjoon didn’t look at her. “You’d be surprised.”

Before she could say anything else, two men climbed into the cage and began dragging the loser’s limp body away, leaving a long, red smear in his wake. The Monster didn’t even glance down. Just stood in the center, like a dragon ready for his next meal.

Then, the lights dimmed.

The crowd began to hush—not all at once, but gradually, like instinct.

The announcer stepped back to the center of the cage.

The mic hissed softly in the silence.

“And now…” His voice dropped lower. Slower. Each word like a countdown.

The entire pit seemed to hold its breath.

“You’ve seen strength,” the announcer said, his voice coiling low through the speakers. “You’ve seen fury, blood and a couple vital organs. A casual Tuesday night, am I right?” He chuckled as he turned in place, pacing the circle like a priest before a sacrifice.

“But now…” His grin widened. “Now you’re about to see something that’ll really get your blood pumping.”

The lights dimmed—slow and deliberate—until only a single spotlight remained, burning white-hot over the cage.

“Tonight,” the announcer went on, voice rising, “we give you teeth. We give you shadow. We give you the one thing that even monsters fear—”

He spun to face the entrance tunnel.

The crowd exploded.

The chant caught fire instantly—low, guttural, primal.

Claws out! Claws out! Claws out!.

“Yes, yes—Claws out and fangs always bared. And tonight?” His voice dropped to a snarl. “He’s hungry.”

The chanting grew louder. People were stomping now, metal beneath their boots rattling the scaffolding.

“You’ve guessed it, ladies and gentlemen. TONIGHT—“ the announcer roared. “We give you—the Tiger.”

The crowd chanted. Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!

The spotlight shifted—slicing through the smoke toward the end of the corridor.

And then—

Y/N’s breath hitched.

There he was.

Jungkook. Stepping into the light.

No shirt. No smile. Nothing but black tape on his fingers, sweat on his bare shoulders, and a fire in his eyes that didn’t flicker once.

Y/N didn’t realize she was holding her breath until her lungs began to burn.

He entered the ring like he’d never belonged anywhere else. And the crowd roared for him.

Y/N didn’t move.

Her spine locked, lungs stilled. She watched him enter like the world had tilted slightly sideways.

Namjoon sat forward, ever so slightly, glass still in hand. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised.

And then—

A voice, oily and smug, slid into her ear.

“Care to place a bet, sweetheart?”

Y/N blinked.

A bookie stood beside her like a man who knew exactly when to strike. Clipboard in hand. Eyes glittering.

“She’s got a good seat,” he said to Namjoon, before turning his gaze back on her. “Might as well make it interesting.”

Namjoon didn’t look away from the cage. Just pulled a thick stack of bills from his pocket and dropped them into Y/N’s lap.

“Your move,” he murmured.

Y/N stared down at the money, then back at the cage—at Jungkook—who hadn’t so much as glanced her way, to finally land on the monster of a man he was clearly about to get destroyed by. Something sharp behind her ribs started to stir.

—

The bell rang.

The roar from the crowd drowned it out almost completely, but in the ring—everything sharpened. Dae-Won didn’t wait. He surged forward like a charging bull, all mass and momentum, fists already swinging.

Jungkook barely had time to shift his weight.

The first blow hit square in the ribs. The second caught him across the jaw, snapping his head sideways with a crack so loud it silenced Y/N’s thoughts for half a beat.

He staggered. Caught himself. But the Monster didn’t stop.

Dae-Won came down on him again, fists like sledgehammers, wild but heavy. Jungkook ducked one, but then—

Crack.

A punch landed square against the side of his head, and Jungkook went down.

Not theatrical. Not dramatic.

Just hard.

His knees hit the mat with a sound that snapped straight through the roar of the crowd.

Y/N flinched.

She didn’t mean to. It was barely visible. A twitch of her hand on her thigh. A slight hitch in her breath.

But Namjoon noticed.

He didn’t look at her. Not directly. He just sipped his drink and let the corner of his mouth twitch.

“You seem tense,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

“I’m not.” Her voice came too fast.

“Mh,” he glanced at her sideways. “Didn’t think it’d get to you.”

She kept her eyes on the cage. “This—is a circus show.”

A beat.

Then Namjoon leaned forward slightly, his voice just for her.

“Does it bother you?” He asked, “Watching people bleed for sport?”

“Does it matter?” Y/N’s mouth pressed into a line. “It clearly doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“Why should it?” he murmured.

Below, Jungkook was still on one knee, one palm to the mat, blood trailing from his mouth. The Monster circled behind him like a shark smelling the end.

Namjoon’s voice was soft. Certain. “Only losing dogs stay down.”

Y/N turned to look at him. And right as she did—

Jungkook stood up.

Slow. Deliberate. Spine straightening inch by inch. He didn’t wobble. Didn’t blink. Just rose like something inevitable.

His chest heaved. His jaw bled. His eyes were locked onto the Monster like he’d already counted every weakness and was just deciding which to punish first.

Namjoon didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked his brother’s steady rise—bloodied, breathless, unshaken.

“Jungkook is no dog,” he said.

A pause, as Jungkook rolled his neck, a predator’s stillness in his gaze.

“He’s a Tiger.”

—

The locker room of the pit still thrummed with aftershock—sweat, blood, adrenaline hanging heavy in the thick, overheated air. You could hear the roar of the crowd still echoing through the walls.

Jungkook stood near the lockers, towel draped around his neck, blood dried in lazy streaks across his ribs. His chest still rose and fell like he hadn’t come down from the fight yet. He wasn’t pacing. Wasn’t shaking. Just standing there, removing the tape around his fingers.

Taehyung was already there, perched on a bench like he owned the place. Shoes off. Hair wild. Shirt damp at the collar like he’d been yelling ringside—which he had. He spotted Namjoon and Y/N walking in and lit up like a devil.

“There they are,” he called, raising both hands in mock reverence. “Welcome to Olympus. Come and witness our freshly crowned god of destruction. Sexy. Scary. Slightly concussed but victorious.”

Jungkook huffed a breath through his nose. No smile. But something loosened at his shoulders.

Namjoon said nothing at first. Just approached with that stillness he carried so well, gaze sweeping over Jungkook’s bruised jaw, the slight swelling under his eye, the red mark slashed across his ribs. He nodded, slow and certain.

“You did good out there,” he said, reached out to clap a hand once to the back of his brother’s neck—brief and solid—and then moved past him without waiting for a reply.

Not soft. Not showy. But warm, and felt.

Jungkook didn’t respond, but the way he stood a little straighter gave him away. His eyes followed Namjoon for half a beat.

Then they found her.

Y/N leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, jacket still on, cool as marble—but her eyes gave her away. They flicked to him and then immediately, sharply, away. A breath too fast.

She avoided looking at his chest. At his sweat-damp skin, still glowing faintly under the locker room fluorescents. The smears of blood, the bruises blooming purple just beneath the surface. She looked instead at the wall beside him. The bench. The floor. Anywhere but him.

But he noticed.

Of course he did.

The faint flush creeping up her throat. The edge in her posture. The way she didn’t let her gaze settle—not once.

He didn’t smile. Not really. But something smug flickered at the edge of his mouth. A ghost of a reaction. Just enough to register.

“Nothing to say?” he said finally, voice low. “I didn’t know that could happen.”

“Cut her some slacks,” Taehyung chimed in with a smirk, “that was a pretty spectacular show, she may need time to recover.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, and while she didn’t intent on rising to the bait, she found herself muttering in spite of herself. “I’ve seen better.”

That made the corner of Jungkook’s mouth twitch. A near-smile. Not full. Just enough.

And then, as if fate had been waiting for the most inopportune moment to kick her in the pride—

“There she is.”

The voice came from the hallway—smug, grating, far too pleased with itself.

The bookie appeared behind them, clipboard swinging at his side, that same shark-like grin plastered across his face. His gaze zeroed in on Y/N.

“The lady’s got sharper instincts than half the men in this building,” he said as he approached. “Nice to see someone still knows how to pick a winner.”

Y/N froze.

Fuck.

Namjoon arched a brow. Slowly.

Taehyung’s head snapped toward her, eyes lighting up like it was Christmas morning.

“Nooooo—would you look at that,” he cackled. “Did our little stormcloud actually win himself a fan? Now be honest, Y/N, was it the abs that sold it?”

Hoping to shake off the growing flush of her skin, she turned to Taehyung with a glare sharp enough to kill a man.

Unfortunately, he was not a man easily killed.

He held up both hands in mock surrender. “Easy there, I’m just saying th—“

“Taehyung,” Namjoon interrupted, voice clipped.

The young man blinked innocently. “Yes, dear boss?”

“Go get the car.”

Before he could complain, the bookie tossed something across the room—a thick wad of folded bills.

Y/N caught it one-handed.

Tae let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s a lot of money. You know, for that kind of cash…” He looked at Jungkook. “I’d let you beat the shit outta me. Twice.”

“No one would pay to watch that,” Jungkook snorted. “It’d just be sad.”

“Which is why,” Taehyung said without missing a beat, “I’ve wisely diversified my talents.”

He turned back to Y/N, wiggling his eyebrows like a cartoon villain.

“And if you’re throwing that kind of money around, birdie, I’d be more than happy to offer my services. Private performances. Tasteful. Intimate. Some feather-work. A little cabaret if you’re lucky. I’m a man of many gifts.”

She didn’t even blink. “You’ll need to find some other way to pay off your gambling debts.”

Jungkook let out a faint sound—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“Ouch,” Taehyung winced, clutching his imaginary pearls. “Right in the dignity.”

“If you had any,” Jungkook muttered.

Taehyung shot him a glare. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, baby.”

Namjoon cut in like a guillotine. “Taehyung. Car. Now.”

The young man groaned, flopping his arms like a disappointed child. “Fine. But if you change your mind about the lap dance,” he said, pointing dramatically at Y/N, “know that I expect you to make it rain. I’m not cheap.”

She didn’t dignify it with a response.

“Go,” Namjoon said again, flat.

With a final finger-gun salute and a muttered comment on his being criminally underappreciated, Taehyung sauntered out of the room.

Namjoon turned to Y/N next. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t move.

Jungkook was still watching her. Quiet. Unreadable. But there was something in his eyes. She could feel it crawling beneath her skin.

Namjoon’s voice cut through the haze again, dry and clipped. “Unless you’d rather stay and—admire the view.”

Her eyes snapped toward him, sharp as a blade. He didn’t flinch. Just raised a brow—knowing, cool, maddening.

Then he turned back to Jungkook. “Clean up quickly. The car will be waiting outside.”

Another nod. One final glance. And then he was gone, footsteps echoing down the hallway behind him.

Y/N stayed rooted for just a second, before turning on her heels.

She could still feel him.

Jungkook’s presence behind her was a gravitational thing. Quiet, but unrelenting. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. And yet she could feel the weight of him like a pressure on the back of her spine.

She didn’t have to turn around to know what was in his expression.

Smugness. The kind that wasn’t loud or obvious—just settled. Deep and satisfied. Like he’d been handed proof of something he’d always suspected.

That she’d bet on him.

That she’d flushed over him.

Arrogant prick.

She would’ve been twice as complacent had she been in his place. But still.

Intent on not giving him the satisfaction of seeing her run away from the crime scene, she walked to the exit with the calm and poise of a queen. Head held high. She was halfway through the door when it came.

“Didn’t know you had that much faith in me.”

She froze.

The words were low. Casual. Barely more than a rumble from across the room. But they hit just the way he intended.

Ugh, she thought, of course he wouldn’t have the brains to simply let it go.

She turned slowly, spine taut, pride prickling hot under her skin.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, crisp and immediate. “I’ve seen better footwork from Taehyung wearing fluffy slippers. Hungover.”

He didn’t laugh. But the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “But I’m still the one you bet on.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t bet on you. I bet on your ego. Figured you’d rather drop dead in the ring than lose in front of me.”

He rolled his eyes. “You think too much of yourself.”

“Rich coming from you,” she shot back. “But go off, kettle.”

He stepped forward—not much, just enough to shift the air between them. “You know,” he said, quieter now, “admitting you enjoyed the show won’t kill you.”

She arched a brow. “Enjoyed might be the wrong word. Endured, maybe.”

“And yet you’re still the one walking out of here richer.” He tilted his head, that little smirk tugging again. “Crazy how that works.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to walk away.

“Just saying,” he called behind her. “I’m the one who did all the sweating. Bit of a raw deal, don’t you think?”

She stopped.

Of course he had to keep pushing.

He’d seen her flushed. He’d felt her stare. And now he’d seen her off-balance, he wanted more. Idiot.

Fine.

Two could play that game.

“Well,” she let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “I suppose that’s only fair,” she said, voice light but razor-edged as she turned back toward him.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

One step. Then another.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just watched her come closer, the towel still slung around his neck, sweat clinging to the cut of his torso, skin flushed and marked and far too solid for someone who’d been in the ring ten minutes prior.

When she stopped, they were close. Close enough that her breath brushed the hollow of his throat.

His jaw ticked. Just slightly.

Slowly, she looked down at the wad of cash still in her hand.

He clocked it.

When she plucked a single bill loose, his hand started to lift—reflexively, like he thought she was handing it over.

She snapped it out of his reach.

A single raised brow. A silent ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, kookie.’

Then, eyes still locked to his, she reached forward.

Her fingers slipped beneath the edge of the waistband of his shorts—slow and sure—and tucked the bill inside.

Simple yet devastating.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe either.

The tension in his body was a wire pulled tight. Like if she said one more thing, he might snap—or do something much, much worse.

“For the performance,” she finally murmured, fingers grazing the skin of his abdomen as she pulled her hand back.

His eyes—dark, burning, half-lidded—dropped to her mouth.

She smiled.

Just barely. Satisfied at the shade of red that appeared on the tip of his ears.

Then stepped back and turned around.

“Don’t tell Taehyung,” she said as she stood in the doorway. She glanced back, eyes glittering like ice. “He’d be devastated.”

And just like that, she was gone.

And Jungkook?

Jungkook was still standing there.

Stunned.

And brutally aware that he’d just been outplayed.

He looked down, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d find.

The dollar bill sat snug in the waistband of his shorts, tucked just left of center. His skin burned where her fingers had brushed.

His abs flexed involuntarily.

So did something else.

He exhaled through his nose—a long, low breath that did nothing to cool him down—and ran shaky hand through his damp hair.

Fuck.

He really needed a shower.

A cold one.

And maybe a priest.

—

—

Chapter 22

yay I’m back! what did you all think??

Masterlist

Taglist

@princess-sunshyn

@loumin908

@mageprincess7

@drunkzseok

@kelsyx33

@jjk970901

@sydneygal3107

[tianjinwellmadescaffold]

Ringlock Scaffold Ledger In Manufacturing - Wellmade China

[decentwritings]

Chapter 7: Final Chapter

Summary: You’re unable to grasp the luck you have. You were raised to run from danger, to go the opposite direction of bad influences. So when you somehow find yourself right in the center of it, you discover that running wasn’t exactly what you were taught. It only took GhostFace and a pretty girl to remember that.

series masterlist

Bailey wakes, slow and unsure. He's alive, and he isn't sure why or how.

Right at the center of the theater, he sits up and scans his surroundings. In the distance, his spare gun lies there, waiting to be picked up.

He pulls himself up with a struggle, coughing as he staggers toward the gun. He picks up the pistol and grips the handle tightly, like an anchor to life.

Then, his phone rings. He freezes, the ringing echoing in the silent theater. He scans his surroundings once more, pistol aimed high, in search of threats.

He answers the phone, still on alert.

"I've got one question for you," Sam's voice resonates through his phone's speaker.

Bailey climbs up to the stage, desperate to complete his family's plan: kill Sam Carpenter.

"Oh yeah," Bailey says, his voice hoarse as always, but there's a tinge of pain and exhaustion in it. "What's that?" he asks, gun still raised, finger on the trigger.

"What's your favorite scary movie?" you say from somewhere in the theater, startling him. He shoots in the direction he assumes you are, but nothing comes from it. Your voice echoes, and he grits his teeth, frustration seeping in.

He whips around, his guard raising again, and he sees Billy Loomis's cloak is gone. He checks his pocket; Billy's mask was in his pocket. Now it's gone.

"You put on your true face, huh?" Bailey narrows his eyes, his hand beginning to tremble. "Your birthright. Poetic that you're going to die in it—"

You pull a string, causing the mannequin tied to it to tilt a little. Bailey fires without hesitation, and you tiptoe away before he can spot you.

Nothing. Bailey tightens his hold on the pistol, jaw clenching.

"You know the truth now. Murder is in your blood," he snarls, glaring at the mannequin in front of him.

Behind him, his son's movie plays in reverse. It distracts him for only a second before he hears something sound on his left. He spins again and fires three shots.

"Stop fucking around and show yourself!" Bailey shouts when his clip empties. Still no Sam. He's quick to reload, and the theater remains silent. "I'm a fucking police officer! What are you gonna do, huh? Who do you think they're gonna believe?"

"Probably the one that's still alive."

At that, Bailey throws his phone away. He's distracted, and he doesn't see the silhouette behind him on the other side of the screen.

Sam steps through the screen, wearing Billy's cloak and mask. At the last second, the officer turns, and Sam stabs him over and over. His screams don't affect her; it worries her that it drives her to do it some more.

The gun in his hand falls to the ground, the clatter of its fall silent as Bailey's screams are heard. He drops to his knees, pleading but also seeking cover.

Sam towers over him, and he can see an evil glare behind the mask.

Bailey cowers, and you think you hear him whimper.

Tara limps onto the stage, wanting to witness what's about to go down. She glances at Sam, her sister as Ghostface.

Sam removes the mask, no longer wanting to associate herself with it.

"My father was a murderer," Sam lowers the knife in her hand. "But I'm not. No matter what you say, I'm better than that."

She shows mercy. Tara looks relieved.

Bailey cries, like a blubbering baby. "Thank you... thank you!" he gasps between breaths.

You watch from under the scaffolding's ladder, arms crossed. This is their ending to have, not for you.

The sisters share a look, heads tilting to mirror each other. You raise a brow, aware of what is going to follow.

"But you did fuck with my family..."

Sam jams the knife into his eye socket up to the hilt. The blade reaches his brain, no doubt. His body twitches, seizing, before she rips the knife out. He collapses, legs shaking as his brain dies.

Sam stares down at him, unfazed by her actions. Tara is a little disturbed but understands her sister's reasoning. They share another look and then walk through the screen, coming down from the stage.

You step back a few inches, wanting the sisters to have their privacy. You figure this would be a good time to check on Chad. You hope the jock is alive; you'll hate yourself if you left him alone to die.

At the sight of Chad leaning against the wall, you sigh in relief and move to check on him. He wakes with a jump, wincing and groaning in pain. You jump at his reaction, frowning.

"Dude, you scared me," you say, holding your hand up to your chest and shaking your head. His eyes fall shut again, and he fights to keep them open. You slap his face a few times, gently. "Come on, man, look alive... help should be arriving anytime now."

Chad blinks. "Is it over?"

You nod, smiling softly. "As JT said, dead and gone."

Chad laughs gently but regrets it as soon as he does. He groans, coughing a few times. You grimace, apologizing to him for the pain.

"My hero," he mumbles, then closes his eyes. You tilt your head. "I'm not dead, just tired," he says, his eyes remaining closed.

"Yeah, but when you're covered in blood and tired, it usually leads to death," you tell him. You pat his cheek again, forcing his eyes to open. "Keep those eyes open, Chadwick. We need you for the next film."

"Oh, God, I hope not," Chad murmurs.

You look over your shoulder and figure you've given the sisters enough time. You tell Chad once more to stay alive and promise him you'd be back. He slurs something about you always coming back to him. You assume he's dizzy from the blood loss and that he didn't mean more than that.

You hope.

You rejoin the sisters on the main floor, earning their attention as you step forward. You lift your arms up, wanting to ease the tension with an uplifting remark.

"Oh my God, that was so aweso—"

You topple over from a huge force, groaning in pain as your eyes widen at the sight of a bloody and messy Ethan. You're quicker than him, crawling back away from him just in time to hear...

"Heads up!"

Kirby shoves the TV that killed Stu Mather from its shelf onto Ethan's head, smashing it into pieces. If that didn't kill him, you aren't sure what will.

You glance up at Kirby, a grateful and relieved look on your face. You were worried about her status too.

"Saw that in a scary movie once," she says as you throw her a thumbs up. She glances at the sisters, who also smile up at her, grateful.

You let yourself rest on the floor, dropping your head against it. "Can we get outta here?" you ask, and you can hear the sisters share a laugh at your words.

\\\\\

You examine the remaining items in the theater as you all wait. You're unable to control your facial expression as you look at each item. It's all so confusing.

A collection of all the stuff from events that occurred because you saw a movie? You can't comprehend that amount of dedication over a couple of movies.

In the distance, you can hear sirens, growing closer and closer. You lift your gaze up, straining to listen closely and you hope they were coming to help.

Richie's film cuts off and the screen suddenly shuts off then raises.

Minutes tick by until you see police and paramedics spill into the theater, your cousin not far behind them. You assume he's walking to you but then he walks by you, taking the woman in his arms.

You want to be offended but you understand completely. You do join him, sending him a grateful nod after he pulls away from Sam.

"You didn't leave us," Sam says in disbelief.

"This guy?" You say, scoffing after. "He's the black sheep of the family. The complete opposite of any of us. He sticks around, even when shit gets tough."

Your cousin gives you a quick glance, appreciative of your words.

"Not bad, cute boy," Tara says, appearing to give him her stamp of approval.

Danny smiles, looking between you all.

A paramedic walks over to the group, asking if any of you need help. You greet the paramedic, of course knowing his name. He examines you as you offer conversation, grimacing in between words as he cleans your wound. Danny glances at Tara and Sam, telling them not to ask how you somehow know every paramedic.

You all exit the theater once you're squared away, aware of the morning sun shining up in the sky.

The paramedic you know also patches Tara up, making her a makeshift arm sling with some wrap from his bag. Close by, Kirby is being wheeled out on a gurney. Adrenaline has wore off and she notices then a bullet in her left leg.

You excuse yourself from your paramedic friend, jogging over to join the sisters and Kirby.

"So what do you think you'll do now?" Kirby asks the sisters as they walk close to her gurney.

"Like Tara said," Sam adds, her gaze softening as she looks at her sister, "start living again. Start dealing with the future."

"And I'm gonna start dealing with the past," Tara chimes in, releasing a sigh, as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders.

Kirby, observing the exchange, catches your eye and smiles. "I hear you were the unwitting hero," she says, her tone light, but you shake your head quickly, dismissing the notion.

"Nah, Sam's the hero," you reply, casting a glance at Sam. She smiles, exhausted but grateful, and the gesture makes your chest warm. "I was just the distraction," you shrug, downplaying your role.

Kirby's smile deepens. "Distraction or not, you still helped; that means something to people like us." Her eyes flick between Sam and Tara, and you catch their shared look. "If you ever need me, call," Kirby says firmly, looking each of you in the eye. "We're all part of the same fucked-up family now. And legacy... it doesn't always have to be a bad thing. Okay?"

Her words seem to hit hardest with Sam, whose eyes well with unshed tears. She nods, her voice barely above a whisper. "Okay."

Suddenly, a voice calls from behind, "Hey, we got one more in here!"

All of you turn to see Chad being wheeled in on a gurney. Despite the oxygen mask covering his face, his familiar grin shines through. Relief washes over you, and you beam at him as he gives you a thumbs-up, a silent but reassuring signal that he's going to be okay.

"My hero," Chad repeats, sluggish with a loopy smile. He looks at Tara and his smile only widens. "I like them. Can we keep 'em?"

You look at them, expecting an answer.

The sisters share a look before they look back at you.

Tara's smile widens as she looks from Chad to you, her eyes softening with a mix of relief and affection. She shrugs playfully, clearly trying to keep things light after everything that happened. "Well, I don't know... What do you think, Sam? Think we can keep 'em?"

Sam chuckles, wiping the last of her tears from her eyes, her exhaustion still evident but her mood a bit lighter now. "I mean, they did save our asses, so... maybe."

Chad appears happy with their answers, the paramedic takes it as his cue to wheel him away. As Chad is wheeled away by the paramedics, Tara and Sam exchange a glance that you miss by watching him go.

When you turn around, Sam is some distance away, finding yourself alone with Tara.

"Woah," you mumble, stepping closer to Tara. "Am I in trouble?"

"A little," Tara begins, and you falter, frowning at her words. "You disappeared on us."

You scratch the back of your neck, nervous. "Yeah," you clear your throat, suddenly embarrassed by your cowardliness. "I'm sorry. I thought I could handle it, but I... guess I panicked."

Tara shrugs. "I don't blame you. This world..." she gestures to the amount of cops and ambulances surrounding you. "Its not for everyone."

You nod once, unable to meet her eyes. The guilt is back in the pit of your stomach.

"That scar on your hand," you start and you don't miss how she tries to hide her hand. "From the first attack?"

Tara looks down at her hand, tracing the scar with her thumb. "I'm sorry," she says instead, blinking back tears. You're not exactly sure what she's sorry for. "We knew the consequences of getting close to anyone–I knew the consequences. But I saw Mindy and how happy she was with Anika. I tried the typical teenage rebellion to avoid the emptiness I felt because my sister's past was always something that...that was attached to me, too."

You nod, remaining silent to allow her to finally express something you assume she has never shared before.

Tara's voice wavers as she continues, her thumb still tracing the scar as if it holds all the weight of her pain. "But I realized I couldn't escape it. No matter what I did, I was always going to be tied to that legacy. It wasn't just Sam's past... it was mine, too." She takes a shaky breath, and you notice how hard she's trying to hold it all together.

"I pushed people away. I thought it would protect me, you know? If I didn't let anyone in, then I wouldn't have to watch them get hurt because of me." She glances up at you, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "But you... you came back. Even when you had every reason not to."

Your heart aches at her words, the vulnerability in her voice. You step closer, your hand twitching by your side, wanting to reach out but unsure if it's the right moment. "I ran because I was a coward, it had nothing to do with you," you admit, shaking your head. "I came back for you...and a little for me." you add.

Tara's gaze softens at your admission, the tension between you both shifting. She looks down for a moment, like she's processing your words, and then back up, her eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity.

"I've run before at a critical time when I was needed," you meet her eyes. "I needed to prove to myself–show my dad he taught me well. You don't run when shit gets hard, you keep going."

There's a silence between you two, one that Tara gives you, to give you time.

"You don't run when things get hard," you repeat softly, the words echoing your father's lesson. "You stick around long enough to prove you can handle it. To fight for what matters."

Tara looks at you with a depth of emotion that makes your chest tighten. She inhales sharply, as though your words hit her in a place she's kept guarded for so long. "Fight for what matters," she repeats quietly, almost as if testing how the words feel on her lips. "I never thought... I mattered enough to fight for."

You look at her incredulously, because was she not there to witness everything her sister went through? "Are you kidding?" She meets your eyes, eyebrows furrowing together. "Your sister fights for you. I witnessed her wrath first hand the night of the party. She almost tased me."

That reminds Tara of the night of that party, eyes rolling at the memory. "Yeah, not a great night for all of us, then," she mutters, earning a laugh from you. "You witnessed that mess and still stayed?"

You chuckle. "Trust me, the thought crossed my mind, several times," you confess. "But a poorly dressed pirate had eyes that I couldn't get out of my head," you admit, a soft smile pulling at your lips as you look at Tara. She blinks in surprise, caught off guard by the lightness of your words amidst the heaviness of the conversation.

Tara shakes her head, a small laugh escaping her. "A poorly dressed pirate?" she repeats, the tension between you two easing for just a moment. "I can't believe you stuck around after that disaster."

You shrug, stepping a little closer. "I stuck around because I wanted to. You were worth it. You are worth it."

The weight of your words hangs in the air, and you can see Tara struggling to accept that. She opens her mouth to protest, but you cut her off gently. "Look, I know it's hard for you to believe that. But I came back because I realized something—I didn't want to keep running from the things that scared me. And that included you."

Tara's lips part slightly, but no words come out. Instead, she just stares at you, processing everything, her thumb still absently tracing the scar on her hand.

"You can quit avoiding me now, Tara," you say, recalling the conversation from the night before. "I'm not going anywhere, not anymore. Besides, I don't mind a little adventure. My life's been too bland these last couple of years."

Tara breathes out a laugh.

You smile at the sound. "I also managed to live out my favorite character's fantasy for the night."

Tara's eyebrow raises. "Favorite character?"

"Deadpool," you say, expecting a reaction but she doesn't give one. Instead, her eyebrow only rises higher. "Marvel-Fox anti-hero? One of the best to break fourth walls?"

The look on Tara's face exasperates you.

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" You exclaim, scoffing. "How have I gotten heat for not watching horror movies but you've never seen Deadpool? Any of them?"

Tara shakes her head, then pauses. "Chad may have mentioned it but..." she shrugs.

"Unbelievable," you mutter, dropping your head, feigning disappointment. "Here I thought I was about to bond with someone who has love for movies but she's never seen Deadpool?" You say incredulous.

Tara laughs again, enjoying your frustration. "I'm more of a horror person. Have you seen The Babadook?" She throws back at you.

You frown, shaking your head at that title of the movie. "Never even heard of it," you admit, shrugging. "Sounds...scary."

Tara sends you a deadpan glare. You nod, suddenly aware of your words.

"You're missing out," Tara suddenly gets serious. "It's not just a scary movie–it's deeper than that. It's about grief and dealing with loss."

You note the seriousness behind her word. "Okay," you nod, surprising her with your next words. "I'll watch it. But you gotta promise me two things."

Tara waits for you to continue.

"One, you watch it with me," she lets out a laugh, "and two, we watch Deadpool immediately after it."

Tara rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Deal."

"Oh, and," you add one more thing. "You gotta put up with me quoting it. Especially in fitting moments like now," you shrug.

Tara tilts her head. "How's that?"

"Your crazy matches my crazy," you quote, enjoying the confused frown on her face.

Tara squints, eyeing you suspiciously.

You just shrug, not offering her a response. "Guess you'll have to watch it and find out."

Tara shakes her head with a playful eye roll. "Deal. But remember, we're watching The Babadook first," you groan, your attempt failing.

"Fine, but actually, first, I'd like to prove to you–maybe, over a cup of coffee–or breakfast because I'm starving," you add quickly, earning another laugh from Tara, "that I do, in fact, plan on sticking around. At least, until you're sick of me. I'm told I can get really annoying once you get to know me."

Tara smiles, the tension in her shoulders easing. She glances down, wiping at her eyes as she tries to gather herself. "Annoying, huh? I guess we'll see about that."

You can see the shift in her demeanor—a mix of vulnerability and cautious hope. It's clear your words have reached her, but she's still holding onto her guard. You step closer, the space between you feeling less like a barrier and more like a bridge.

"I'm serious, though," you say, keeping your tone light but sincere. "Coffee, breakfast, whatever—just let me show you I mean it. Sort of like a...breakfast date. You don't have to push me away. Not anymore."

Tara exhales deeply, her gaze softening as she meets your eyes. "You really want to stick around for all of this? I mean... I'm a mess."

"We're all a mess," you reply with a smirk. "But I think you're definitely worth sticking around for. Anyone who makes me run towards a knife is definitely worth staying for."

Tara laughs softly, the sound genuine this time, and it fills you with a sense of relief. "Alright," she says, a hint of playfulness returning to her voice. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

You grin, finally allowing yourself to close the distance and gently reach for her free hand. "I'll take my chances. And it's time for me to expand my movie taste, anyway."

"Can you guys just kiss already so we can go!"

The voice is familiar, to the both of you, so you turn to look. Mindy stands there with Anika, and they wave when you look at them.

Tara groans, covering her face with her hand now as her cheeks flush a deep red. "Of course," she mutters under her breath, clearly embarrassed.

You chuckle, turning to Mindy and Anika. "You two really have impeccable timing, you know that? Also, you're alive!"

Mindy smirks, crossing her arms. "If Chad's alive, I gotta stick around, too." you chuckle, sharing a look with Tara. "Kiss her, Dennis." Mindy cups her hands around mouth, causing her voice to travel some more.

Sam laughs from where she stands next to your cousin, watching silently.

You feel the blush on your cheeks, shaking your head in hopes to hide it from everyone. You return your gaze to Tara and arch a brow.

"Let's just go," Tara says, pointing her head towards them. You nod and grab Tara's hand again, ignoring the boos you hear from your roommate and her girlfriend.

As you take Tara's hand, you can't help but laugh at the playful boos from Mindy and Anika. Tara squeezes your hand tightly, trying to hide her own embarrassment, but there's a small smile tugging at her lips.

But as the boos stop, Mindy getting in the ambulance with Anika to join her brother at the hospital, you feel a pull on your hand. Tara pulls you in, her free hand going to your neck to pull you down and connecting your lips.

The kiss catches you completely off guard, but the moment Tara's lips meet yours, everything else seems to fade away. Her touch is gentle yet firm, as though she's been waiting for this just as much as you have. Your heart races, and for a split second, all the chaos around you disappears.

You respond instinctively, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss, savoring the warmth of her lips against yours. It's tender, filled with unspoken feelings, and when Tara pulls back just a little, she lingers close enough that you can still feel her breath against your skin.

The look on her face, it proves you right, she is definitely worth it.

Her cheeks are flushed, but this time it's not just from embarrassment. Tara looks up at you with a shy but satisfied smile, her fingers still resting against your neck. "I think I'll take you up on that breakfast date," she whispers.

You nod, licking your lips. "Great. I work at the hospital Chad's going to and the breakfast there is fantastic," you say, and she shakes her head with a laugh, moving to grab ahold of your arm. She knows you're serious but she doesn't mind.

She stops for a second and looks back, you follow her gaze. "Sam?" her sister meets her eyes, a small smile on her lips. "You coming?"

Sam exchanges a glance with Danny, then their hands connect, fingers intertwining as they walk over to join you guys.

Tara's smile softens as she watches her sister, a sense of relief washing over her now that Sam is safe and by her side. Sam gives her a reassuring nod, her hand firmly intertwined with Danny's as they approach.

"I wouldn't miss it," Sam replies, her voice steady but filled with warmth. You smile, the bond between the sisters filling your heart, strengthened by everything they've been through. Tara squeezes your arm, and you feel the connection between them without a word needing to be said.

. . . . . .

A/N: if you’ve made it this far, hello. I don’t interact much and just post but I just want to let you know I see all the likes, reblogs and comments and I appreciate it. I have a few other ideas up my sleeve, one idea has three chapters already so that’ll be up…soonish. I hope you guys are a fan of Mabel because that’s what I have planned next. Be patient, I have a lot of editing to do.

Also, I loathe the way I ended this story so if you guys have any ideas, pls share them with me. Thank you. See you in the next one🫶🏼

[unsolicited-opinions]

Why You’d Die for a Guy Who Makes Skincare Videos

It might be hard for some to believe now, but for millions of Millennials and Gen Z readers, JK Rowling wasn't just the author of the Harry Potter series - she was a social justice literary godmother of childhood.

For a time, Rowling was broadly loved, especially by social liberals and people who cared about social justice. It wasn't just her books - she herself was part of the emotional scaffolding of an entire generation, particularly as stories of her very generous charitable giving spread online and she said pleasant, kind things in interviews about her hardscrabble background and rags-to-riches story. She seemed someone who didn't let incredible success change her. People loved her, put her on a pedestal, and felt she was a part of their families, helping to teach their kids how and why to oppose N̶a̶z̶i̶s̶ Death Eaters.

And then came the dissonance. Rowling made increasingly ugly statements about gender identity which understandably alienated and infuriated many of her fans, who re-examined her works and found other views or tropes they found objectionable.

Jo went from hero to villain, from Hermione to Voldemort, surprisingly quickly.

But what followed wasn't just a "cancel culture" backlash and it wasn't just a steep drop in her Q score. For many, it was nearly an existential crisis. Many fans didn't just feel  disappointed - they felt betrayed. 

Why? Because this wasn’t just about disagreement or disappointment. It was about a parasocial bond fracturing in real time.

I'm not mocking this. It was for some as traumatic as the death of a loved one, and people experienced very real feelings of grief. I saw them experience denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance.

That’s the thing about parasocial relationships: they're emotional investments in illusions. They feel real...but they're not.

I do this, too, despite trying to stop.

I was thinking about Gal Gadot yesterday, and how I may not think very highly of her as an actor, but I sure admire her as a person and feel both admiration and affection for her…despite the fact that I don't know her as a person.

I'm not accusing Ms. Gadot of anything! I continue to cling to my impression of her as a lovely, admirable person - and I will probably fight you if you threaten that impression

…but isn't it @#$%ing weird that I cling to warm feelings about her as a human being when every exposure I've ever had to her has been through a screen and managed by a publicist?

Do you or the people you know have strong feelings about the divorce of Johnny Depp & Amber Heard?

Why?

What Is a Parasocial Relationship, and Why Do You Have So Many of Them?

Coined in the 1950s by sociologists Horton and Wohl, a parasocial relationship is a one-sided emotional bond where a viewer feels a personal connection to a media figure who doesn’t know they exist. Back then, this meant TV news anchors like Edward R Murrow or Walter Cronkite.

You probably have several yourself - not because we have people who are as universally known and broadly trusted as Murrow or Cronkite, but because the media landscape is so fractured. Now it's...almost anyone with a ring light and a subscriber count.

That soothing TikTok therapist you like or the ASMRtist who gets you to sleep. Maybe the influencer/podcaster you follow who helps you understand the news, the celebrity who always seems like such a sweet and decent person in interviews, that analyst for the Times of Israel who makes shit makes sense - or maybe it’s a fictional character who left us in 2012 and took part of your soul with them

(RIP, Leslie Knope: still alive in our hearts!)

You don't just like these figures. You feel like you know them. You trust them. You believe them.

And because the media landscape is so fractured, there's been a massive change in scale.

Parasocial relationships used to be a quirky side effect of media. now they are the media -and that's changing how we think, how we feel, and how we disagree.

Because when our media ecology changes, we do too - and it has changed a lot in the last ~30 years.

1980s

Most who were around in the 1980s used to see celebrities only if they watched the Oscars on TV or in the pages of People magazine in the waiting room of a doctor's office.

Sure, people were interested in the lives of celebrities, but didn't know much about them.

1990s

The 90s gave us 24/7 access: The explosion of cable TV, MTV Cribs, behind-the-scenes specials, paparazzi culture, and reality TV. Suddenly, celebrities weren't just icons - they were like roommates you gossiped about. Stars- They're just like us!

2000s: Social Media

Social Media (the phrase didn't become common and mainstream until arurnd 2005) changed everything. MySpace made you a brand, Facebook made you your own publicist, Twitter made you a PR disaster - and YouTube threatened to make everyone a star.

Early lifestreaming was in progress and suddenly almost everyone seemed to have a public persona.

The 2010s: Influencer Culture

If you were around then, you might remember when Instagram brought us the perfectly imperfect aesthetic. That was around the time when "aesthetic" started being commonly used as a commodifying noun.

No, really. Previously, "aesthetic" was used exclusively to describe a cohesive visual style, but as social media platforms became more commerce-driven, it evolved into a shorthand for marketable lifestyles and curated identities.

Tumblr Girl aesthetic

VSCO Girl aesthetic

Soft Grunge aesthetic

Hypebeast aesthetic

And this is when Gwyneth Paltrow's lifestyle brand GOOP took off, selling a Jade Egg for vaginal use.

YouTubers got makeup deals, product placements, and sponsorships. Twitch streamers livestreamed 12 hours a day. Podcasters often became emotional support besties. The intimacy got so strong, we started seeing strange and/or unhealthy behaviors being produced.

Now:

TikTok, YouTube Shorts, Instagram Reels - they all learn who you emotionally bond with and spoon-feed you more of them. It’s not a conspiracy - it’s just capitalism doing what capitalism does.

Parasocial Relationships Aren’t New, So What's Your Problem, You Prolix Old Prick?

Parasocial relationships used to be background noise and now they're shaping politics, public health, and how we perceive reality itself.

Back in the day, one might love Mister Rogers, Mr. T, Mr. Bean, or Mr. Spock..but nobody looked to them for their opinions on nutrition, investment portfolios, foreign policy, child-raising.

Today, though? A Twitch streamer or TikTok creator might change views on vaccines, war, or economics. Sometimes people will take them seriously because they once cried on camera, shared the viewer's Enneagram or Myers-Briggs type...or otherwise felt very relatable.

(Spoiler: Star signs, Enneagrams and MBTIs are all bullshit)

And because the internet flattened the distinction between expert and entertainer into influencer, you may not be able to tell whether you’re being informed, manipulatedo...or emotionally catfished. But almost always, you're being sold something.

Familiarity Replaces Credibility

Parasocial attachment makes us treat familiarity like credibility and that's hacking our brains by hijacking our emotions.

If someone feels trustworthy, we believe them, even when they’re wrong, wholly ignorant, and have no qualifications/education/expertise in the topic. Lack of those things is no longer an impediment.

And if someone says something true but doesn’t give us good vibes, we are likely to tune out.

This is how Joe Rogan becomes more influential on health than the CDC (when he's really sort of GOOP for men).

It's how TikTok herbalists convince you to eat raw garlic to cure anxiety. (So you'll be both anxious and lonely!)

It's how people with ring lights and relatable feelings become political thought leaders. (How the fuck else can one explain Theo Von having millions of followers?)

We don't want good information anymore. We want someone who makes us feel heard and seen.

Parasocial Politics

It’s not just about influencers and skincare routines. It's also about political discourse. We now follow pundits the way we used to follow bands. They have fandoms. Beefs. Merch. Lore.

2024 saw the rise of Parasocial Politics. Trump didn't do a lot of interviews on policy with MSM journalists. He shot the shit with bro podcast influencers. They helped Trump get votes, and he returned the favor (ever transactional) by inviting influencers into the White House.

Debates often aren't debates anymore - they’re turf wars. You're not just disagreeing with a perspective or an opinion, you're attacking someone’s internet chosen family member. 

Did you see how many people needed to take sides over Douglas Murray's appearance on Joe Rogan's show?

That's why criticizing Elon Musk, Chappell Roan, Jordan Peterson, or Hasan Piker online feels perilous. Their followers aren't just fans. They're emotionally bonded. You're not merely wrong, in their view - you’re a threat to someone they love.

When identity and ideology get parasocially fused, people will defend a belief not because it's right, but because their digital chosen family member (who doesn't know they exist) believes it.

Vibes > Facts

Truth used to be about evidence. Now it’s about vibes. Welcome to the epistemic hellscape where:

"That doesn’t feel right" > "That is verifiably correct"

"He seems genuine" > "He cited a source"

"She gets it" > "She has a degree in it"

Call it emotional resonance, emotional realism or vibe epistemology, but the result is the same - a society where public consensus is based not on shared facts but on shared feelings.

Remember when public health was guided by epidemiologists? Now many people get their health advice from whatever talking head on YouTube seems aesthetically pleasant and relatable.

This is why there isn't more widespread panic over an absolute crackpot like RFK Jr running US health agencies. It's been normalized to discard expertise.

Trust him, bro. He works out and stuff and the brainworm is dead now, so he's all good...!

Why This Makes Public Discourse Unbearable

Good faith arguments are increasingly rare: You’re not challenging ideas, you’re insulting someone’s digital soulmate.

Criticism becomes betrayal: Calling out a creator’s bad behavior becomes a moral offense.

Debate becomes drama: Instead of changing minds, we’re trying to win comment-section custody battles.

People say "we need to talk to each other again," but we often can't, because we're often not talking to each other - we’re too often talking through our parasocial avatars who are louder, more dramatic, and less reasonable than the real us because that's what drives engagement and makes the algorithm go brrr.

How many times do you encounter someone who can't promote or defend their view except by insisting you watch this YouTube video and educate yourself?

What Can We Do About It?

We don't need to avoid all parasocial bonds, but we do need to expand our media literacy to include being parasocially aware.

Ask Yourself: Do I Feel Like I Know This Person? ...because you don’t. You know their content. That’s different. Remember that you're not engaging with a person, but a media product.

Separate Vibes from Truth Just because someone is relatable doesn’t mean they’re right. Love with your heart - but use your head for everything else. Be skeptical, be cynical, and accept no 'facts' you haven't verified.

Remember the Algorithm Feeds You Your Own Reflection Although it may feel like it, that’s not validation - it's manipulation. Don't let it make decisions for you, don't mistake feelings of validation for a solid argument. Use tracking blockers, use VPN, don't log in to use YouTube, whatever- but stop using the For You Page (which is pushed on all social platforms) as your go-to for anything, not even for boredom relief.

Let People Be Wrong Without Making It a War or Personal If your fave (or anyone else) says something dumb, it’s okay. You can keep watching and still think critically. (I still like much of John Green's work, despite having issues with his video on Judaism.)

Diversify Your Feeds If everyone you follow makes you feel emotionally safe, you're likely in a digital echo chamber with throw pillows and padded walls - and that's awful for your mind. Start following smart, intellectually honest people you disagree with. If you get nothing else out of it, you'll train yourself to think critically while disagreeing with them - and you might discover a good point you haven't considered or common ground you hadn't been aware of. Stop regarding anyone with views counter to yours as evil, stupid, or driven by hateful intent. There are people who disagree with you who are smart, intellectually honest, decent people. Engage with them in good faith.

In a world where everyone is a brand and every argument is a fandom war, the only way forward is to get smarter about the people we let live in our heads rent-free.

Above all else, remember that relatability is not trustworthiness.

Stay skeptical, stay curious, ask every question which comes to mind, and maybe call your irl friends more often to touch some grass together.

About the Author: @Unsolicited-Opinions thinks too much about internet culture, media ecology, media literacy, and how brainrot seems to be accelerating. He is probably not your friend, even if you like everything he posts and seems like a good dude on Tumblr. (He is, however, grateful that you actually read this far.)

[balrogballs]

The Clean Break

a little take on Aragorn and Elrond’s final meeting, a removed scene from Cast in Stone (no context required; it’s canon compliant) that I liked too much to toss.

Aragorn was Estel when he broke his wrist, somewhere between five and six years old. It was a perfectly ordinary break, which happened for a perfectly ordinary reason: he had been running about on a wet floor, slipped, and crashed over a threshold. Elladan and Elrohir had come running at his wails, picked him up and took him to Elrond.

He remembers how Elrond explained to him that it was a clean break, and a very small one — it would stop hurting in a few days if he kept it still. The twins, those ardent connoisseurs of broken bones, had kept up a steady stream of joking patter to distract him whilst their father slowly applied a pain-relieving poultice and began to wrap up the wound.

Estel had been sobbing and sobbing, regardless of how mild the injury truly was. He was only five years old, and was more frightened than hurt, because he had never broken a bone in his life and he did not understand what everyone was doing, did not understand why his arm was being covered in white cloth, and it did hurt quite a lot, so he wailed.

And at some point in the process, he remembers looking up and realising that his father was crying too. Elrond hadn't made a sound, but his cheeks were awash in silent, indecipherable tears. Aragorn remembers how his expression didn't change at all, blank and beautiful in the white afternoon light: wrought from stone like a weeping statue, a quiet miracle, a promise of faith.

He remembers Elladan's tense, barked-out "Ada! What is it? What is wrong? You said it’s a clean break!"

And Aragorn remembers how Elrond had sat back on his heels and smiled, the motion pulling his features back into familiar lines. He remembers sitting silently, watching the last tears fall down the marble face, as Elrond said: "hush, my boy, you will scare Estel. Nothing is wrong, it is only a clean break. He will be fine tomorrow."

"Then why are you in tears?" Elrohir had asked, equally worried.

"Oh dear, am I? Aha, I am. Truly, it is only because he is," Elrond admitted sheepishly, sniffing. He had stroked a lock of hair back from Estel's face, laughing self-consciously, and his voice shook only a little. "I hate seeing him in pain. It breaks my heart seeing him cry so ceaselessly, even for such a small cause. It is only that, Elrohir, do not worry."

At the time, the twins had laughed, teased their father for his softness as they often did, made so many jokes about it that even little Estel, who didn't really understand the fuss and at the time had just probably assumed Elrond had a broken wrist too, was laughing alongside the three of them for absolutely no reason at all. It was casual, domestic, completely ordinary and commonplace as far as his childhood went: there were funnier incidents, sadder scenes, happier conversations.

But for some reason, this one is Aragorn's first real memory. The day he broke his wrist is the scaffolding he built his life atop, the day he looked at his father and found something sacred within him.

________

"I thought for a very long time," Aragorn says, on the tallest tower in Minas Tirith, their final meeting. "About what I could give you as a parting gift."

"If it is anything extravagant," Elrond warns him, raising a finger. "You know as well as I that I will take it to mean you are offering me a bride price, and I will take deep offence."

Aragorn grins, winks: "it's actually less than worthless, financially speaking" and cackles at how Elrond actually looks somehow more offended at that option.

"And what is this less than worthless thing you are donating to the one who raised you all your life?" he raises his eyebrows, a smile playing on his lips. "What castoff hand-me-down do you deign to bestow me with?”

"I know you must be weary of rings," Aragorn gestures at Vilya, winking away on Elrond's finger. "But perhaps this one may restore your faith in them."

"I am of a race that thinks nothing: jewels, lives, wars, is eternal," he continues, hair drifting over his face. "Of an old jewelry box my mother had, many trinkets were lost to time, some earrings were without a pair. And such loss of heirlooms never grieved us. After all, they were not ours to grieve."

"The oddest thing in the box was an old, battered golden ring. When I was first given the collection, I was only twenty yet already that ring was far too small for me. I thought that it belonged to a petite woman, perhaps a sister or a mother. Yet more recently, I was thinking of it and it confused me — why would a noblewoman own a cheap, plain ring? The other stones in the box were all precious, valuable, true heirlooms. When my mother died, she told me to pass them on to my children, and I will: but with this ring, I intend to disobey her."

"It was only some weeks ago, as Arwen showed me her own rings, that I realised something," said Aragorn, fishing around in his collar. "That this trinket I carry was no woman's ring, it was made to be worn by a child. You had given me one of these too, if you recall, as per tradition — on my sixth begetting day, a flat gold ring like this with my name carved into the inside. That was when I looked closer at this one, at the inscription on the inside of its hollow."

He unfastens the clasp on the chain, slips a small ring into Elrond's palm. He watches as all the blood leaves the elf's face only to be replaced by a harsh, terrible expression.

"Nothing is eternal, Ada," repeats Aragorn. "But some things should be."

"You are — you are giving me this?" Elrond's voice is strangled, eyes wide. "It —"

"I am. It is not mine to grieve."

Elrond does not say a word, does not even look at Aragorn, instead turning away and walking towards the far side of the balcony where he stood silently, ring clutched tightly in a shaking fist. Aragorn allows him to hold on to dignity.

Dignity, and a small, burnished gold ring.

It was rather battered, some of the plating rubbed off, a groove carved into it from all the times its owner tied it to a string and used it to tease cats with. It had a small dent in the frame, warping it slightly, and if you looked closely you could make out a little tooth mark, as though someone had a habit of gnawing at it. It was less valuable heirloom, more solid proof that the ancient king Elros Tar-Minyatur of Numenor, had once been a messy, careless little boy.

A few minutes pass, in which neither of them speak.

"I had nothing of him," Elrond tells him quietly after a while. "All my life, I had nothing of him at all. It had felt wrong, you see, sailing off to Numenor and demanding his possessions from his grieving children. So for five thousand years, I had nothing of him."

"But I never told you of him," Elrond's voice is searching, harsh and confused, trying to find a justification for the gift. "I had never told you of him, and yes, you had known of him from your lessons but I had tried so hard never to speak of him to you lest you, for one second, thought that I only loved you because you were the heir of Elros. You had no reason to know how I loved him, how fiercely I missed him, how I had nothing of him at all."

Elrond sounds almost angry, wrenching the words through gritted teeth like a scolding, his back still turned to Aragorn: "who made you so kind, Estel? Who made you so selfless — that you — that you give me this without ever being told — that you thought of it — who made you, boy?"

Elrond is breathing in deep, clarifying breaths and Aragorn stands there silently. He does not answer any of the fevered questions. It was Elrond, after all, who once told him over a chalkboard: stupid questions did not deserve answers.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Ada," says Aragorn at last, when only a sliver of sun is left behind in the sky. "Not for a moment. That is why I had… I had… that is why I had hoped we could have a clean break. I just didn't want to hurt you."

"I know you didn't," Elrond says, half-smiling as he turns back, composed again yet not entirely unruffled. "But I would rather it hurt in such a way, than it not hurt at all."

"Would you?"

"Of course," Elrond tells him, unconsciously running a finger across the flat, golden surface of the ring he had slid onto his smallest finger. "After all, the most treasured things in the world are only so valued because of how debilitatingly painful it would be to lose them."

Aragorn cannot speak. He has dawdled and delayed, pushed this parting to a cliff-edge, given gifts and made jokes, all the while waiting for a clean break that would never come for those who love like the two of them. He walks forward in a daze, and Elrond takes him into his arms and Aragorn is five again — building a life atop the scaffolding of the heart Elrond offered to him.

"I do not know what divinity made you this way," his father's voice is rough as he repeats his earlier question, but it does not break. "I do not know which of the Valar wielded the knife that carved you out of kindness. But I am glad, Estel, so glad that I know you."

Aragorn stays pressed in that embrace, shaking. He fights a sudden, absurd urge to laugh and roll his eyes, to say don't ask stupid questions, to say who made me kind? oh, I don't know, perhaps the one who loved me so wholly that he beheld a five year old's silly, childish tears, and wept that I shed them at all.

Still, he does not move: he does not want to see Elrond's face, does not want to see his own, not at this moment. Time passes, strains like molasses through linen, slowly and with great reluctance. At last, the king draws away and takes in this final image, the one who raised him standing before his son with an inscrutable expression on his face.

When he was younger, Aragorn used to think it might make it easier for his father to bend with the marred world if he learned how to be as cruel as it was, instead of taking each slap in the face as a surprise. But he understands now that whilst he wasn't looking, the marred world had bent itself to Elrond's gentleness; that it is a strength, an honest one, to be kind when the world not only abides by cruelty but insists upon it.

Aragorn cannot bring himself to turn and leave, wanting to brand Elrond’s face into the back of his eyelids with knife-hot tears. It is anything but a clean break.

“I cannot bring myself to turn,” he admits, the moonlight limning the silver in his hair. “Because when I turn, you'll be gone, and it will be the end of everything. Is this the end of everything now, Ada? Are we done now, you and I?"

Elrond smiles, looking at Aragorn in the same way he had always looked at him, every day since the moment he was put in his arms: eyes bright with unconditional adoration, unashamed pride, and a constant, total faith in him. He shakes his head.

"You and I will never be done,” he says softly; resolute. It is the only oath he ever makes.

[focusonarchitecture]

Day 99 — Florence Cathedral I

Florence Cathedral, formally the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Flower, is one of the most iconic examples of Italian Gothic and early Renaissance architecture. Commenced in 1296 in the Gothic style to a design of Arnolfo di Cambio and structurally completed by 1436 with the dome engineered by Filippo Brunelleschi, the current facade (completed in the 19th century) is neo-Gothic, richly decorated with pink, green, and white marble. Its most distinctive feature – the dome — was engineered by Filippo Brunelleschi, and it revolutionised architectural design in the 15th century.

Brunelleschi’s dome (1420–1436) is a double-shell structure, meaning there's an inner and outer dome, connected by a network of ribs and horizontal rings. A marvel for its time, the dome was built without traditional wooden centering (scaffolding), using an innovative herringbone brick pattern that kept it self-supporting during construction. It became a model for later domes, including Michelangelo’s dome for St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. The dome was the largest in the world at its completion and remains the largest masonry dome ever built.

Photo: View from Giotto's Bell Tower, 1987