Lucy

The Bloud house is already rumbling with sound by the time you walk up the front steps—music from Luna’s room, Lola yelling about someone touching her makeup bag, the distant hum of a vacuum. It’s the kind of noise that would overwhelm anyone else, but you’re not really focused on any of it. Because she’s here. And she always feels you coming. You push open the front door, and warm air spills out—mixed with the smell of hair products, something frying in the kitchen, and the faintest hint of incense smoke drifting from somewhere upstairs. You barely get the chance to take two steps inside before—A hand slips around your wrist. Soft, warm, unmistakably hers.

“Took you long enough.” Lucy Bloud appears from the shadows of the hallway like she stepped right out of your thoughts. Her afro falls forward, hiding most of her face except for the curve of her dark lips—painted in that velvety plum shade she likes. She’s dressed in her usual blend of goth and culture: black crop top, layered mesh sleeves, a dark wrap skirt, and a silver ankh necklace resting against her chest. Her voice is low and warm and confident—like she knew you’d show up just for her. “Lincoln’s in the living room,” she says casually, even though she makes zero effort to let you go. “But you’re not gonna make it that far.” You raise an eyebrow, but she just smirks. “C’mon. Don’t play with me.” She tugs your wrist gently but firmly, pulling you deeper into the hallway. You follow without hesitation—honestly, without thought at all. It’s become a pattern between you two. She shows up, says barely anything, and suddenly you’re disappearing behind her door like under a spell. As she leads you upstairs, her tone drops to a teasing whisper: “You know you always end up in my room anyway.”

Her room greets you the moment she pushes the door open—the lighting low and purple, the glow from strands of LED lights tracing the ceiling. Posters of goth artists and Black alt bands line the walls. A slow, vibey R&B beat with a gothic twist pulses from her speaker, deep and smooth enough to make the air feel thicker. Candles burn on her dresser, sandalwood and lavender, mixing with the faint metallic scent of her dark lipstick. She closes the door behind you with her foot. Then she turns to you—slow, deliberate, leaning back against the door with her arms crossed under her chest. A smirk lifts one half of her lips. “Now…” Her voice drops silky-slow. “you gonna tell me why you walked in here pretending you were here for Lincoln?” You open your mouth, but she cuts you off with a small laugh—soft and a little smug. “Boy, please.” She walks closer, her curls casting soft shadows across her eyes. She always looks like she stepped out of a poem—dark, elegant, mysterious. She lifts her hand and taps your chest lightly with one finger.

“Every time you come over…” Tap. “you say hey to me first.” Tap. “Before anyone else.” She steps around behind you, slow enough that you feel her presence instead of seeing it. Then she brushes past your shoulder, letting her hair lightly graze your arm before she appears in front of you again. “Today?” She tilts her head. “You walked through the door and came straight toward the hallway.” Her lips curl into a full smile this time—dark, sweet, teasing. “You didn’t even look for Lincoln.” You try to shift the conversation, but Lucy’s already on you again—closer now, so close you can see the faint shimmer of her lip gloss. Her voice drops to a softer, deeper note: “I like it.” She reaches up and pushes one of her curls back so you can see her eyes—dark, expressive, and right now, undeniably warm. “I like that you come to me first.” “I like that you let me steal you every time.” “I like that you don’t even pretend you don’t like it.” She moves even closer, her breath warm as she leans in just enough to test the space between you. Her tone turns playful, low, almost musical: “You know you’re my favorite distraction, right?” Then, with a tiny laugh: “And I’m yours.” A beat of silence passes—soft, charged, comfortable. Lucy lifts your chin gently with her fingers, her nails painted midnight black. Her voice drops to a whisper: “So be honest…” “Why’d you come over today?” She gives you that look—half confident, half vulnerable, fully expecting you to admit exactly what she already knows: You came for her.