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frantic-fiction · 10 months ago

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I'll Find My Way Back to You

(Can't find source of pic if it's yours let me know)

Astarion x GN!Reader

Prompt: A century after Tav passes Astarion comes across an artist who is oddly familiar and paints moments that seemed to be pulled straight from Astarion's life.

Thank you to @justporo for letting me use their idea. Go show them some love.

Warnings: Tav's death, brief mention of s*icide, angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 4.6k (Oops kinda went overboard)

Masterlist

“There’s no world I wish to live in without you,”

“My dear Astarion, we will find our way back to each other. This is not the end.”

Over a century has passed—a long, lonely century without Tav by his side. Astarion doesn’t understand how he’s endured, not with the void in his chest that appeared the moment he laid them to rest. The absence of his person, his love, his Tav, has left Astarion once again alone.

For nearly a decade, he found himself trapped in a state of near-catatonia, a prisoner of time within their empty home. He wasted away, the days blending into one another, each marked by a silent ache in his chest—the void left by Tav’s departure. Tears soaked into the earth of the carefully tended grave, adorned with vibrant flowers from Tav’s garden. He often contemplated surrendering to the sun’s embrace, letting its rays turn his existence to ash for a semblance of peace.

He yearned to end the pain, yet he refrained. He made a promise whispered with heavy hearts and painful sobs—a promise that forced them to confront the harsh reality that Tav would always leave first. Instead of embracing the end, Astarion wasted away, a ghost of his former self, yearning for the return of his love. Change arrived when Tav visited him in a dream; the details were blurry, but Tav’s beautiful smile was etched in memory. The sweet words in that dream eluded him, yet upon waking, a faint lightness settled within him. Astarion graced the night with a flicker of energy for the first time since Tav’s passing.

Tav would have wished for him to move on. They would have wanted him to live. The stagnant life he clung to wasn’t what Tav would want for him. So that day, Astarion gathered his essentials into a bag and set forth as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. Only momentarily stopping to bid his love a final, tearful farewell. Since that moment, he hasn’t stopped moving.

Astarion believed Tav would take pride in the life he’s built—the good he’s accomplished over the many years. He traversed all over Faerun, from Waterdeep to Skull Crag, never lingering in one place for too long. He wasn’t the hero Tav was, but he aided towns against monsters, dispatched goblins, and took odd jobs to help however he could. Throughout his travels, he dedicated most of his time to sharing stories of Tav, ensuring their memory lived on. When he first heard the bards’ songs recounting the Hero of Baldur’s Gate, he knew he had succeeded. Now, you can’t sit in a tavern without hearing tales and melodies about Tav.

Every day, he longed for Tav to be by his side. He yearned to feel their soft skin, experience their tender kisses, and sense their warm arms encircling his waist—the echo of their laughter dancing in his ears. He missed every aspect of Tav and would do anything to see them again. Yet, the world ran out of miracles for him. Instead, he learned with time to cope, to come to terms with their absence, and keep them close to his heart.

***

Astarion traverses the dusty cobblestone of Wyrm’s Crossing and finds himself back in the heart of Baldur’s Gate—a city he’s consciously avoided for most of the century. It’s a place drenched in memories from his past life with Cazador, but mostly, the streets seem to be haunted by the presence of Tav.

His return to Baldur’s Gate remains shrouded in mystery. All he can discern is that he awoke one day in Daggerford, gripped by an inexplicable yearning to revisit the city. A compelling force tugging him down the Sword Coast, Astarion initially dismissed it as mere homesickness, scoffing at the notion. Yet, the persistent thought lingered, infesting his mind until he could no longer ignore the instinct to return.

The city remains strikingly unaltered despite the passage of time and the trials it endured. The same piss-stained cobblestone, alleyways cluttered with remnants of urban life, and a diverse array of inhabitants navigating the night. It’s an unsettling constant, especially juxtaposed against the transformation of Astarion’s existence.

Wandering through the back alleys and side streets, Astarion meanders aimlessly. Occasionally, a sight triggers memories, evoking a lump in his throat. The Elfsong Tavern, once familiar, now bears a different name and identity, a formal establishment concealing the echoes of nights spent in Tav’s comforting embrace. Bloomride Park, the graveyard, and the docks—all weave together, painting a vivid tapestry of Tav’s omnipresence.

Amidst the tumult of emotions, Astarion grapples with why he subjected himself to this emotional turmoil. The urge to retreat, to flee Baldur’s Gate before the dawn breaks, lingers within him. Yet, the itch persists, buried deep within his bones, propelling him forward. He silently promises himself the night to wander the city, and by this time tomorrow, he will be on his way to another town for another adventure.

Venturing into a dim, isolated street, Astarion observes a solitary lamplight spilling its soft glow from a store window. Peering through, he discovers a small art studio. Within, a graceful elf seems to dance with a paintbrush, each stroke deliberate yet flowing. Like a harpie song, Astarion is mesmerized and utterly captivated. He watches on silently, observing the elves happily consumed with their work. It gives him a wave of nostalgia, moments of watching Tav as they painted, unaware he was watching from the door. Astarion could almost hear the sweet hums that filled the room between brush strokes.

Then he freezes, gaze snapping to the paintings that adorn the studio, scattered reflections of his life. Images of Karlach, Shadowheart, and all the others grace the space. However, it’s the depictions of himself that seize his breath. Compelled by an unseen force, Astarion walks right into the studio. In a far corner, he sees an intimate portrayal—an embrace that resonates with familiarity.

The bell rings, and you break from your artistic trance. Startled, you look up, and there stands the pale elf in the doorway—the hero of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion—the man who has clouded your dreams for as long as memory serves. Startled, you look up, and there stands a pale elf in the doorway—the hero of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion—the man who has clouded your dreams for as long as memory serves.

The dreams began as mere fragments—white curls, sharp teeth, delicate hands. Gradually, they evolved into more vivid scenes—muffled conversations by a campfire, laughter and gentle shoves, and stolen kisses between bed sheets—private moments of a stranger, a byproduct of an active imagination intertwined with an elven crush. Or at least that was what your mother would say. Now, the subject of those dreams stands before you.

Astarion, surrounded by the art that mirrors his life, fixates on a miniature portrait. The details are hazy, yet he recalls the campfire, the desperation in his gaze, and a significant confession followed by an embrace.

You pick up a fallen brush with a trembling hand, placing it in a water cup. Asterion was just as breathtakingly beautiful as your dream portrayed, but to see him in person has your heart hammering in your chest and your breath quickening with nerves. Wiping paint-covered hands on your smock, you took a deep breath and gathered the courage to approach Astarion.

Staring at the portrait, you utter quietly, “This one’s my favorite. Though I wish I could have captured the others’ images better.”

“Tav.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The person you painted. My partner Tav, they used to paint too,” Astarion’s voice carries the weight of unspoken emotions.

“Oh, yes. They were the leader of your group, if I remember correctly. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Astarion remains silent, the canvas now a source of unbearable memories. He moves through the studio, examining the art up close. It’s weird to have your muse perusing around your gallery. It’s embarrassing to have Astarion see just how many pieces have been dedicated to him. What do you do at this point? Should you follow him, tell him about each piece and the dreams behind them? No, that seems pretentious, so you retreat to the canvas you’ve been working on for the better part of the week.

This piece was different—a symbol rather than a person or scene. Rings of unknown runes fan out in jagged edges, evoking a sense of beauty tinged with profound sadness. It disturbed you to your core, but you needed to paint it. It’s how it always goes. Once a dream pops into your head, whether it’s a scene, a person, or a symbol, it refuses to leave until you’ve laid it on a canvas. Picking up the brush, you dip it back into the red paint and continue to bolden the lines.

“Who are you?” Astarion’s voice is right behind you; you jump, knocking a pot of paint over. Cursing softly, you quickly right the pot, attempting to salvage the spilled paint. Paint isn’t cheap, and in your non-upper-class circumstances, every drop is precious.

“Oh, I’m sorry; I have been very rude,” you offer your name. “I, of course, already know you, Astarion. It’s hard not to come across the tales of the heroes of Baldur’s Gate, but I guess—” Your rambling trails off pathetically as something changes in Astarion. There’s tension in his shoulders, a coldness in his eyes. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you nervously play with a loose thread on the smock.

Astarion scrutinizes you with a piercing gaze, his eyes lingering on your face as if searching for hidden truths. The air becomes taut, charged with an almost palpable intensity. Then, as if propelled by an unseen force, he reacts like a tightly wound rubber band snapping. Reaching out, he harshly pulls you to him, bearing his teeth at you. Your stomach drops, shocked by the aggression.

“Have you been following me? Stalking me?” His voice carries a storm of anger, his grip on your shoulders unyielding, the coldness of his touch akin to ice piercing through the fabric of your being. “Don’t lie to me because I’ve shown one person that fucking scar, and I buried them.”

Your heart races, fear coursing through your veins as you whimper a response, tears welling up in your eyes. “I-I don’t know, I’m sorry,”

“Don’t lie!”

“Please, I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know; I have dreams; I don’t know why, b-but I dream of you,” your voice falters, and your vulnerability is laid bare. “I dream of you, your friends, and places I’ve never been. I’m sorry, I’ll stop, I promise.”

As abruptly as his hands seized you, they vanished, leaving you stumbling to your knees, unable to contain the torrent of tears streaming down your face. Curling in on yourself, you can’t stop the cries of apologies and promises of never picking up a brush again, of burning every last piece in the room.

Astarion looks down at you, his expression shifting from anger to a complex amalgamation of horror and something else—perhaps realization. Stepping away, he leaves you rooted to the spot. Your gaze fixed blankly out the window. Odd and conflicting emotions swirl within you—fear, confusion, longing?—all clashing fiercely. Amidst the tumult, one thought emerges with undeniable clarity—this won’t be the last time you see Astarion.

Astarion’s breaths come in ragged gasps as he runs through the barren streets, escaping the grasp of the haunting memories that threaten to consume him. His thoughts are a raging storm, and he pays no heed to the bewildered faces of those he rudely pushes past. The town of Rivington is a blur as he sprints through it, a desperate escape, picking a direction and refusing to stop until his body aches, halting only when the sun begins its ascent above the horizon.

In his frantic need to run, there was no consideration for shelter from the sun’s relentless rays. Mercifully, he stumbles upon an abandoned cave. Dry, dusty, and shrouded in darkness, it becomes his refuge. In a corner, he sinks slowly against the cool, rough wall to the ground, seeking solace in the obscurity.

Astarion pulls his knee to his chest, pressing his forehead against his crossed arms. Shaking and shivering, a stark contrast to the bitter summer heat enveloping the cave, he clings to his vulnerability. Eyes shut tight, jaw clenched, fingernails dig deep into his arms as if attempting to anchor himself in the reality that threatens to crumble around him.

Desperation claws at him, and he yearns for Tav. The desire to feel Tav’s warm embrace, hands crossing over his chest, pulling him close, torments him. He longs for the soft whispers of love and the gentle press of lips. Astarion can’t navigate this without Tav. He’s a mess, barely holding on, living each agonizing day, acutely aware that the best part of him is gone, and he can do nothing to reclaim it.

The cruelty of encountering such intimate moments from his past life with Tav wounds him deeply. These were moments meant for him and Tav alone. Realizing that a stranger could capture those cherished memories intended for one person alone turns his stomach.

Anger becomes a conduit for his overwhelming emotions, and the terrified look on the artist’s face is etched in his mind, an indelible scar on his conscience. Shame burns within him, a searing reminder of the boundaries he violated. Physically assaulting someone in their own space—what would Tav think of him now?

The artist adds another layer to Astarion’s confusion. The familiarity is uncanny—the excited calf raises, the almost-stumbles afterward, the nervous lip biting, puffed cheeks during deep concentration, and the mindless dancing when no one is watching. Every little thing the artist did mirrored Tav, and with all his memories physically displayed, Asterion finds himself lost in a sea of confusion. Why does this stranger resemble his love so deeply?

The bards’ tales of soulmates and reincarnation, once dismissed as mere children’s stories and fiction, now claw at the edges of Astarion’s consciousness. What if? What if Tav found their way back to him? Weirder things have happened in his long life, and the possibility plants a seed of hope within him.

Yet, he forcefully suppresses that hope. It won’t serve him, not now. Instead, he resolves to learn more. By nightfall, he returns to the city, catching the first boat to Waterdeep. After a day and some change, he stands outside the Wizards’ tower, resentment simmering as he contemplates turning to Gale, his best chance at answers.

A groan escapes Astarion as he hangs his head, and a series of knocks echo on the thick wooden door. “This better be worth it…”

The door swings open on its own into a dimly lit foyer. Astarion follows a familiar path, the cool air and faint scent of ancient tomes embracing him. He ascends the staircase with nostalgia and reluctance, each step echoing the countless times Tav and himself sought knowledge and assistance within these walls.

As he pushes open the study door, a scene unfolds before him. Gale is hunched over a worn scroll, graying hair ruffled, and a small pair of reading glasses set on the tip of his nose. The room is bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, creating an intimate ambiance. Notes adorn the margins, evidence of Gale’s ceaseless quest for understanding.

Gale looks up, a broad, warm smile gracing his features, and Astarion is momentarily transported back to the times when this sage was only a joke he poked fun at across camp. Removing his reading glasses, Gale pushes up from his desk, an air of welcoming familiarity enveloping the room.

“Well, look who the tressym dragged in. How are you, Astarion?”

Astarion stiffens as he is pulled into a spontaneous hug by Gale. The embrace is both unexpected and oddly comforting, a physical manifestation of the genuine camaraderie they’ve shared through the years. Astarion, unaccustomed to such displays of affection, awkwardly pats Gale’s back before gently pulling away.

“I’m afraid I’ve been better.”

Gale’s eyes convey concern and understanding as he gestures for Astarion to sit. The worn chair creaks under the weight of memories and the weightier burden of Astarion’s troubled soul.

“Then sit down, my friend, and tell me how I can help.”

***

Days of tireless research and a network of favors exchanged between magical acquaintances have led them to a glimmer of hope. Though not expansive, the discovery hints at the possibility that souls entwined so tightly may have a magnetic pull toward each other. A pull is so strong that souls can find each other in different lifetimes. Tales have described soulmates experiencing memories from previous lifetimes together, but they were vague at best. The specific remains elusive, shrouded in mystery, yet it’s enough to kindle a spark of hope within Astarion’s lonely heart.

Gale, ever the bore, offers a gentle reminder, “Now, just remember, if you try to force feelings before—”

“I would never!” Astarion’s retort carries a venomous edge, an unspoken warning to watch his following words carefully. Gale raises his hands in defense.

“My point is the brain is a prickly thing. It’s best not to rush anything it’s not ready for.”

“Yes, yes, you have said this five times already. Would you please activate the portal? I have an apology to make.”

Anticipation hums in the air, a palpable energy that courses through Astarion. A fleeting smile graces his lips, and for a moment, the weight of his grief is replaced by a glimmer of life.

Looking at Astarion with a fondness born of shared trials, Gale responds, “Of course, Astarion.”

With a confident shake of his wrist, he activates the magical circle, and the room is bathed in a radiant glow of bright runes, their purple luminescence dancing in the semi-darkness.

Astarion steps toward the portal, his heart pulsating with trepidation and newfound hope. However, before crossing the threshold, he turns around to face Gale, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Gale. I will not forget this.”

“It was my pleasure. Now, I expect to meet this lovely artist sooner rather than later.” Gale’s parting words hang in the air, infused with the hope of rekindling a connection beyond the realms of understanding.

Back in the heart of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion swiftly navigated the bustling streets, an air of anticipation accompanying him. His purpose was clear—to reach your studio and beg for your forgiveness. A brief pause along the way allowed him to acquire a small bundle of daisies, a spontaneous choice fueled by the memory of Tav’s fondness for these delicate blooms.

As Astarion approached the studio, a surge of uncertainty clawed at him. Hesitation gripped his every step, the shadow of fear etched across his features. The fear in your eyes during the last encounter was seared into his memory. Had his previous outburst irreparably damaged any chance of reconciliation? The conflicting forces of his desire to see you again and the instinct to flee wrestled within him. Yet, he pressed forward, forcing himself down the street, and there you stood.

The scene that greeted him was a chaotic masterpiece of colors. Paint adorned your cheeks and arms, a testament to the artistic fervor that consumed you. Your hair, a cascade of untamed strands, framed a face that mirrored both exhaustion and creative passion. Astarion had a sudden urge to brush the strands away and press a soft kiss to your cheek, something he often did with Tav.

Your weariness was palpable—shoulders slumped, eyes half-lidded. Perhaps, he pondered, he should postpone this encounter, allowing you the reprieve of rest. The realization that he might be the last person you wanted to see compelled Astarion to take a step back, an unspoken retreat.

But just as he moved to leave, your eyes jumped up to meet his, you froze mid-stroke, and Astarion couldn’t read your expression. He should go. Why did he think this was a good idea? He’s just about to run when you nod for him to come in. Obliging, Astarion found himself standing awkwardly within the studio; you went back to painting. Your brush danced across the canvas, applying a vibrant shade of blue in deliberate strokes. Astarion’s attempts to break the silence faltered, his words dissolving into the room’s stillness.

“What are you doing here, Astarion?” The steadiness in your voice pierced the calm. You tried to hold on to your anger for the man all week. But upon seeing him standing so lost on the street had your resolve crumbling. You can’t deny the mild excitement that fluttered through your veins upon seeing him again.

His voice, momentarily lost, found its way back. “I-I came here to apologize for last week. My behavior was deplorable, and I wish to make things right.”

A wry amusement flickered in your eyes as you evaluated the bouquet, now slightly worse for wear under his tight grip. “And you believe a bundle of broken daisies would win you my forgiveness?”

Astarion, caught off guard, looked down at the bruised bouquet. “Um…well, I was hoping for roses, but they were fresh out.”

A snort escaped you as you put down your paintbrush and approached him. A tentative touch on his forearm transferred the flowers from his grasp to yours, eliciting a shiver down his spine. The longing to reach out is strong, but Astarion holds still as you retreat.

Intently studying the daisies, you began to divide the bundle into two piles. Astarion watched silently, recognizing echoes of Tav’s essence reflected in your actions. While understanding that you were not Tav, the profound sorrow gripping his heart seemed to ease in your presence.

“Half,” you declared suddenly.

“Pardon?”

“Half of the daisies survived.”

“And where does that leave us?”

With a theatrical flair, you pondered the question, pacing the room. “That, good sir, is the question. What is my forgiveness worth? I did luck out; daisies are my favorite, so you’re a step farther than roses would have gotten you.”

Astarion, grasping the playful undertone, decided to play along. With a hand on his hips and a wicked smirk, he responded, “Well, I am a pretty lucky man. Now, please, I beg, what more can I do to gain your forgiveness?”

You hummed softly, tapping your chin. You keep Astarion in suspense for a moment before you suddenly turn to the man. “How about…I get dressed, you take me out to dinner, and we’ll go from there?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” The agreement hung in the air, a hope for something more lingering.

***

The dinner evolved into an evening stroll, a seamless transition from pleasant chatter to playful banter. It was an unexpected evening, but the time spent with Astarion was so easy, so familiar you didn’t want it to end. Reading about the saviors of Baldur’s Gate was intriguing, and dreaming of a vampiric elf held its allure, but nothing compared to the tangible presence of the real Astarion.

Astarion embodied the epitome of perfection – handsome, intelligent, and endowed with a wit that had you giggling all night. He was the quintessential gentleman, the embodiment of every mother’s hopeful wish for their child.

What started as a single date quickly snowballed into a series of enchanting encounters – one date led to two, then five, until you found yourself drawn into his orbit every week. The pace was exhilarating, and being around Astarion felt like being charged with an electric current. It was not just addictive; it was a whirlwind of happiness, and you couldn’t help but revel in it.

If one indulged in whimsical tales, the idea that Astarion might be your soulmate would have crossed your mind. His ability to read you so intimately sometimes felt like he delved into the depths of your mind.

The dreams persisted, evolving into a kaleidoscope of memories that intertwined your moments with Astarion and a phantom era where someone else shared his company. Astarion, at times, would cast glances at you as you transferred another dream to canvas, an anticipation lingering in his eyes. Despite his attempts, he couldn’t veil the disappointment when the visions resulted in nothing more than another painting adorning the wall.

Then, it occurred on a serene spring day, three years since Astarion first entered your studio. The sun had yet to set, and you found solace curled up with Astarion. Limbs tangled, chests pressed together, hands intertwined – a tableau of intimate connection. His cold nose nestled against the crook of your neck, his white curls playfully tickling your nose.

Behind your closed eyelids, soft images of a forest clearing unfolded – Astarion shirtless, beckoning you towards him. Something clicked, and suddenly, the foreign memories that greeted you each night became a mosaic of your own experiences. The floodgates opened, overwhelming you with a lifetime of moments – kisses beneath the stars, laughter resonating around a campfire, and heart-stopping close calls with death.

Astarion often spoke of Tav, a robust and kind soul who played a pivotal role in shaping him. He wouldn’t be who he is today without them. You now knew a bit better; yes, you had nudged him along the way, but his growth was his own, and you couldn’t be more proud. To think of the years he spent without you, the grief he must have had to push through. If the roles were reversed, you don’t believe you would have been strong enough to keep going.

Startled from his slumber, Astarion found your body descending upon his, your hand meeting his chest with firm slaps. “Stop you, little gremlin.” Groggily, he attempted to restrain you in a tender embrace. He was met with your swift departure from his lap. He heard the patter of your feet retreating from the bed.

“You are a bastard, Astarion!”

Fully alert and by your side instantly, “What did I do, my sweet?”

Worry etched into every crease of his face as he cupped your jaw, looking frantically into your eyes. You intertwined your fingers with his, your other hand reaching out to caress the skin of his hip. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Astarion scrutinized your face, his eyes delving deep into yours. The faintest furrow of his brows betrayed his thoughts. As if following an unspoken script, he pulled you in by the waist, foreheads gently meeting.

Glistening with unshed tears, Astarion whispered, “You remember?” His voice trembled.

“Yes… maybe it’s all still tangled. But yes, I remember Tav – well, I remember us.”

Astarion’s smile widened, his fangs peeking out, and his lips met yours in a heated kiss spinning the two of you around the room. It was a slow dance of lips as if Astarion had all the time in the cosmos to savor this moment. While you could quickly lose yourself in the embrace, you were privy to all his subtle tricks. You turned your face when he attempted to draw you back into the kiss.

“Gods, Astarion, for three years, you knew and never said anything. I’ve painted you for almost as long as I could wield a brush, and for three years, you knew why!” Another slap graced his chest, and tears trickled down your cheeks, eagerly wiped away by his thumbs.

“I wanted to, my love. The moment I realized I wanted to. But this couldn’t be rushed; you can’t rush the mind.”

“Star, I’m so sorry I took so long,”

“No, stop; you took as long as you needed to return to me.” His forehead rests against yours once more, and the room stands still for a moment. “What matters is you’re here, in my arms, and I’m not letting go anytime soon.”

A choked sob mingled with a chuckle, and you nuzzled closer into Astarion, hiding your face into his neck. “Gods, I love you, Astarion.”

“And I love you.”

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Okay loves, let me know what you think. I've been working on this for over a week and still find some sections I'm not all that happy with, but I want to move on to other pieces. Any and every interaction makes my day.

Taglist: heartfully10, ayselluna

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #bg3 #reader insert #astarion imagine #bg3 astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion #fanfic #writing #soulmates #soulmate au #reincarnation #frantic fiction

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yoonguurt · 5 months ago

Text

Summary: Spring brings with it the need for a change. You're in a writing rut and that just can't happen right now. You decided to spend a few months with your aunt at her massive garden estate. for the first time in 10 years. Dreams of a boy you don't remember become a nightly thing. Who is this boy?

Pairing: Hongjoong x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, smut, fantasy

AU/Trope: long lost friends to lovers, a twist on The Secret Garden

Word count: 12,295

Warnings: parental death, themes of curses, talks of insanity, mentions of kidnapping, a horrible old woman, threats. I think that's all but it's also 2 am so brain a little fuzzy. NSFW warnings under the cut

A/N: This is for the Language of Flowers event for @cultofdionysusnet I really did put everything I have into this fic. It has taken me a while and I will probably revisit this later since I didn't get everything I wanted in here. Thank you to @kwanisms for making the title banner and reading bits and pieces of this. @anyamaris @pyeonghongrie @justhere4kpop @stardragongalaxy also helped me with reading some of this. Thank you guys for putting up with the screenshots and eye emojis.

Smut warnings: unprotected sex (do not do, I will hunt you down), fingering, dry humping, so much kissing, Hongjoong is king of aftercare, virgin Hongjoong, there's no power dynamic here, they’re just soft

Walking into the courtyard of your aunt’s estate was like walking back into a long lost memory. You spent many summers here as a child and while it had been some of the best times of your life, as you had gotten older, the trips stopped. Once you began to transcend into your older teen years, the allure of the massive mansion and grounds lost its appeal. You stopped coming when you were 15. You remember that there was a specific reason why, you just couldn’t remember what that reason was.

You closed the large iron gate behind you, listening as it made a loud creak. The gate was covered in rust, which was unusual since your aunt was a very meticulous woman. She had to have everything in perfect condition at all times. At least, that was how she was the last time you had seen her 10 years ago. From the phone call you shared, she seemed to still be the same woman she had always been. She may be older, but she still has the same fiery spirit she’s always had. You guess that was where you got it from.

In all honesty, you have never been overly close with your aunt. You loved her, sure, but she was kind of a mean woman. She was quite a few years younger than your father, 11 to be exact, so she wasn’t elderly when you were a child. She seemed to be a little miserable your entire life, though you were too young to realize that at the time. Thinking back on it now, you realized that your aunt had any possession she could ever want, but you had never seen her have a companion of any sort. No women from the nearby town ever came to visit, and you had never seen a man, other than Steven the gardener, ever pass through the gates. You knew that no one needed anyone of the opposite sex to make their lives better, but you also knew that she must live a lonely life.

The real reason you fell in love with coming to stay the summers was the grounds. The estate was massive. Many times you had spent all day wandering around the grounds, just exploring everything your heart yearned for. You knew you had a favorite spot when you were younger, but its location was another thing slipping your mind. You’d have to make a mental note to try and find your special spot.

The old door is silent as you open in and step inside. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed. A quick glance around the foyer lets you know that not much inside the house has changed either. There are still the same two blue and white flowered vases standing on either side of the door, holding the same kind of lilies they had always held. The small table that held the rotary phone was still in the same place at the base of the stairs, rotary phone still sat atop. Even the curtains were the same. A light sage in color, small embroidered flowers running down the fabric.

Flowers were always a large part of the decor of your aunt’s home. Each guest room in the house was themed with a different flower. There were numerous gardens spread throughout the grounds, some with mixed plants and some that only grew a particular plant. You knew flowers were really important to your aunt, though every time your curious child tendencies come forward, she would only give a stiff smile and tell you that flowers were beautiful and a woman of her standing deserved to have beauty all around her. Looking back, you can see how forced her smile had been.

“Aunt Helen!” Your voice rang throughout the empty home, surprising even yourself at just how loud your voice carried. You had been told to come right in and make yourself at home, but it didn’t feel right. Not only had you not been here in ten years after abruptly deciding that you didn’t want to return for the summer of your 16th year, but you had also called her out of nowhere to ask if you could spend some time there. Her side of the line had been silent for a few moments before she told you that there shouldn’t be an issue with you coming, but it still felt like she wasn’t sure about her decision.

You hear footsteps coming from the top of the stairs and you turn to face the stairway with a smile. Helen comes around the corner, her face showing no emotion as she looks down at you. “Y/N. How nice to see you, dear.” Her voice is pleasant enough, though her face is still blank. You guess you must have hurt her by your sudden refusal to come back during your teen years, and then surprised her with an equally sudden request to return. You try to shake the thought from your head, making sure to keep your smile. “Thank you so much for letting me spend the next few months here. I know it was a sudden request, but I think it will really do me some good.”

The last year of your life had been hectic to say the least. You moved from your home on the outskirts of the city to the city proper to be closer to publishers. You had always wanted to be a writer. You could remember always having notebooks full of stories as a child. You had hid them away in any room you could find. By the time you turned 16, you had probably filled 50 notebooks. Like many children, the stories were fantastical and some were nonsense, but it was the process of writing that you enjoyed. Bringing whatever idea that had popped into your head to life was an addiction to you.

Helen’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts, making you focus your attention back on the aging lady who was now making her way down the stairs. “It’s no problem at all, dear. There’s no one here but me and Steven, so there’s plenty of room.” Her feet stop in front of you as she lifts her arms toward you for a hug. You quickly drop your bags, scrambling to return her gesture as quickly as you can. The hug is an awkward one. Arms are around middles, but there is a gap between bodies. To anyone looking from a distance, it would seem as if you two don’t even know each other. But, at this time in your life, that’s essentially true. The hug breaks apart almost as soon as it begins, both of you taking a step back to put some distance between you.

“I’m sure you’ve had a long trip. Go ahead and choose your room and get settled. Though, I’m sure you’ll choose the gardenia room. It always was your favorite.” A smile creeps to your lips at the mention of your childhood choice of room. She was right about it. That room had been your favorite. “Do you still have the gardenia garden, Aunt Helen?” The look on her face takes you aback a little. For a split second, she looks angry. She quickly changes her expression to one of confusion. “Oh dear, there’s never been a garden dedicated solely to gardenias. However, there are some planted in one of the rose gardens. Maybe that is what you’re thinking of.” It’s your turn to be confused. You distinctly remember playing in a garden full of nothing but gardenias.

You don’t want to argue, there is a chance that you created that memory as one of your stories, so you give her a nod as you tell her that you’re going to go get settled. You grab your bags, though you didn’t bring many, the three that you do have are large and filled to the brim. Making your way up the stairs is a little tricky since there are 20 of them in total, but you manage. Turning left at the top of the stairs, you pick up your pace a little, excited to get to your room. It sits at the end of the hall on the right side. You take a deep breath as you set your bags down to open the door, making sure to open it slowly so you get the wave of nostalgia that you know will come with seeing the room for the first time in years.

Seeing the room is like a breath of fresh air. It feels like coming home after a long day of work, knowing that relaxation and happiness are waiting for you. It almost makes you want to cry. You leave your bags at the door for a moment, you just need to feel the room first. There are fresh gardenias in a small, white vase on the bedside table. That has always been one of your favorite smells and it makes your heart flutter when it hits your nose. The king size bed has the same white and green bed set it’s always had. The handmade quilt, certainly not made by your aunt, is the color of grass and has gardenias sewn into the fabric. You run your hand over the top of the quilt, memories of spending nights completely enveloped in the warmth of the fabric as you write in one of the many notebooks you always brought with you.

There’s an oak writing table that stands in front of the large bay window that overlooks an area that looks different than the rest of the estate. It looks more run down, like it hadn’t been taken care of in years. You could have sworn that it was once a beautiful garden that you had spent much of your time in. It hits you that you seem to remember that patch of land being your favorite spot, but it doesn’t seem like that is true.

You turn your attention to the wallpaper. It gives a little more color to the room. The background of the paper is a soft yellow while images of gardenia bushes cover the rest. All perfectly spaced out, just like you know Helen had wanted. You finally decided to grab your bags and start to put your things away, a little more pep in your step. You’re more than excited to be back in this room, where it seems like all of your story ideas seemed to have formed. You feel as if you had the greatest idea for a story while staying here over those summers, but it’s just another thing you can’t remember. Perhaps it will come back with time. You certainly need it to come back.

After all of your things are put away, you make your way back down the stairs to familiarize yourself with the house again. You’re sure that it will all come flooding back, but you’d rather get the learning process over now to prevent any future issues. The sitting room is off to the left of the stairs, through a doorway, the dining room is off to the right. Deciding to look through the left side of the house first, you make your way into the sitting room. The same old couches and chairs adorn the room, though they still look like they’ve never been used. You guess that there’s a chance that they haven’t. The fireplace stands tall and clean, another thing you’re sure Helen has never used. There are multiple tables placed around the room, all made with dark, polished wood.

To the left there’s another doorway, this one leading into the sunroom. Wicker chairs are placed a few feet from each other, a small table in between each chair. You remember spending your time here when the rain prevented you from your outdoor adventures. You’d sit on the floor since the chairs were always uncomfortable, writing your heart out. You sure wish you could find where those notebooks had gone. The back half of the first floor is Steven’s quarters. He’s always been a nice man, but he keeps to himself and you respect that.

Making your way back through the sitting room, you take a second to look out of the small window that sits on the front of the house. Gardens fill your field of view. More gardens than you ever thought a person could have. You feel certain that Helen has a garden for every flower she could possibly grow.

The dining room houses a table long enough to sit around 14 people, though you know nowhere near that many people have even been in the house. Like everything else, it’s a dark, polished wood. Helen is nothing but consistent in her design choices. The kitchen sits behind a set of double doors, which are painted a pristine white, no doubt kept clean by the lack of traffic. Helen has to have a maid that comes and cleans at some point, there’s no way she’d ever stoop so low as to clean herself. You already know what the kitchen will look like, large stoves and ovens that could cook meals for an obscene amount of people. Your watch tells you that it will be dark soon so you put off your plan of going out to the gardens until tomorrow.

Helen is nowhere to be seen, though you aren’t surprised. She’s always been a mysterious woman, keeping to herself much like Steven. A rumbling from your stomach lets you know that you should probably eat, which means that you have to actually venture into the kitchen. Opening the doors, you’re surprised to find a portly woman rummaging through some pans. “Oh. I didn’t realize someone was in here. Usually Steven is the only staff that stays here at the mansion.” Your voice seems to startle the woman, causing her to hit her head on the cabinet she was looking in. She lets out a groan as she rubs the back of her head. “Fuck! Shit! Damn! I am so sorry!” You aren’t sure if you mean to curse, but it happens anyway. The lady turns to face you, a bright smile on her face. “It’s ok, really. I probably would have done that even if you hadn’t startled me.” The giggle she lets out after speaking is infectious, making you giggle along with her. “I’m Julia.” You take her outstretched hand and give it a firm shake. “I’m Y/N. Helen is my aunt.”

You watch as Julia’s expression sours and you’re half expecting it to bounce back, but it doesn’t. “Didn’t know that mean, old broad had family.” She immediately seems to realize what she said since her eyes go wide and she looks a little panicked. “Oh, shoot! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that. Ms. Helen is lovely.” Her nervous giggle and her flustered state makes you smile. “Hey, you’re the one that works here and spends more time here than I do. Your opinion of her is probably more accurate than mine. I haven’t seen her since I was 15.” She heaves a sigh of relief at your blatant uncaring attitude towards her unkind words about your aunt. “Whew. Thought I really made a mess of things there. Can I get you something to eat?” You give her a shake of your head, telling her that you were just refamiliarizing yourself with the house before you head up to your room. She gives you a little nod and a smile, telling you that she’ll be heading home soon, but she’ll be back the next morning for breakfast.

The bed in the gardenia room looks like heaven as you walk through the door. Maybe the trip hit you harder than you expected or maybe it’s just being back here, but your eyes are suddenly heavy and all you want is to sleep. No alarm, no designated time to wake up, just sleep as long as your body needs. You take your time changing into your pajamas and washing your face and brushing your teeth before climbing between the sheets and stretching out. It hits you that you haven’t let your mother know that you arrived safely, so you pull out your phone to type out a quick text. Annoyance comes over you as you look at the screen. No service, of course. You should have known, you are in the middle of nowhere after all. You make the decision to call her from Helen’s phone tomorrow. You wiggle a little, making yourself comfortable and set your phone back on the bedside table, not even bothering to charge it. Flicking the lamp off, you quickly fall into a sleep filled with dreams of a boy with a dazzling smile.

You wake up feeling more rested than you have felt in years. The sun is already high in the sky when you crawl out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom. You settle for a simple sundress to wear for the day, grabbing a cardigan just in case you get a chill. Today, you explore the gardens. Breakfast is being put away when you make your way into the dining room. Luckily, Julia spots you and greets you with a smile and a wave. “Morning, sunshine. I saved you a plate. I put it in the microwave for you.” You release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your stomach growling at the mention of food. You follow her into the kitchen, reaching into the microwave to grab the plate of blueberry pancakes and bacon and involuntarily let out a moan. “These are my favorite. How did you know?” Julia gives you a sly smile. “A certain gardener told me.” Steven? There’s no way he remembered that. You haven’t seen him in years. The look on your face must give your thoughts away. “That man remembers everything. It’s insane, really. So, what are your plans for the day?”

The sundress was a great choice. The weather is wonderful. It’s not too hot, not too cold, the perfect balance fornthe spring. There’s a light breeze blowing, enough to keep you cool, but not make you cold. It’s the perfect day for exploring. You stand by the steps, looking around trying to figure out where to go first. After some thought, you decided to start with the daisy garden. It took some time for you to orient yourself, but you managed more quickly than you thought you would, though most of the layout seemed like muscle memory to you.

The daisies were off to the left of the grounds, tall hedges sounding the garden. That was something universal with the gardens. Every garden had hedges all the way around it, Helen’s way of making sure that to be able to fully see the garden, you had to actually enter the garden. Every hedge was neatly trimmed, Steven’s doing you’re sure. Taking your time, you slowly maneuvered your way through the garden. Daisies of every color surrounded you, some you were sure were some sort of hybrid or something. Helen seemed to have flowers in colors you had never seen before. There was a patch of what looked like a peach color, and it honestly took your breath away.

In the center of the garden, there was a stone bench that gave a good view of the hedge lion that stood in front of you. You weren’t sure you’d ever not be amazed by Steven’s gardening skills. Every garden seemed to be like it came right out of a fairy tale. The thought of why Helen never opened the grounds to onlookers crossed your mind as you stared at the beauty of the daisy garden, but you quickly dismissed it. Helen was a selfish woman, you wouldn’t dream of denying that. There was no way she would share the possession most dear to her with anyone that she wasn’t related to. You also weren’t sure anyone would come. Your aunt had a bit of a reputation for being a rude woman.

A memory of going to town on your last summer here came to the forefront of your mind. Helen had taken you to town with her for some reason or another. She rarely made trips into town so you had been excited for the journey. Everyone seemed to move out of the way as Helen walked by. At the time, you hadn’t thought much of it, assuming that they were just being polite. Thinking back on it now, it seemed like they had been afraid of her. It was like they were living in fear of even being perceived by her.

You had heard them whispering, and if Helen had heard she hadn’t let on. You hadn’t been able to make out much of what they had been saying, mostly just ‘witch’ and ‘old Mrs. Kim.’ That brought back another memory. On your rare trips into town, you had heard old Mrs. Kim mentioned numerous times. Mostly when mothers were disciplining their children for being out late. “I told you to be back here by dusk! Do you want me to end up like old Mrs. Kim?” You hadn’t been, and still weren’t, sure what that meant. Other times, it had been when two women were talking, usually one insinuating that the other was crazy. “You’re acting like old Mrs. Kim, you need to get your head on straight.” You made a mental note to ask Helen who Mrs. Kim had been.

The sun was starting to be a bit much for you, though it wasn’t unbearably hot, you were starting to get a bit uncomfortable. Heaving yourself off of the bench, you made your way back through the garden, still taking your time. The entrance to the garden gave you another flash of memory. A vision of you running as fast as you could, white dress flowing with each step you made. You couldn’t have been more than 9. There was a smile on your face, and it made you smile just seeing the memory. Past you ran towards the run down part of the grounds, but the memory faded as you reached your destination. You shook your head as the image of yourself disappeared, your feet automatically carrying you back to the house. You’d make it to investigate the dilapidated garden. Eventually.

Climbing the stairs to the front porch, the urge to sit in one of the rocking chairs hit you. You smiled to yourself before making your way inside and to the kitchen. You were sure Julia must have made some tea or lemonade, maybe both. Pushing the doors to the kitchen open, the smell of food invaded your nostrils and you gave a pleased hum. “You took longer than I thought you would. It's been about 3 hours.” That explains the sun. You gave her a toothy grin as you made your way to the fridge. “Any chance you have tea or lemonade in here?” The woman gave you a smirk before she spoke. “Both.” You knew it.

Planting yourself in one of the rocking chairs, you sipped your drink. The mix of tea and lemonade was as refreshing and you had hoped. Your thoughts wandered without control. Who had you been running to? Your mind drifted back to the dream you had the night before. The boy with the dazzling smile. Who was he? He seemed so familiar to you, but you couldn't quite place where you knew him from. Maybe he had been a playmate from town. But then again, that didn't make any sense. You were barely in town as a child and even when you were, you never spoke to anyone.

The creaking of the door brought you out of your thoughts. You turned, expecting Julia to walk through, perhaps taking a small break while the food was in the oven. Instead, Steven's form greeted you. “Steven! It's been a long time, how have you been?” Your voice seemed to startle the man since his head whipped in your direction, eyes a little wide. He relaxed once he realized that you were the one speaking. “It's good to see you again, Miss Y/N.” Your face scrunched at the title. He had always called you that and you had always hated it.

“I've told you a thousand times, just call me Y/N. Miss Y/N makes me feel old and like you're below me or something. Helen may like that, but I'm not Helen.” Steven gave you a soft smile as he made his way to sit in the chair to your left. “No can do, Miss Y/N. I'm a gentleman with manners.” The statement made you laugh and give him a playful swat on the arm. “The most gentleman to ever gentleman, Steven.”

The two of you sat in silence for a while, enjoying each other's presence. Steven had never been the most talkative, but he had always been comforting. He listened to your childish ramblings all those years ago, nodding his head and gasping when you said something dramatic. He was a friend to you and you loved him for that.

It was Steven who finally broke the silence, surprisingly. “It sure has been quite lonely without having your visits, Miss Y/N. Glad to have you back. The gardens need you.” You gave him a bright smile, though you were sure that the gardens were thriving in his perfectly capable hands. “Steven, these gardens need no one but you. They're only this beautiful because of the time and care you put into them.” The look on his face was a little somber as he spoke again. “I appreciate it, Miss Y/N, but you and your heart are more needed than you realize. But you will remember in time.” With that, he stood and walked off into the grounds, leaving you rather confused.

The sun was starting to set by the time you went back into the house. Your stomach was starting to growl, and you were sure dinner was close to being ready, if it wasn't already finished. Helen was descending the stairs as you made your way through the front door. “Dear, dinner is ready and you look a bit of a mess.” She glanced down at your hands and legs, which prompted you to look as well. You did have a bit of dirt on your skin. “Go wash up before you join me.”

Helen had always been this way, a bit rude. You flashed her a tight smile, nodding as you made your way to your room. Stepping through the door of your special sanctuary, you heaved a sigh of relief. The room just felt lighter than the rest of the house. You made quick work of undressing and showering, a bit eager to get food into your body. Once you were bathed and dressed, you stepped out into the hall, not noticing the notebook sitting on your bedside table.

Dinner passed slowly. There wasn't much conversation, though the food was amazing. Julia had made roast and potatoes with a side salad, and you were sure you had never tasted a roast so tender and full of flavor. Voices from the kitchen could barely be heard, Julia and Steven no doubt. You wished you could retreat through the doors and eat with them, their company would be much more welcome than Helen’s. She had finished her food already, but had always been adamant that everyone be finished before anyone left the table.

“Dear.” Her voice caused you to meet her gaze, which was hardened. “While I am pleased to have you back, I must ask why the sudden wish to return.” You knew this would come up eventually. You took a deep breath, thinking through your words carefully. “I needed a break from city life. I have hit a wall with my writing. Being here always gave me new and wonderful ideas. I thought it might help.” Your aunt gave you a curt nod, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin even though she hadn't eaten anything. “Well, if you're done, I'll retire to my room now.” The sliding of her chair filled the quiet room as she turned and made her way to the stairs.

The bed was comfortable as you fell onto it. You weren't particularly tired, but it felt nice to lay down. Steven’s words from earlier swirled through your head. He obviously knew something you didn't, but you also knew that trying to pry would get you nowhere. Out of habit, you turned to grab your phone, mentally cursing yourself when you remembered you had no service and you had forgotten to call your mother. Your attention was immediately diverted to the notebook sitting neatly by your phone, puzzling you.

You hadn't taken a notebook out of your bag, that you knew for certain. Your hand changed direction to reach for the notebook. Shuffling down under your blanket, you brought the book in front you, flipping through the pages. You stopped at a page that was dated just after your 9th birthday.

The gardens here are so cool. There's so many of them. It'll take me weeks to go through them all.

You chuckled at the thoughts of your past self and flipped a few more pages. This entry was set a few days later.

I found a new garden! I was exploring around the old, gross part of the grounds and I looked through some vines and found it. Aunt Helen called me back before I could get a good look, but I'm gonna go back tomorrow.

This gave you pause. You didn't remember ever exploring the old part of the grounds. Helen had always told you to stay away from that part of the estate, stating it was dangerous. Deciding to read the next entry, you quickly flipped to the next page.

The new garden is so pretty! It's already my favorite. It has some of every flower and it's huge. And there's a house in there! I didn't see anyone, but maybe tomorrow.

This had to be some of your childhood stories. There was no way that there was another house on the property. With a sigh, you set the book back on the table and clicked your light off. Giving your pillow a fluff, you laid down and drifted into a dream.

“Hongjoong that wasn't funny!” The young boy stood in front of you holding his belly and laughing. “You should have seen your face!” He flailed his arms around and made an exaggerated scared face while you pouted. “You shouldn't scare me like that. It's not nice.” One look at your face let him know that he had really messed up, you looked like you were about to cry. “I'm sorry Y/N. I didn't mean to make you sad. I never want to make you sad.” You perked up after his apology, telling him that it was ok and reaching for his hand. He took your hand in his and you both ran off into the garden.

You awoke with a startle, a little disoriented. The dream was still fresh on your mind, and it left so many questions. Was that the garden you had written about in the notebook? Why did the dream seem so real? It had been like a distant memory. And who the fuck was Hongjoong? Your immediate reaction was to grab the notebook again and try to search for the name, but a knock on the bedroom door made you put that off. “Y/N dear, I’m going into town today and I would like for you to join me. Do hurry and get ready, please. I’d rather not have to wait much longer.”

The ride to town with Helen was silent, just as it always had been. Why she wanted you to join was beyond you, but you could use the time to go over your thoughts. Despite being confused, you couldn’t help but feel a tinge of sadness at having woken up from your dream. The boy, Hongjoong it seemed, had already created a home in your mind. He seemed so familiar, like an old friend. But you were sure you had never met him. So, why was he invading your dreams? And why did you have such a vivid picture of this new garden? Was it something your mind had conjured on its own? It had to be. There had never been a garden in the dilapidated part of the grounds, and there certainly had never been another house.

The abrupt stop of the car brought you out of your deep thoughts. Swiveling your head, you noticed that Helen had parked at the town market. It was a small building for a small town, nothing fancy, but it had all the essentials. The market was set in a shopping center of sorts, again just a small little gathering of buildings. There was a clothing store, a barbershop and the library all huddled around one parking lot. An idea sprung to the forefront of your mind. “Aunt Helen, I think I’d like to visit the library, if that’s ok. I could use a good book to read.” You aren’t entirely sure why you decided to lie to your aunt, something just told you that you probably shouldn’t tell her your actual plans. Helen heaved a heavy sigh from the driver’s seat. “I was hoping you would actually help me, but do as you wish, dear.” Turning your head and rolling your eyes, you stepped out of the car and made your way to the library doors.

The library was like any other library, you weren’t really sure why you expected anything else. Like everything in the town, it was small, but it seemed to be bigger than it looked from the outside. Rows of bookshelves spanned down each side of the building and behind the librarian’s desk. Stepping forward, you stopped at the desk where an older lady with thin glasses and a tight bun looked up at you. You held in a giggle at the stereotypical librarian look. “Good afternoon, how can I help you?” She had a friendly smile, a genuine smile rather than the customer service smile many people wore when they were working. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Does this library have newspaper archives?”

Surprisingly, the library had a basement. It was a bit drafty, letting the cool, spring air run through the room. It obviously wasn’t used much, boxes stacked up in one corner. The librarian led you to a single computer that sat on a desk in the very back of the basement. “Sorry that you have to come all the way down here for the archives.” She gave you a kind, somewhat sad smile. “Pretty much everything has transferred to tablets or whatever new fangled technology the kids are using these days. But the newspaper archives haven’t been switched over yet, they’re still on this computer, aside from much older ones that are still on floppy disks.” You gave her a nod of your head with a reassurance that this was fine. “What year are you looking for, sweetie?” It took a moment for you to answer. “I don’t know.”

The blinking cursor on the screen was a bit daunting. The kind librarian had been patient with you, letting you know that it was ok to not know a year and that a name could be used as well. All you had to do was type it into the search bar. If the name couldn't be found, always check the floppies. You didn't think you'd have to go back that far. Were you crazy? You didn't even have a full name. Just Hongjoong. There had to be more than just one Hongjoong, how would you know what you were looking for? Pushing the doubts aside, you typed in Hongjoong's name and pressed enter.

Unlike what you expected, only a couple of articles popped up. The headlines were vastly different from each other, and you were sure the two couldn't be related. After looking over the words for a moment, you chose to click on the first link.

Father takes son and runs.

Kim Jae-seok and Kim Hongjoong have been missing for 3 weeks at this point. While it was first suspected that the father and son had had an unfortunate accident, the running theory now is that Jae-seok has kidnapped his son and left his wife, Kim Eunbi. Mrs. Kim has adamantly argued against this theory, blaming a local woman for the disappearances, but there is no evidence at this time to substantiate her claims.

You stared at the screen with a baffled expression. At the bottom of the article there was a picture of a young boy and an older man, both wearing giant grins. The boy sat on the man’s shoulders, arms wrapped around the man’s forehead. The caption at the bottom of the picture gave the pair’s names. Kim Jae-seok and Kim Hongjoong. The article was dated around the time you would have been 9, and the boy looked to be around your age. He was also the Hongjoong from your dream.

It took you a few minutes to gather the gumption to click on the next article. After a few deep breaths, you moved the mouse, ready for what came next.

Mother of missing boy ostracized: grief or insanity?

2 years after the disappearance of her son and husband, Kim Eunbi has been shunned by the community. She has stuck to her initial claims that a local woman is responsible for the disappearances. Her claims that the owner of the large garden estate has her family hidden away have remained consistent throughout the investigation. Searches were done, but no trace of Kim Jae-seok and Kim Hongjoong were found. The woman is quoted saying “I feel for the poor woman, losing her family, but I certainly have nothing to do with her misfortune.” At this time, the case has been cold. It is still thought that Jae-seok had kidnapped their son.

As you read the words, your mind swirled. Mrs. Kim seemed to believe that Helen had something to do with the disappearances. But to your knowledge, Helen hadn't really spoken to anyone from town. Her visits were always quick, with as little interaction as possible. Looking at you watch let you know that you didn't have much time left before your aunt was done with her errands. On a whim, you erased Hongjoong's name from the search bar, typing in his mother's name instead.

The same articles popped up, only there was one thing added. An obituary. Your heart panged as you read it. She died without knowing what became of her husband and son. You quickly closed out of the tab, rushing back upstairs, thanking the librarian again on your way out. Helen was just getting back to her car as you stepped through the library doors.

You helped her put her groceries into her car, silent the entire time. You definitely had some things to think about. There was no way your hermit of an aunt could have anything to do with the case of the missing men. Mrs. Kim had to have had some sort of mental break due to her grief. Once the bags were neatly placed in the trunk, you took your place in the passenger seat once more.

“Where's your book, dear?” Helen was quick to notice that you came back from the library empty handed and you quickly came up with a believable excuse. “Nothing really interested me. I didn't want to keep you waiting.” That seemed to satisfy her, giving you a nod and a hum. Your thoughts drifted again. Sure Helen was rude, but she wasn't dangerous. Was she?

Steven came to help bring the groceries inside, Julia following soon after. With their blessing, you decided to tour another garden. Maybe that would help you clear your head. You started walking, not really having a particular garden in mind, stopping at the first one you came to. Camillas. Though the camilla garden was one of the smaller gardens, it was still large.

Rather than hedges surrounding it, there was a tall fence, dark wood of course. Helen did have a theme after all. Despite your thoughts, you tried to pay attention to the beauty surrounding you. Once again, there were flowers of every color. How Helen managed to find so many colors baffled you, but you guessed that when you had that much money, things were more possible for you.

At the center of the garden stood another statue. Every garden had one, or some sort of hedge animal, if you remembered correctly. This particular statue was of a man with a young boy peeking from behind the man's leg. The base of the statue had no plaque, but was surrounded by yellow camillas. The man's face was rather somber looking, which was odd for such a beautiful garden.

Helen watched you from the window, a scowl on her face. You were hiding something and she could tell. She could always tell. Except when it came to her oaf of a gardener. She had never been able to get a good read on the man, despite years of experience and practice. She would have done away with Steven if she were able, but she knew the deal and she couldn't go against that. She didn't know what or how, but she knew something had to be done about your nosey tendencies.

You sat amongst the camillas until the sun began to set and a chill started biting at your skin. You still hadn't made sense of the information you had found in the library. Nothing made sense. You wanted to ask someone if they had heard of Hongjoong and his father, but Helen wasn't an option. You doubt Julia knew anything, which only left Steven. Even if he knew anything, you doubted he would say. He'd been working for your aunt for years, he had a loyalty to her.

“Hey mom. Sorry for not calling sooner. My phone has no service here and it kept slipping my mind.” Your mother’s voice was pleasant as she told you that it was ok. She was sure Helen would have called if you had never arrived. A thought passed through your mind and you considering asking your mother if she knew anything about the Kims. Your voice made the decision for you. “Mom, do you know anything about a missing boy and his father?” Silence. It felt like 5 minutes of silence before your mother spoke again.

“Jae-seok was a friend of your father's. They had gone to school together and had been close ever since. Your dad had always joked about him becoming his brother in law one day.” Your mother left out a breathy chuckle and you kept your attention steady, wanting to know more.

“When Jae-Seok met Eunbi, the jokes stopped. It was clear that the two of them were meant to be together. They had been so in love. It didn't take long for them to marry, your father was the best man. After Hongjoong was born, Helen gave Jae-Seok the job as her gardener. He made those gardens what they are.”

You knew that Jae-Seok had been the gardener, but just how close he was to your family was new information. Your mother continued, giving you everything you knew.

“When Jae-Seok left with Hongjoong, both Eunbi and your father had been insistent that there was no way Jae-Seok would do that. He loved his life and he worshiped Eunbi and treated her like a queen. Your father searched for him as much as he could, but after a while he had to give up. The disappearances were the reason we moved. He just couldn't handle staying in a town with so many memories.”

You didn't know what to say. Your head was spinning a little. You had gotten so much information in such a short period of time. Despite all of the thinking you had done today, you still had more to do. You thanked your mother and talked a bit more before you said your goodbyes. Deciding that you weren't particularly hungry, you let Helen know that you would be skipping dinner. The woman looked far from pleased, but you paid her no mind. You were also unaware of the man standing not too far off with a smile on his face.

Laying on your bed, you felt exhausted. You hadn’t really done anything extensive, but your mind hadn't stopped running in circles since your trip to the library. You went through the facts one more time.

1. You had dreams and journal entries about a boy named Hongjoong.

2. Your father knew the boy's father.

3. Your aunt had been accused of being involved.

4. Hongjoong was missing.

Turning to your bedside table, you reached to grab the journal you had found the night before. You paused. There was another journal sitting on top. Where were these coming from? A knock on your door took your attention away from the journals. Giving a deep sigh, you prepared yourself to face Helen.

Opening the door, you were a little surprised to find Steven. “Thought you should probably eat.” He extended his arm, a plate of the dinner Julia had made in his hand. You couldn't help but smile. Steven was a really nice guy. As you took the plate, you gathered enough courage to ask him a question. “Steven, do you remember me ever mentioning a boy named Hongjoong when I was a child?”

The man stiffed a little before relaxing, as if he was trying to hide his reaction. “I'm sure I can't say, Miss Y/N.” Not the answer you were expecting. Steven remembered everything. “It's getting to be a little past my bedtime. Gotta be up early. You should do some reading, Miss Y/N. Goodnight.”

His mentioning reading struck you as a little odd. He had seen you come back from town, he had to have known you hadn't brought a book back and there weren't any books in your room. Sure, he could have assumed you had brought some with you. That was the most logical explanation, but something was still bothering you.

Shrugging the odd conversation off, you took your food to your bed, planning to nibble on it as you read the journals. You chose the new one, flipping through the pages. Your browsing stop and a page that was dated when you would have been 13.

“Hongjoong and I read today, it was pretty relaxing. I like that I can have someone that doesn't feel the need to always fill the silence. Sometimes that's just what I need, to be in someone's presence but still enjoy the quiet. We did talk a little, though. He's such a great listener. He did get a little sad when I asked him to come look at the gardens with me tomorrow. He said something about not being able to leave. I'm not sure what he meant. I'll try again tomorrow.”

There was a large break in the page before a sentence placed at the very bottom.

“I'm gonna marry him one day.”

You almost closed the book immediately. Your 13 year old self was thinking of marrying her imaginary friend. It just seemed silly. You grabbed the other journal, finding a page before the last one you had read.

“I'm writing this in case I forget, the new garden can be hard to find. All you have to do is find the part of the fence with two missing boards. There's a few spots like that, but the one to the garden has vines all over it and an H carved into the board next to it.”

You finished your food, setting the plate and journal back on the table. Looks like you had some exploring to do tomorrow.

“Don't do this, Y/N. Please. You know I can't come with you, please don't just stop coming. The look on Hongjoong's face broke your heart. He was your best friend, but you were starting to think this was all in your mind. Some imaginary world you had created in your mind. “Joong, I'm getting too old to play make believe with people who aren't there.” His face changed from sadness to anger. “You know damn well that I'm not an imaginary friend. You know what, go. Leave and don't come back. I'm fine here with my dad anyway.” You couldn't help the tear that fell from your eye as you watched him walk away.”

Waking up in a sweat was becoming normal. You groaned as you climbed out of bed to brush your teeth and change your clothes. Choosing to forego a shower, you'd be getting dirty today anyway, you picked out some jeans and an old shirt that you had turned into a night shirt. You sat and ate breakfast with Helen, choosing to ignore her comments about your outfit. She asked what your plans for the day were and you kept your cool, simply telling her you would be visiting the lilies today. She said nothing as she gathered her dirty dishes and took them to the kitchen.

Steven watched as you walked out of the door and headed to the old part of the estate. He couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped him and the smile that came to his face. He watched your form disappear before he spoke. “Finally.”

The vines were far overgrown. Steven must not worry about this section because there was nothing here. You felt a little ridiculous. Looking around for some garden that probably didn't exist. After an hour of searching, you were ready to give up. You could barely see any of the fence, there was a slim chance you'd be able to find missing boards and a carving. Moving to turn around and head back, you saw a sliver of a missing board. Stepping over to it, you pulled the vines to the side. Two missing boards. You searched around the boards around the gap. On the left board, a small H.

You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for the incoming feeling of feeling like a silly little girl. Crouching down, you stepped through the gap. It took a little bit of wiggling, but you made it to the other side. When you lifted your head, you were in awe. The most beautiful garden you had ever seen was before you. Gardenias. Gardenias everywhere.

You stood still for a moment, just taking in the beauty. The shock subsided a little and you took your first steps further into the new majestic place you had found. Your feet seemed to know where to go, weaving you through the bushes. You stopped when you came upon a house. Just like the house from your dreams. You studied the house for a few seconds. It wasn't run down at all. In fact, it looked like it had been well taken care of. You watched the door open and a man step out. He stood there looking at you for what felt like forever. A smile slowly creeped across his face. “You're back.”

Your mind went blank. Suddenly a rush of memories came back to you. Meeting Hongjoong for the first time when you were 9, daily visits to the garden, meeting his dad, kissing him when you were 14. Everything hit you like a wave. You took a small step forward, barely moving. “Hongjoong.” The two of you slowly made your way to each other, both of you a little cautious. Once you were right in front of each other, you took a moment to just take him in.

He was handsome, he had grown into one of the most handsome men you had ever seen, if not the most handsome. He tentatively brought his hand to your cheek as if he was worried you'd back away from him. His thumb made soft movements against your face, his eyes boring into yours. “I thought I'd never see you again. I've waited. Every day I come out and take care of the flowers I planted for you, hoping I'll see you walk up. I've missed you so much. I'm sorry for the last conversation we had.”

You felt tears forming and you did your best to blink them away. You leaned into his touch, relishing in his warmth. You had so many questions for him, but you couldn't bring yourself to ask yet. Your brain was screaming at you to touch him. You quickly reached for him, wrapping your arms around him in a hug. He took no time in hugging you back, squeezing a little tighter. “I'm sorry it took so long for me to come back.” Your words were spoken into his chest, coming out a bit muffled. He must have heard you because he responded immediately. “You're here now. That's all that matters.”

Hongjoong pulled you inside, asking you to tell him about the 10 years he had missed. You told him about your high school and college graduations, moving to the city, becoming a writer. His gaze never wavered from you, fully enthralled in what you had to say. Every now and then he would give your thigh a squeeze. Once you had filled him in on your life, you asked him the same. He could see you looking around the house, obviously wondering where his father was. He let his head fall forward a little.

“Dad died about 3 years ago, it's just me now.” Your heart sank. He had lost the only person he had. He had been completely alone for 3 years. Guilt ran through your body. As if he knew what you were thinking, he grabbed your hand. “Please don't feel guilty. You had a life to live and death is natural.” Your questions finally made their way back to the forefront of your mind. Taking a deep breath, you squeezed his hand. “Joong. Why can't you leave the garden?”

He was silent for a while, gathering his words. “Dad explained everything to me before he died. There was a woman who was in love with him. She had asked him to be with her multiple times, but he always turned her down. When he met my mom, things got bad. He was the gardener here and we lived on the property. In this house, actually.” He paused, taking a deep breath before he continued.

“She continued to try to change Dad's mind even after he married Mom and I was born, but he still refused. Mom had left to go to town one day and Dad and I were playing in the garden, it was pansies then.” He gave a sad chuckle and met your eyes, gaging your reaction as he continued.

“Your aunt came to the garden, looking for Dad. She started talking, but she wasn't making any sense. Next thing Dad knew, she was gone. He went looking for her, but when he got to the gate, he couldn't leave. The gate would open, but he couldn't step out. We were trapped.” You could feel the tears running down your face. You were filled with sadness, but also rage. How could Helen do this? Mrs. Kim had been right all along.

“The last thing Dad heard was your aunt telling him that he would stay here until he realized that they weren't meant to be. She said until true love was realized. She said we wouldn't be able to be found, especially by my mother. So, I'm stuck here. I don't even know anything about Mom.” The tears were falling harder now. You knew you had to tell him, but it was so hard.

“I found news articles about your disappearance. Your mother never stopped looking. She looked until she died.” Hongjoong looked broken. He had lost everyone, and he had lost you for years. Every bit of emotion you had ever had for Hongjoong had hit you full force. You had forgotten him, yes, but your heart had apparently not. You decided right then that even though you weren’t sure how, you’d figure out how to get him out of the garden.

You kept returning to see Hongjoong every day for weeks. You were sure that Helen was getting suspicious, but you did your best to keep her from figuring out where you were going. The two of you talked like old times, sometimes even playing tag and hide and seek like you had when you were kids. Hongjoong still had the books the two of you would read all those years ago, and it became a routine of reading together. You had even taken trips to the library to bring him new books to read, which he was immensely grateful for.

After a month of daily visits, you were sure that you were in love with Hongjoong. You suspected that some part of you always had been, but you were old enough to understand the things you were feeling. You wanted to tell him, but you were nervous. You knew that he would never treat you badly for telling him that you had fallen in love with him, but the fear was still there. The sight of his house made you forget about your worry immediately. He was standing outside, just like he always was. His back was turned to you while he was bent down watering the gardenias that bloomed around the house. With a smirk, you quietly walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist. He jumped with a small shriek and turned to face you with a pout.

“That wasn’t funny. You scared the hell out of me.” You couldn’t help but laugh, remembering how you had said those words to him so many years ago. “Consider that payback for scaring me when we were 9.” The pout disappeared from his face and was replaced with the bright smile you loved to see him wear. Looking at him now, you were definitely in love with him. Without giving it a second thought, you pushed forward, lips meeting his.

It took him a moment to react, obviously surprised. As soon as he realized what was happening, his lips started to move against yours. Your heart was soaring, you were absolutely sure that you could kiss him every second of the day and never get tired of the feeling. One of his arms wrapped around your middle, pulling you closer, the other making it up to your cheek. Time seemed to stop as the two of you kissed until you had to separate for air. The two of you stared at each other, just taking everything in. “I love you, Joong.”

Your eyes widened as you heard your own voice. That was definitely not planned. You dropped your gaze, feeling a bit embarrassed. Hongjoong’s fingers found your chin, tilting your face up. “Do you know what gardenias mean?” The question caused you a little confusion, but you shook your head. “Gardenias mean secret love. I planted these because it was my way of telling you that I loved you. I’ve been in love with you since I was 15. I didn’t realize it until after you left. At first I thought it was just that I missed the only friend I had ever had, but that wasn’t it.” You smiled at him softly, letting him speak until he had said all he needed to say. “I knew it wasn’t that when I would go to the gate every day and just read and wait. I would hear voices on the other side every now and then and I always hoped that it was you. I stopped caring about whether or not I would ever leave the garden, as long as I had you here with me.” He ended his thoughts with a peck to your forehead.

The tears came again, damn him for being so sweet. “Hongjoong? Will you make love to me?” He took a step back from you and you were sure that you had fucked up. He lowered his head to hide the blush that decorated his cheeks. “I don’t know how.” His voice was only a whisper, and you mentally kicked yourself for not thinking about that. “It’s ok. I’m sorry. We don’t have t-” Your voice was cut short as he stepped forward to grab your hand. “But I want to. Is that ok?”

Hongjoong laid you onto his bed with shaking hands. Your lips had been pushed against each other since he had told you that he wanted to make love to you. Your heart was so full. You could tell he was nervous. “Joong. Take as long as you need. We don't have to do this now.” Your reassurance seemed to relax the man. “I want to do this now. I'm just nervous.” He gave an embarrassed chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck.

You reached down, rubbing him over his pants. His hips bucked into your hand and he let out a sigh at the contact. He buried his face in your neck, leaving small kisses along your skin. One of his hands slid up your body to your breast, giving it a cautious squeeze. You let out a small moan, letting him know he was doing the right thing.

The sound seemed to relieve him of some of his nervousness, causing him to nibble on your neck and slide his hand further down your body, stopping over your clothed core. Due to the dress you were wearing, he was able to feel your damp panties, moaning at the feeling. “So wet.” His lips were back on yours immediately. His movements weren't completely on target, but you let him experiment until he found what made you moan the loudest.

He leaned back, slipping his pants off, leaving him only in his boxers. Looking over him, you could tell that he had made them himself. You could also tell that he was very well endowed. Hongjoong moved to hover over you, resting on his arm beside your head. An idea popped in your head and you hoped it would help with his nerves.

You pulled back from his lips just long enough to speak. “Thrust your hips forward. We can start over our clothes.” His face relaxed a bit as he thrust into your core. His cock hit your clit on the first try and you moaned as your lips found his again. Hongjoong kept a slow pace and you assumed it was an attempt to not cum early. You would have been fine if he had, just having him like this at all was enough.

He was obviously a natural, hitting the right spot every time he moved his hips. Your hands found their place on his back, nails digging in slightly. He groaned into the kiss and you made a note to push a little further next time. His breathing began to quicken. He pulled back from your body, a little flush on his cheeks. “I don't want to cum yet and I was getting close.”

You let him know that it was ok if he came, but he shook his head. “You first. You just may have to help me.” You pecked his lips with a nod. Grabbing his hand, you slipped it under the hem of your panties, placing it directly on your clit. “Rub in slow circles, only a little bit of pressure.” He immediately got to work and again, he was a natural.

His lips found yours yet again, his tongue rubbing at the seam of your lips. Giving him entry to your mouth, your tongues tangled in a perfect dance. You let him lead the kiss, knowing he would do it right. His playing with your clit felt good, but you needed a little more. You pulled away again to give a few more instructions. “Keep your thumb on my clit and slide your fingers down. I need you to finger me.” The circles on your clit stopped for barely a second before he moved into action.

Sliding his index and middle fingers down your pussy to your entrance, he groaned. He suddenly stopped, eyes meeting yours. “Can I see you? All of you?” You gave him a soft smile and a nod reaching to take your dress off. He grabbed the edges of your panties and slide them down your legs. And then he stared. Just stared.

You started to get a little self conscious, squirming. “Beautiful.” His voice was barely audible, but it made your heart flutter. He admired you a little longer before he moved his hand back into position. This thumb found your clit as if he had been doing this for years. His fingers circled your entrance and he smirked at the whine you let out as your hips bucked into his hand.

He leaned down to kiss you as he slipped his index finger inside of you. You moaned against his lips, wrapping your arms back around him. Just like with his thrusts earlier, he kept his pace slow. After a few slides of his finger, his middle finger joined his index. The feeling of being slightly more full than only a second ago had your head spinning. You were about to pull away to tell him to curl his fingers when he did that on his own. Your nails dug into his back again, causing him to pick up his pace.

You were getting close and you couldn't tell if it was because he was a quick learner, or if it was just him. You didn't care. Hongjoong whined as you began to squeeze his fingers, picking up his pace again. He was the one to pull away this time, moving his face back to your neck. His lips found your ear, biting your lobe slightly. “Cum for me, my love.” And that was all it took for you to cum around his fingers.

He kept his pace until you were pushing his arm away. “Sensitive.” He pulled his hand away from you, looking at your wetness on his fingers. He looked like he was thinking about something, then slowly lifted his hand to his mouth, pushing his fingers into his mouth. The moan he let out was obscene and it made you clench around nothing. You were still a bit winded when you reached for his boxers, letting him know you wanted them off.

He was big, but not too big. His cock was perfect. He positioned himself over you again, giving you another small peck to your lips. He reached down to wrap his hand around his member, placing it at your entrance. He looked up at you. “Ready?” You gave him a nod and he pushed into you slowly, causing you both to moan in unison. Once he was fully seated inside of you, he paused, letting himself get used to the feeling.

You rubbed his back, trying to help him relax. After a few moments, he pulled his hips back, leaving only the tip of his cock inside of you before he pushed himself back in. He sped up a little, relishing in the feeling of your walls wrapped tightly around him. You could tell by the look on his face that he wouldn't last much longer, and all you wanted was to see him cum. To fill you completely. “It's ok, baby. Cum whenever you're ready. Don't hold back.”

He sped his hips again, his moans getting louder. His thrusts were getting sloppy and you dug your nails into his back. “I love you, Hongjoong.” He shivered and let out the loudest moan yet as his hips stopped and his seed began to fill you. “I love you. I love you so much.” His words were shaky, but full of emotion. Once he calmed down, he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you for coming back to me.”

It took two months for your aunt to finally say something to you about the garden. You had woken up, brushed your teeth and changed, and had breakfast before you walked out to go see Hongjoong. This had become such a routine that you could do it without thought. Just as you were approaching the missing boards, a voice came from behind you. “And just where are you going, dear niece?” Your body stiffened as you turned to face her.

Her face was full of rage. You stood your ground, she had hurt so many people already. You wouldn't let her hurt anyone else. “I'm going to the garden you trapped two innocent people in.” Her face twisted into absolute hatred. “You ungrateful brat. I let you into my home and you disrespect me. How dare you?” It was your turn to feel rage.

“How dare I? How dare YOU? You couldn't accept that you weren't wanted and you cursed an entire family. You took a son and husband away from a woman who did nothing but love a man. You're disgusting.”

You turned your back to Helen, intent on continuing your trek to see Hongjoong. Your aunt took the opportunity to grab your arm and pull you back towards her. “You will not go back there. I forbid it. If you continue to disobey you can go back to your life in the city.” You tried to pull your arm back, but Helen was stronger than she looked. “Let go of me you wretched woman!”

Hongjoong heard you yell from the garden and his feet moved faster than his brain. He ran to the garden gate, pulling on it, not even thinking twice when it opened for the first time in his life. When he stepped onto the other side, he noticed you with an older woman's hand wrapped around your arm. He saw red. He ran forward, wrapping his arms around the older woman and doing his best to pull her off of you. He managed to get her away, but she quickly broke free from his grip.

“Helen, that is enough!” Steven's voice drew everyone's attention. He was standing a few feet away, Julia by his side. He held a large book in his hand, which he handed to Julia. “This has gone on for too long, it's time to let it go. The boy has done nothing to you.” Helen made eye contact with Julia, noticing the book she held tight to her chest.

“Yes, I found your book, not that you really hid it.” Steven's voice brought her attention back to him. “You. I don't know how you did it, but this reeks of your doing.” Her words were filled with venom, but Steven looked unbothered. He straightened his back, standing tall and proud.

“You may have forced me into silence about this situation, but I'm a crafty man. You never noticed Miss Y/N's notebooks, but I did.” Everything clicked into place. The sudden appearance of the notebooks, Steven's cryptic words. Everything made sense now.

Hongjoong stepped next to you, both of you still not realizing he had left the garden. His hand reached for yours, intertwining your fingers. You both focused on Steven, waiting for his next words.

“For years I have been forced into this sham of a marriage, into silence about how awful you are. And now it's over. The boy has made it out of the garden, Helen. True love has been realized. Your curse is broken.”

Everyone seemed to realize that Hongjoong was free at the same time. Heads whipped to face him. Helen’s expression full of anger, yours of awe, and Hongjoong's of confusion. You wrapped your arms around him immediately, bringing him into a hug. It took him a moment to catch up to your enthusiasm, but it wasn't long before he held you tight against him.

“Now, if Miss Julia will help me, we have something planned for you. See, you're not the only one that read this little magic book of yours. We've waited for the day the boy could leave the garden. Now, he's made that garden into a home and I see no reason to take that from him. But a little garden of your own seems appropriate.”

With that, Julia began to read from the book. Her words were quick, not giving Helen enough time to make it to her to stop her. In a flash, Helen was gone. You looked at Julia, confused. You had thought that Helen's new home would appear in front of you. “I never said the garden would be here”

It didn't take much consideration to decide to stay with Hongjoong in the house he grew up in. The garden was covered in the flowers that he planted for you. It was where your love story began, and it would be where your love story would end.

Steven reported Helen missing and as her legal husband, that you still didn't understand, he got ownership of the estate. He had tried to give it to you, but you refused. You didn't need the big house, you just needed Hongjoong.

You received a call from your publisher, letting you know the good news. The draft of your novel had been approved. “You still haven't told me the name of this book, my love.” You smiled at your husband, giving him a sweet kiss. Leaning to place your lips next to his ear, you whispered lowly. “The Secret Garden.”

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philipkindreddickhead · 7 months ago

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100 Fiction Books to Read Before You Die

The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri

The Book of Margery Kempe by Margery Kempe

The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison

A Small Place by Jamaica Kincaid

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Sparks

The Girl by Meridel Le Sueur

The Kitchen God's Wife by Amy Tan

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

The Color Purple by Alice Walker

The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver

Veronica by Mary Gaitskill

Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

Kindred by Octavia Butler

Middlemarch by George Eliot

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

Passing by Nella Larson

The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh

Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather

Play it as it Lays by Joan Didion

The House of Spirits by Isabel Allende

Wuthering Heights Emily Bronte

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

White Teeth by Zadie Smith

The Power by Naomi Alderman

The Street by Ann Petry

The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton

Mary Barton by Elizabeth Gaskill

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

Small Island by Andrea Levy

The Idiot by Elif Batuman

The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton

The Price of Salt/Carol by Patricia Highsmith

Room by Emma Donoghue

The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch

Garden of Earthly Delights by Joyce Carol Oates

Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys

Wise Blood by Flannery O Conner

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

Picnic at Hanging Rock by Joan Lindsey

Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

Salt to the Sea by Ruta Sepetys

Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand

The Awakening by Kate Chopin

Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie Flagg

The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

The Well of Loneliness by Radclyffe Hall

House of Incest by Anaïs Nin

The Mandarins by Simone de Beauvoir

The Lottery by Shirley Jackson

A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara

Corregidora by Gayl Jones

Whose Names are Unknown by Sanora Babb

Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood

See Now Then by Jamaica Kincaid

The Lowland by Jhumpa Lahiri

Beloved by Toni Morrison

The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver

The Ministry of Utmost Happiness by Arundhati Roy

To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf

My Antonia by Willa Cather

Democracy by Joan Didion

Black Water by Joyce Carol Oates

The Violent Bear it Away by Flannery O Connor

Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn

My Cousin Rachel by Daphne du Maurier

The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand

I Must Betray You be Ruta Sepetys

The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

The Mare by Mary Gaitskill

City of Beasts by Isabel Allende

Fledgling by Octavia Butler

A Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula Le Guin

The First Bad Man by Miranda July

Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen

Moses, Man of the Mountain by Zora Neale Hurston

Disobedience by Naomi Alderman

Quicksand by Nella Larsen

The Narrows by Ann Petry

The Blood of Others by Simone de Beauvoir

Under the Sea by Rachel Carson

Go Set a Watchman by Harper Lee

Under the Net by Iris Murdoch

The Birdcatcher by Gayl Jones

Desert of the Heart by Jane Rule

In the Time of the Butterflies by Julia Alvarez

The Memory Police by Yōko Ogawa

@gaydalf @kishipurrun @unsentimentaltranslator @algolagniaa @stariduks @hippodamoi

#fiction #100 books to read before you die

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chaos-bites · 7 months ago

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💀 Subtle Hel Worship 🪦

Honor your ancestors or passed loved ones

Visit cemeteries; leave flowers at graves (with permission!!!)

Try veiling

Have a candle that reminds you of her (no altar needed)

Wear jewelry that reminds you of her

Keep a picture of her in your wallet

Have imagery of birch trees, cemeteries, skulls, snakes, wolves, or dogs (dogs are huge) around

Have a stuffed animal dog, wolf, or snake

Practice mindfulness; try meditation

Explore abandoned places (urb-ex; be safe!!!)

Take time to yourself every day to decompress

Drink relaxing teas or beverages; black tea or coffee is especially good or dark hot chocolate

Eat a comforting meal

Engage in activities you find calming; drawing, painting, crocheting, reading, etc.

Feel your feelings; cry if you need to, scream if you need to, etc.; find a healthy outlet for these emotions (drawing, boxing, dancing, etc.

Support homeless or animal shelters, healthcare or humanitarian organizations

Volunteer at homeless or animal shelters

Feed neighborhood dogs, cats, birds, etc.

If you have dogs, play with and take care of them; play with/take care of any pets c:

Cook a meal for someone you love

Donate supplies to animal or homeless shelters

Cook a warm meal for someone in need

Collect animal bones (please thank the animal's spirit after doing so)

Recycle, make/use compost (great with gardens)

Spend time with loved ones; spend time with any elderly or older folks that you love

Take care of your basic needs; eat three meals a day, get some movement into your day, take a shower when needed, etc.

Revisit things from your childhood; keep any stuffed animals from childhood or buy ones you've always wanted

Practice patience, especially with yourself

Take a walk at night, especially on the new moon (only if it's safe in your area!!!)

Have a nighttime/bedtime routine

Learn more about death; get more comfortable with the concept itself; focus on figuring out what your beliefs on the afterlife are (if any)

Collect old items or antiques; try to restore them or give them a fresh coat of paint/polish; keep them or give them to someone who will love them

Have compassion towards those who are often looked down on by the wider society, such as addicts or the homeless; donate to causes that aid them /their recovery

Eat an apple; go apple-picking; visit an apple orchard

Wear clothes that make you feel comfortable; when at home, get comfy!

Learn to get comfortable with change, especially necessary change; try spontaneous things, go outside your comfort zone, find effective ways to manage stress during changes

Take note of the seasons changing; maybe capture the moment of an Official Season Change™ in a painting or picture

Take time to reflect on yourself objectively; if you find yourself being unkind, take a step back

Observe the life cycles of animals; learn more about the natural world around you

Practice compassion and forgiveness towards yourself and others

Set healthy boundaries; learn what your personal boundaries are

Let go of what no longer serves you; release what you no longer need in your life

Go out in weather that reminds you of her if it's safe to do so (may sound weird, but I associate fog with her)

Be kind to children; play with them if offered

Start a new hobby - something that is calm and enjoyable; crocheting, carving, painting, etc.

Live your life unapologetically

I'll likely add more to this later as I feel it's incomplete. For the time being, this is my list of discreet ways to worship Hel. I hope this is helpful! Take care, everyone. 🩵

Link to Subtle Worship Master list

#norse paganism #norse pagan #norse deities #paganblr #norse heathen #pagan tips #deity worship #hel deity #hel worship #hel

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doodle-pops · 9 months ago

Text

Turn Back the Sands of Time

Feanor x daughter!reader

Request: Can I request a fic for Feanor, coming back to Valinor after hia death, finding out Nerdanel had been pregnant when he left and she gave birth to a daughter. And if possible, this daughter has Miriel's sewing gift. – anon

A/N: I took a different route to how their interaction would occur and made this quite sentimental than I intended :)

Warnings: female reader, soft angst, softness and comfort, reconciliation

Words: 2.4k

Synopsis: With the return of your father to the Blessed Realm, an attempt at rekindling what was never forged, is pursued.

“Leaving so early?”

Your mother’s voice reverberated through the morning air, clear yet carrying a stern undertone. The sun had ascended over the hills and forest, casting its benevolent warmth upon the damp, fertile earth, coaxing the crawlies to retreat to their hidden abodes.

Startled by her sudden intrusion, you jerked in surprise, twisting your neck to find your mother positioned in the doorway. Her hands firmly rested on her hips, already adorned with small flecks of clay and dust. A hasty bun confined her hair, and she wore the familiar work coveralls that marked her dedication to the tasks at hand. “Oh, you gave me a fright!” you awkwardly chuckled, your attention momentarily diverted from the contents of your basket. “I’m... heading out.”

Her bare feet made no sound on the polished floorings as she traversed the distance, positioning herself beside you. With keen observation, she watched as you hastened your packaging, attempting to conceal the contents within the basket. Despite your efforts, you weren’t as clever as you believed. However, she remained silent, extending her left hand to rest against your waist. Leaning in, she placed a tender kiss on your cheek.

“At least be safe on the road. You can borrow a few of my cloaks, they’ll keep you warm, and good luck. I cannot tell you how to decide, but when you do, know that it is something you will have to live with.”

Suddenly, she vanished through the backdoor, setting you on the arduous path to Formenos after brief stops at Tirion’s market to procure supplies. Pastries, breads, salted meats, and fruits were gathered in an attempt to ease any potential awkwardness.

Alone on the road for five days, you revisited regions where you had once stealthily ventured. The surroundings were steeped in familiarity as you leisurely strolled by. The rhythmic clopping of your horse’s hooves on the gravelled road, the subtle rustling of trees and bushes, vast open fields where the wind hummed its tune, and the delightful symphony of birdsong and frog croaks accompanied your journey. Small creatures scurried at the feet of your horse, some perching on your shoulders or head. Nightfall descended, only to be swiftly replaced by the break of day, marking the conclusion of your expedition.

As you arrived at your destination, the wear and tear on the landscape became evident. Paint had faded, stones were missing from pillars and posts, wood showed signs of decay, and windows lay shattered. Face-to-face with the relentless march of time and the scars of neglect, you confronted the tangible evidence of one’s transgressions.

Dismounting from your majestic stallion, you carefully secured him to an apple tree before continuing on foot. The path led you through a gateway and into a garden adorned with a subtle array of colours—some signs of life still blossoming. Your keen eyes noticed the adjustments since your last visit, becoming attuned to the intense presence and weight that the surroundings now bore.

With each step, the gravel and dust beneath your sandals resonated against the cobblestone, creating a symphony of soft crunches until you abruptly halted before the colossal red door, proudly displaying the house sigil in shimmering gold. Tightening your grip on the basket and assuming a more composed posture, a sense of tension gripped your throat, akin to barbed wires constricting around it.

Summoning your courage, you knocked on the door, the sound echoing three times in tandem with the palpitations of your heart.

Initially, it seemed like no one was home, but an imposing presence lingered in the air, prompting you to raise your hand for another attempt. However, before your knuckles could make contact, the hinges groaned, and a towering figure emerged. A giant of an elf with fiery red hair and silvery eyes loomed before you, meeting your tentative gaze. While a hunch suggested his identity, he was not the person you had come to meet. An acute observation of his appearance left you trembling at your core.

His features were the same as the portraits hung in your mother’s workshop, a stark difference to the descriptions your uncle Arafinwë explained. There were no scars, missing ligament or whitening of his hair, but it was still enough to elicit fright in your bones. The stories were enough, running their course to remind all of his actions.

“No trespassing, this is private property. Whatever business you are conducting, take it elsewhere,” he muttered under his breath with emptiness in his eyes before shuffling to slam the door in your face.

Luckily, you stuck your hand out. “Wait, please don’t! I uh…” you fumbled and exhaled, “I came to speak with Lord Fëanáro. Is he in?”

“If you are here to lay blame on him for his actions, I would suggest that you get in line—”

Waving your hands frantically in his face, you panicked. “No, no, no, no! You have it all wrong. I’m not here for that; I’m here to simply speak with him.”

“Speak with him?” Maedhros meditated. “Did King Arafinwë send you?”

Your eyes widened in disbelief at the surprising intensity with which your own brother reacted to your simple desire to speak with his father. It was truly perplexing that, despite all that had transpired, he continued to share living quarters with Fëanáro. Your assumption that their relationship had soured after recent events was swiftly proven incorrect.

Clearly, his perspectives on Fëanáro differed significantly from yours, and he held personal convictions that he preferred to keep to himself. The intricacies of their business remained shrouded in mystery.

“Uncl—King Arafinwë did not send me, I sent myself,” you stated with pride, straightening out any fears in your posture and stretching a confident smile across your lips. “Can you tell him that a…a Lady Y/N is here to speak with him?”

The moment your name fell past your lips, you saw the micro-expression of your brother’s eyes widening before composing themselves. His stance changed from no longer blocking the entire doorway to standing aside and granting you a peek inside. You were half expecting him to make a scene, yet he proved otherwise.

Maedhros’ eyes fluttered and flickered around your frame, contemplating on his next decision. Exhaling, he stepped outside, shutting the door behind and ushered around you figure to the left of the house. “He’s situated on this side of the house. It’s quicker and less…obstructive. Follow me.” And you partially understood what he meant—the bloodstains from where your grandfather was slain, still staining the floors. However, it was the unwarranted meet-and-greet of the rest of your brothers.

You weren’t here for them, and Maedhros was kind enough to spare you.

The journey unfolded in a discomforting silence, compelling you to tighten your grip on the basket as the minutes passed. Your elder brother guided you through a labyrinth of twists and turns, eventually leading to the distant sounds of a babbling stream and the faint rustling of paper being crumpled. As you approached an archway, entwined and covered in an overgrowth of vines, the scene unfolded before you—Fëanáro, seated on a bench, holding a charcoal, and engrossed in fervent scribbling on parchment, an expression of exasperation etched across his features.

Despite the openness of the surroundings, the air felt stifling. The heavens above offered a solution to wash away the lingering muskiness, and yet, it persisted. How could anyone discover peace or find reprieve in such conditions?

“I’ll leave you to speak with him.” He offered a polite smile, and with a bow of his head, Maedhros departed, leaving you to face his father in privacy.

Acknowledging the bow with a graceful return, you redirected your attention towards the man seated on the weathered wooden bench. His appearance had undergone a noticeable transformation since your initial encounter—his once neatly tied hair now cascaded loosely, and his attire, less polished, resembled something reminiscent of what your mother wore when she was in her element. Absent were the ornate rings that had adorned his fingers, and there was a notable absence of any jewellery embellishing his clothing. In this particular moment, he existed simply as Fëanáro, the man who had seemingly returned from the realm of the deceased. The elf who had…

“How long will you linger in the shadows, child?” came his soft voice. It was much mellow that the confrontation shared with your mother.

Taking a large gulp of air, you crossed the archway, entered his space to stand at the entrance and called out. “Greetings Lord Fëanáro.”

A resounding cry escaped his lips the moment his eyes fell upon your timid figure. Joy and agony intertwined in his heart as he realized that his child had come to visit him. With a swift, almost spring-like motion, he abandoned his seat, forgetting the letter that lay there, and hurried over to stand before your magnificence. It was the first time he had a clear image of the daughter he had denied himself the knowledge of. In your features, he saw not just you but also your mother and the reflection of his eldest.

An intense yearning surged within him, a desire to reach out and grasp you, to finally experience the touch of a creation that bore no marks of his mistakes. However, hesitation gripped his mind, as the unexpected loomed overhead like ominous clouds threatening to unleash a storm. The uncertainty lingered, questioning whether the rain would be cold or warm, if it would bring wrath or peace—or perhaps an outburst of everything.

“You…” He laughed breathlessly with disbelief at the tip of his tongue. “You’re all grown up. I was told about you during my return, unsure if a meeting would occur. I had glimpsed you at your mother’s, hoping to be acquainted. Unfortunately, I had not been blessed.”

“Hm, I decided to come see you on my own after…” your voice trailed off, indicating his reunion with your mother. “Well, she had the inclination that I was coming to see you, yet she did not stop me. I wanted to hear from you on my own.”

His facial muscles engaged in a silent struggle, battling the instinct to react to every nuance of your words. His hands, twitching with the desire to pull you into a comforting embrace, held back, understanding that such a gesture might inflict more harm than healing. Your perceptions of him were coloured by his transgressions. You possessed ample reasons to maintain a distance, not just from him, but also from your own brothers.

“What is there for me to tell you when you are aware of everything, my child?” he responded with reservation.

“Why?”

Your question lingered in the air, a stain that defied any attempts at removal; not even the heavens’ rain could cleanse it.

One question. Millions of reasons. One answer, and yet, he chose to walk away with his back turned and head hung in shame. His body collided with the bench with his head in his hands facing the floor.

“What answer might I give to you that would satisfy your perspective of me?” he uttered. “You’ve heard it all; I chose the Silmarils over my family… Why you ask? Pride, maybe arrogance or my blind foolishness. I led my children into death and one by one I watched them succumb to the same madness as me.”

“But you have me who was spared from the doom. I exist, someone you can change for. Someone who can be the answer to why.” Were the words wanting to spill from your lips, however, now was not the time. There was much to be possibly kindled to know how much your words weighed.

Stepping closer to where he sat hunched, you placed the basket beside him and knelt. Your hands were hesitant to touch his, but you managed to pry them off his face. “You know, there’s a saying that ammë says,” you whispered akin to the wind, “it’s something along the lines of, ‘second chances don’t come around often, but when they do, they appear in mysterious ways. It’s only if you desire it, then possibilities will arise’. If you want forgiveness, you can start with me. Show me the you who wants better.”

Fëanáro lifted his head, his mismatch teary eyes locking on your compassionate ones. He was stunned at your sympathy when his wife would not spare him the chance. If only he had not been so foolish, the family he desired would have existed before his very eyes. “You do not truly mean your words? Your mother would not pardon me—”

“I am not ammë; your quarrel with her is between you both. I am Y/N and this is between us. I choose to try building this relationship so long as you work with me,” you corrected with confidence laced in your voice. Your eyes were stern, filled with assertiveness and the reflection of faces you’d never met. “You have to want this.”

He considered with sorrowful eyes, too fearful of repeating his past and ruining his last blessing. With deliberate actions, he shifted to sit upright and meet you head-on. “Then I make no promises...no oaths.”

“Good, because I was prepared to convince you anyway possible since I brought treats for us to indulge, and I would hate for them to waste.” Your eyes darted to the basket filled with delicacies for you both to snack on during your formal meet-and-greet. “Imagine how awkward it would be had you rejected, and I had to return with a filled basket of treats.”

“You could have left it with your brothers. I’m sure they would be thrilled to learn their sister brought treats for them.” Fëanáro felt a surge of pride at the flow of your interactions, lacking awkwardness and tension. It gave him a sense of purpose to understand that all good things were not lost.

Though his refusal to utter the words of “Thanks” remained in his heart, for he knew Eru had heard and seen his gratitude.

Snickering as you reached for the basket to produce a blanket, you threw him a whimsical side eye. “I doubt that. You should have seen how the giant redhead was staring at me. I thought I was about to be thrown like a javelin out the yard,” you giggled.

“Maitimo?”

“Ay, I thought he was going to toss me out! Though it seems that the others are here as well?”

“Would you be willing to meet them?”

“Maybe another time, I only came with enough energy to deal with you.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @sakurayaxd @ladyenchanted @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @addaigio @lamemaster @hermaeuswhora

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vivantesopvles · 6 months ago

Text

They meet again between life and death, in a place called the Limbo.

This time, Harry does not wake up in the pure-white King’s Cross he so often revisits in his memory. He’s back at the Dursleys’, locked inside his cupboard again. And someone’s banging hard on the door.

No, he thinks in despair. Not Uncle Vernon.

‘Open up!’ But the voice is too high to be his uncle’s, Harry dimly notes; and the accent way too rough to be Dudley’s either. ‘We’re running out of time!’

‘Door’s locked from the outside,’ Harry says wearily. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Use your magic, you daft mug. And it’s Riddle you’re speaking to.’

The lever is met with resistance when Harry turns the handle. But Riddle’s right. Harry pushes his magic through the keyhole – Alohomora – and the lock clicks open.

Riddle is eleven, and so is Harry now, it seems. He takes a look at Harry – a dead spider caught on his shoulder, his too-large t-shirt full of holes – and curls his lips with derision.

‘So that’s how you’ve been using your magic?’

Harry ignores him. He leads the way out onto the empty street. As they walk past the trimmed hedges and boring gardens, Riddle tries to get him to talk again. ‘A wizard called Dumbledore says I should find you, says you know the way,’ he prompts.

‘Did he?’ Harry is briefly taken aback. ‘Where to?’

‘To the new place, of course.’ Riddle shoots him a dubious glance. ‘You’d better not be giving me the runaround.’

‘I’m not,’ Harry says, wondering why Dumbledore still enjoys complicating matters this much, even in death. ‘In any case if we’re going anywhere, I think we ought to head over to King’s Cross Station first …’

‘King’s Cross? That’s in London, that’s where I come from,’ Riddle exclaims.

As if fuelled by the information, he grabs Harry by the wrist and begins to sprint down the street; all the while, he talks and talks.

‘… and I grew up in Whitechapel. Wool’s Orphanage, if you must know. A soft touch like you wouldn’t have lasted a day there, Harry.’

Harry shakes his head, exasperated. It has just occurred to him that they needn’t run at all. It’s the Limbo; they could probably teleport themselves wherever they liked. But they’re going so fast now it’s all Harry can focus his mind on: the speed, the wind in his hair and Riddle, his small, cold hand holding Harry’s.

It’s almost like flying. Harry can feel himself becoming lighter with each step forward, with each memory left behind. He forgets his own death – the second one … then the first – he forgets the horrors of the war and the people he lost.

Around them, the tidy suburban streets of Surrey blur, blend, into the cobblestoned confusion that is the East End, which Riddle navigates with the elegance of an alley cat.

‘We’re almost there,’ he says, before immediately launching into another one of his dark anecdotes about the exorcist whom he’d named his archnemesis since he was six.

Harry’s usually put off by gobby people, but somehow Riddle is growing on him. Maybe it's because Riddle's actually quite hilarious. Maybe it’s because of his endless energy; how vital and unapologetic he still is after being told that there’s something wrong with him his whole life.

‘I’d like to come here again sometime,’ Harry says as they outrun the old warehouses and backstreets; the red brick lanes and ivy-clad walls. ‘With you. On the other side.’

At that Riddle’s face breaks into a wide smile, a genuine one. ‘On the other side,’ he agrees, a wicked glint in his eyes. ‘Why not? I’ll show you around.’

Later, at the white platform where a train stands waiting for them, Harry finds a one-way ticket in his front pocket. On it says: 01 - SEP - 1938.

21052024 | @microficmay | life & death

#microficmay2024 #tomarry #tomarrymort #tomarry fanfic #harry potter #tom riddle

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jessamine-rose · 2 years ago

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✿⚘❁⚘❀ Astilbe ❀⚘❁⚘✿

Fufufu after all these months, here’s another Herbarium epilogue with more dark fluff and comfort. It was nostalgic to write for Capitano and his darling again (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

Tw:: YANDERE, unhealthy relationships, psychological trauma, Stockholm Syndrome

♡ 1.2k words under the cut ♡

The astilbe’s beauty has faded.

The pressed flowers are only a phantom of the radiant clusters you picked weeks ago. The petals have lost their brilliance. The feathery plumes have been reduced to flat shapes.

This is a natural consequence of preservation, one which occurs to all of your flowers. So why do you feel particularly mournful for the astilbe?

Maybe the flowers aren’t the problem. Rather, it’s you.

Your wedding ring twinkles on your index finger, an unavoidable sight. The sculpted flowers serve as a constant reminder of your marital status, disregarding the fact that you and your captor never had an official ceremony.

Capitano…what time will he be home? You usually accompany him to Zapolyarny Palace but he decided against it today. Important business, he claimed.

Nonetheless, he treated you so kindly before his departure. He’d given your new guard a stern warning which, even in his formal tone, sounded more like a death threat. You received a soft kiss, some new books, a promise of his immediate return.

Your life has never been happier. So why are you still plagued with your bad days?

You are used to this feeling, the ever-present melancholy which has haunted you even before you met Capitano—those hours spent trapping flowers in your notebook, escaping reality through storybooks, reliving memories better left forgotten. Perhaps it is your subconscious upset with you, the double curse of your self-awareness and resignation.

How can you believe in his love, knowing it is a twisted delusion?

Despite this, you’ve never smiled more since the day you accepted your fate.

Since meeting Capitano, you even remembered how to cry. Compared to your past tears and “tantrums,” the action feels oddly cathartic nowadays. Like a call for help finally answered by your own devoted knight.

The sound of heavy footsteps interrupts your thoughts.

Your husband is home.

The door opens. Capitano enters the room.

“______, is everything well?”

“Capitano.” You leave your desk and meet him halfway. “Did you mi—how was work? You arrived earlier than usual.”

He feels warm. You lean into his embrace, letting him be the first to pull away. His hands remain on your waist.

“The new recruits show potential.” He looks down at you, face hidden by his mask. After a short pause, he adds, “Did you take kindly to Sergeant Naiad?”

“Cyane was all right,” you reply, shrugging. “They just kept quiet and watched me from a distance. They are nothing like Ceres, if that is what you’re asking.”

The change in his tone isn’t lost on you. “That is acceptable. Should they infringe on your personal boundaries, inform me at once.”

Is that even necessary? He already has his spies to monitor your behavior.

Your notebook is still open to the astilbe. Capitano walks over to your desk, keeping one hand on the small of your back.

“I presume that your astilbe has been fully preserved.” He taps the corner of the page, careful not to touch the pink and white flowers.

You make no motion to retrieve it. “Yes. They’re…not as pretty as when I first saw them. Or maybe that’s just my perception.”

He turns to face you. “If you desire more astilbe, we may revisit the botanical garden.”

“No, it’s fine.”

Shouldn’t this be enough? What more must he do for you?

“Which flowers do you want?” You return to your chair, feeling a familiar stab of guilt. “I’ll let you pick first this time.”

“My darling, what troubles you?”

Huh?

Capitano caresses your cheek this time.

“You are in low spirits,” he observes. Anger creeps into his tone, faint yet palpable. “Did you tell me the truth about Sergeant Naiad?”

You quickly nod. “I was! I just feel…it’s nothing, really! Nothing worth your trouble.”

He remains adamant. “I would be an inattentive husband if I fail to care for my wife.”

What kind of expression is on his face? Even with his face concealed, you don’t want to look at him. Anything to prevent him from perceiving your distress.

From your peripheral vision, an image catches your attention—a framed drawing on your desk, illustrated by the same artist who painted the family portrait in your living room.

“Such an odd couple,” they muttered.

You had to agree with them. With his mask and fine armor, Capitano was an intimidating subject. You, on the other hand, looked small and delicate in your lacy gown. But your close physical contact left no doubt that the two of you belonged to the same picture.

The artist spent more time on you. They took a while to capture your face, describing your gaze as a dim mystery. You didn’t mind; it meant more time in your husband’s arms.

During a short break, you faced Capitano to chat with him. That was when the artist froze, staring at you with renewed interest. A silent look from the former, however, was all it took for them to fearfully return to their canvas.

The finished portrait came with a small pencil sketch. You were looking at Capitano with bright eyes and a fond smile, unrecognizable even to yourself.

“______?” He holds your hand. His own ring twinkles above your interlocked fingers.

“I…It’s not important,” you insist. Despite yourself, you feel your heart racing for reasons not borne from fear. “I’ve dealt with this before. The issue will go away on its own.”

Foolish girl. Since when was your captor one to leave you alone?

Ever the patient man, Capitano kneels down to meet your gaze.

“One word from you, and I will do everything in my power to alleviate your sorrows,” he tells you. The soft declaration is juxtaposed by his firm grasp on your hand. “How could I be at peace when my beloved flower is in pain?”

Words fail you. You stare at your lap, gripping the armrest with your free hand. It is his next words, spoken with quiet resolution, which spell your defeat.

“But if you refuse to smile, that is also acceptable. I will stay by your side regardless.”

You give up.

At first, Capitano tenses when you throw your arms around him. The hesitation which follows—the way he carefully reciprocates your hug, measuring his strength…it only tugs at your heartstrings all the more.

“Thank you,” you whisper. Your eyes feel damp; are you crying? Your tears don’t match your mood at all.

What is there to worry about? Time and time again, your husband has proven his unwavering devotion to you.

Why should you torture yourself with the truth of your marriage? Freedom is nothing compared to this false happily ever after.

Who cares about the astilbe? You already have the most beautiful, eternal flowers wrapped around your finger.

Capitano’s heartbeat is comforting. He traps you in his embrace, rubbing circles on your back. You don’t need to see past his mask to know what tender emotions lie in his gaze.

“You’re welcome,” he says. He lifts your wrist to his mask, imparting a soft kiss on the back of your hand.

A small smile tugs at your lips. “I feel a bit better thanks to you.”

♡

Side Story ๑ Epilogue ๑ Another Comfort Fic

A few months ago, I started this fic cuz I was sad. And now that I’m less sad, I decided to finish it and cry over Capitano again. Aahh he and Damsel always put me in a soft mood TvT

Once again, thank you to @diodellet for your support as my bestie and peer reviewer. Last year, she actually wrote her own Herbarium-inspired comfort fic which I beta-read and linked above. Her smut is amazing and well-written, so pls check it out <3

Do share your thoughts on this fic!! And if you read the teaser for Astilbe, look at me in the eye and tell me that the Captain isn’t the best at comforting his darling ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´ω`ﾟ)ﾟ｡

Tag a Capitano enjoyer!! @bye-bye-sunbird @yandere-romanticaa @nicebonescomrades @harmonysanreads @ansy-tea @leftdestiny-posts @thescribeoflostmemories @kocherry @gum-iie @oofasleep @shumidehiro @ryo-ri @dulcetthorns @lambdrop @uhhhh-hi-im-sorry-for-this @the-dreaming-city @lyra-mew @yanmaresu @frogchiro @lcveaesop @micchikari

#il capitano #capitano #capitano x reader #yandere capitano x reader #yandere capitano #yandere fatui harbingers #fatui x reader #genshin x reader #yandere genshin #tw: yandere #tw: dark #fem reader #jessamine-writing

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nexility-sims · 9 months ago

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𝐍𝐎. 𝟏 ❛ 𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ❜ | VARIOUS LOCATIONS, LATE 1990 - EARLY 1991

❧ 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 / 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 / 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

❛ In early March, the Office of the Crown released its first personal statement since the funeral. It resembled the releases that had followed other deaths: ' With the mourning period ended, our family is eager to return to public life. We have spent our time away in the traditional manner. Our ancestors understood the loss of a loved one demands total acknowledgment. Public ceremony is one component, but life cannot resume without granting the wound time to heal. This is reality for even those of us blessed with tremendous responsibility. We expect to always bear the scar of remembrance, just as we know the nation will, but we remain grateful for this time of recovery. Each of us has engaged in true reflection. We intend to recommit to Uspana and its People with clarity and appreciation. This is what our beloved Princess Safya would have wanted. '

❧ i did kinda phone this one in, but akjfsdh it's a nice montage, i think.

𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝 ↓

In truth, the family’s practice of mourning varied enough to warrant a white lie to the public. Some did indeed take the traditional approach. Rodrigo, Matias, and Leonor all sequestered themselves away to a degree; they engaged in that esteemed “true reflection” with only their selves and their memories as company. For others, the dictates of tradition mattered less. Their mourning looked like clinging to routine, revisiting familiar places, seeking comfort in the presence of others. Beatriz returned to Yaas for the first time in years, welcoming for once the way her childhood haunted it. Contemplation could find its way into these activities—in the tranquil baking Olalla did or the letters Mateo wrote to his father—but not everyone was willing to allow it. They formed a spectrum in their grief, one that none policed or much noticed.

The only requirement was that they maintain privacy. Whether at Alam Palace, in the residential quarters of Nakawe Palace, or retreated to personal homes and hotel rooms, they were to be reclusive. An uneasy but time-honored truce existed with the media. Whether the respectable evening news journalists or the scrappy tabloid photographers, all kept their distance. The Crown’s official policy nonetheless remained: they were untrustworthy. The intrepid would seek gossip from launderers and groundskeepers and couriers. The foolish would trespass, slinking along unmarked trails and hoping for glimpses of impromptu promenades through gardens and on private beachfronts. Temporarily, the embargo held. Pop stars, politicians, actors, and socialites dominated the headlines. The media cultivated a surreal alternate reality for the public in which Princess Safya had never existed because Uspana had no royal family of which to speak. All the while, they stockpiled stories to inaugurate the eighty-first day.

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morbidloren · 18 days ago

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Cemetery Travel events this week

This week I’ve got three more events to which I’d like to invite you, even if you’re outside of California. TOMORROW NIGHT — Tuesday, October 22 — I’ll be reading from 222 Cemeteries to See Before You Die and then interviewed by Josh Wilson, editor of The Fabulist. You can join us in person at Green Apple on the Park in San Francisco or watch online on Youtube. Here’s the link with all the…

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#222 Cemeteries to See Before You Die #cemeteries on NPR #cemetery radio #Deaths Garden Revisited #Green Apple Books #Green Apple on the Park #San Francisco Columbarium #SFinSF

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mononijikayu · 6 months ago

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4 o' clock.

Gojo Genmei thinks Satoru is always right when he says that loving people can be a curse. In these past ten years, in their hearts and minds, they were the biggest prisoners. The biggest prisoners to loving the past. To mourning the past. To wanting the past. Yet Gojo Genmei does not mind. She would not be able to live without it, being haunted by the ghosts. She wanted Kaiko to haunt her, for father to find his way into her arms again. For Suguru to smile at her tenderly again.

GENRE: pre - hidden inventory arc to shibuya arc (1990s to 2010s);

WARNING/S: domesticity, fluff, angst, trauma, implied death, violence, romance, hurt/comfort, character death depiction of death, depictions of loss and depression, depiction of anxiety, mention of death, mention of grief, profanity, family drama;

LISTEN: 4 o' clock by r&v of bts

NOTE: when i first wrote this, i just thought about describing what genmei and suguru's relationship was like but i feel like there was a need to show how it was. also, i needed to write jealous satoru. i like the idea that he's jealous of anyone who comes into contact with genmei. anyway, i hope you enjoy this one <333

masterlist

u s and t h e m

IT WAS QUITE RARE FOR HIM TO VISIT HER IN HER SLUMBER. But she must suppose that he has his moments. In the realm of slumber, Genmei dances with dreams more vivid than most mortals dare to embrace, yet she finds no solace in this nocturnal ballet.

The musings in her mind unfurl like ephemeral tapestries, each thread pulsating with life, beckoning her to reach out and caress the intangible. But dreams, enchanting though they may be, remain elusive phantoms, slipping through the fingers of even the most ardent dreamer.

She contemplates the tears she could shed, should she vocalize the kaleidoscope within her, a million frames of moments she believed time had buried. They resonate with vibrancy, innocence, and the lingering echoes of a youth long eclipsed by the relentless march of time. One cannot simply avoid it, being so sentimental about a past already dried, long written by hands no longer here to hold her own. Gojo Genmei couldn’t help it, she could never help it when it comes to him. She’s no better than Satoru in that regard.

In the tapestry of her memories, she revisits a scene painted with the hues of a summer's day—the deep, sharp gaze of a companion, the sturdy frame against which she nestled, and the warmth of shared breath beneath their tree. A fleeting moment etched in the canvas of her past, where innocence and hope intertwined like vines in a garden long untouched by reality.

She used to think about the warmth of summer like him. If Satoru was the bright echo of winter, then he was most ardently, the bright sun of summer. Genmei missed him. She missed everything about him. She dare not voice it out loud. But selfishly, Genmei latched onto the memories, to the dreams that were left behind. It was all she had.

It has been a year. 365 days. Summer, Spring, Fall and Winter came and went.

But the echoes of Geto Suguru still remained; As young as that blue summer.

A tender smile from Geto Suguru, sitting in front of her as her hands slid through the dark tresses of hair. He allowed her to touch his hair happily, a feat very few could ever do. Suguru from her memory was someone who couldn’t handle the touch of anyone lightly. He liked the distance of it, he used to tell her.

But not with people he held dear. Genmei supposed it made her heart warm when he told her this. It meant that he held her dearly. He considered her an occupant of the portion of his heart. Genmei knew that his whole heart, perhaps it would always belong to Satoru. Yet, she knew she could feel happiness build a home in her.

There was a tender melody born from their shared hums, and the golden radiance of a sunlit meadow—all etched in the mosaic of a summer story, a dream painted in hues of joy. Suguru spoke about home, about missing the mountains and the countryside. He wished summer would come soon, so that he could take some time off.

He invited Genmei to go with him, to see his parents and play with his family’s dogs. He promised that he’d bring Satoru and Shoko too. His parents missed them too. Genmei knew they were long gone, ink dried in her memory replaying as a beautiful nightmare. Yet, beneath the surface, even if this was a repeat of that summer's nightmare, the memory that refuses to fade. Genmei refuses to let it fade.

He was so beautiful, so tender with his touch and his smile. There was no forgetting him. He was the whole moon, the whole summer night. Genmei wouldn’t forget him. Not even if she tried. She and Satoru had tried, but they couldn’t. It was as though they would surrender life itself from existing in their flesh and bones.

There was that place, where the windchime echoes against the wind. Genmei found Suguru gazing up at the sky, his dark purple eyes fixed on the vast expanse of blue that stretched endlessly above them. She approached quietly, her steps soft on the grassy plain. It was rare to see him out here nowadays. But she thinks, its good for him. To be out here, feeling the sun. Not locked away in his room, where he'd find only darkness.

"What are you thinking about?" Genmei asked, settling down beside him with a gentle grace, her own gaze lifting to the heavens.

Suguru turned his head slightly, acknowledging her presence with a soft smile. "Genmei-senpai, what do you think exists beyond the blue sky?"

Genmei pondered the question for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered the limitless possibilities. "I like to think that beyond our sky is another realm, perhaps many realms, where different rules apply. The gods were kind to us to give a wonder to think about, don't you think? The gods look to us and think, what creatures they made, who wonder different things."

Suguru nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Different rules, you say? Do you think they have curses and sorcerers there too?"

"Maybe," Genmei mused, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But maybe their sorcerers fight different battles. Or maybe they live in harmony, without the need for battles at all."

"That sounds peaceful," Suguru said, a hint of longing in his voice. "A place where the sky isn’t just a barrier between us and the cosmos but a gateway to something greater."

Genmei looked at him, noticing the wistful tone of his voice. "Do you ever wish you could go there? To escape from all this?" she asked gently, gesturing subtly to encompass their world and its endless conflicts.

Suguru was silent for a moment, then he sighed. "Would it be so bad to say that I often think it'd be easier over there then over here?"

Genmei smiled softly, shaking here head. "No, I don't. Sometimes, its easier to think of what gives us comfort. Remember, it's okay to dream of peace. And maybe one day, we'll find a way to make those dreams a reality here, rather than needing to find it under the vast blue sky. It's a beautiful wonder, I agree. But sometimes, its even too vast for us to hold. Not all of us need to be Atlas, you know."

Suguru turned to look at her, giving her a small smile. Genmei thinks it was enough, even if it didn't reach his eyes. "With you here, I believe we might just do that. After all, isn't that what sorcerers do? Bend reality to make the impossible possible?"

"Yes," Genmei agreed, her eyes reflecting the blue of the sky above. "We make the impossible possible. And maybe, just maybe, we'll find what's beyond the blue sky together."

They fell silent, both lost in their thoughts, yet comforted by the shared understanding that whatever lay beyond the sky, their strength lay in facing it together, bound by their hopes, their fears, and their unyielding determination to shape the world according to their dreams.

As she traces the vacant side of her bed, she yearns for the comforting presence of Satoru. To feel the warmth of his arms overtake the cold echoes of a painful emptiness. Tears flowed from her eyes involuntarily, her lungs halted its usual flow. She couldn’t move herself too well, her muscles tightening in spasms.

A soundless huff left her lips as she tried to get herself together. For a moment she stayed still and just cried. When the time passed, her muscles loosened slightly, Genmei took to taking Satoru’s in her arms and wrapping her arms around it. She can smell the tender scent of his perfume still there.

He stayed there, already ready to leave for his mission just to feel her for a while. They wouldn’t see each other for a while, so he wanted to make sure he lingered long enough to fill his heart with the tender memories of her. Genmei felt herself settle slowly against the pillow, her breathing returning to its usual pace.

She missed him, she was sure. If he was here, it would have been easier to deal with this. It would have been easier to feel at ease with the memories of the person they both loved. Yet he wasn’t and she had to live with that.

In the cocoon of his touch, he could discern the ethereal boundary between dreams and nightmares, offering solace with a mere brush of his fingertips. A yearning for his tenderness echoes through her being, yet she knows he is absent, entangled in missions that withhold him from her embrace. Her husband was a light sleeper, much more so than her.

The Six Eyes keep him from the slumber of mortals. Satoru is attentive, noticing the small differences of her breath from nightmare to a peaceful slumber. Genmei knew that he would know what to say to her at this moment. He would offer her what he needs. Peace of mind, even for a little while.

But Gojo Satoru’s not here to offer that peace.

Genmei lingers in the memories long gone.

It had taken her a while to compose herself, but she managed to do it. The memories of that summer drifted away into her mind, in lock and key. Once more, a new day begins. There would be no time for the new dawn for the dead already gone. That she knew too well.

The clock's resolute ticking marks the passage of the night, and at 4 o’clock, the room is cloaked in a profound darkness. Genmei, now awake, rises from the bed's vast expanse, exhaling frustration into the still air. The ticking clock, a relentless metronome, compels her to face the waking world. With a resigned sigh, she banishes the covers aside and, in the solemn hush, bathes the room in the artificial glow of light.

Too early for the world to stir, yet too late for her to return to the arms of Morpheus, she contemplates the solitude of her nocturnal sanctuary. The impending challenges of the day loom ahead—the elders' den awaits her, and she will navigate its depths once more. The promise of tomorrow, with Satoru's return, is the beacon that guides her through the predawn hours. She yawns, heading towards their shared bathroom, letting the water run from the faucet.

Facing herself in the mirror, the sorcerer could only sigh. The weariness of her face was obvious to anyone who would deem to see it. The redness of her eyes from the tears was just as familiar to her than anything else. She was glad that no one was around to see it. It would have been a different conversation, not one she’d like to have. Genmei let her hands touch the water, feeling the warmth and then the cold of the water’s pour.

The morning ought to start.

There was no sense to stay in bed.

She wouldn't fall back asleep anyway.

IT WASN’T UNTIL SHE WAS GOT TO THE KITCHEN WITH THE CAT THAT SHE HEARD MAIN DOOR OPEN. The sound of purring from the feline led her to crotch down and seek out the beloved white fur from the small bed in the living room. Touching his fur, he purred once more. That indicated to Genmei that he was once more in need of his precious water.

But as she held the bright white feline, she came into a stare down with her weary husband as he took off his outdoor shoes. The door barely shut behind him, Genmei heard the cat hiss at her husband. Blinking for a moment, Genmei was trying to be certain that she was seeing things for what they are. But as he lifted the lower portion of his eye coverings, Gojo Satoru grinned at her.

“Well, I didn’t expect this welcome party.”

Genmei patted the cat’s head, silencing the feline into satisfied mewls. “I thought you wouldn’t be home until tomorrow.”

“I thought you had more faith in your husband than that!” Satoru sighed, feigning sorrow at her words. He put away his house shoes easily as he put away his outdoor ones. “You know I could deal with a ton of first–grade curses in a few minutes.”

His wife raised a brow. “So all this time, you just went sightseeing?”

Satoru stopped at his tracks, having been caught. “O–of course not! You know I had to do some wellness checks around the area, you know, to make sure there aren’t any curses I’ve missed.”

Genmei dissected that he already ate his sweets.

Gojo Satoru gulped.

For a moment, his wife’s eyes sharpened at his words which made him nervous. But Genmei merely relented in a sigh, letting the cat down as she headed towards the kitchen and towards the fridge, which she opened to find the water. A short yelp let out of her husband’s mouth but before she could turn around, Satoru smiled at her.

Genmei did not see their cat slowly walk away, with pomp and ceremony as Gojo Satoru’s exposed eye turned to glare at the cat for a mere moment. Satoru would never let his wife know how much he despised the cat. He knew how much she loved the damned spawn. He would bear with it for her sake.

“You okay?”

“I’m more than okay.” Satoru tells her as he leans towards her from the counter, placing a small kiss upon her cheek. “I’m home to you. What more could I ask for?”

“You and your words,” Genmei shook her head as she turned around and headed towards the feline, who rested on the small bed. Genmei concentrated as she poured just enough water. Their cat has had enough salmon before they both went to bed.

Too much water would just indulge him. He’s after all, on a diet plan. Closing the cap, she places the water bottle into the counter and wraps her arms around her husband. He removes his eye covering, his bright blue eyes greeting her. For a moment, they do not speak. There’s usually no need for words when they’re alone like this.

“You’re gonna get a headache.”

“I can bear with a little suffering.” Satoru whispers to her, leaning forward to peck the small of her jaw. “It’s nothing compared to when I’m looking at you.”

Genmei felt her cheeks fluster in a pretty scarlet. She shook her head. “I can always feel the way you look at me without the eye cover. I know what they look like, even when they’re covered.”

“That’s different.” He argues to her, his fingers tracing the edge of her porcelain face. As he traced her features like stars, his eyes followed. Almost as though memorizing each and every essence of her. “I like being able to see you. Just you. As much as I can with these eyes. Covering is a pain in the ass. It's too much trouble."

“You’re insufferable.” Genmei let out a small giggle, leaning forward against his shoulder. He leans against her too, just to smell the lavender he loved so much on her. Closing his eyes, he feels as though he is safe. He knows he is safe. As long as he is in her arms. “I take it you don’t want to sleep just yet?”

“Hm, how did you know?”

“Because I know you too well, oh insufferable one.”

He leans away, his face in a pout as his wife laughs. “One moment you’re sweet and one moment you’re sour. It makes too much of a whiplash for one man to take, you know?”

Genmei laughs. “But you like it, don’t you?”

He snickers, unable to deny it. “And what of it, darling?”

She shook her head, leaning towards him and pressing a kiss on his cheek. “Welcome home, my love. I missed you.”

“Missed you too.” He closed his eyes at the feeling of her lips against his flesh. “I missed all of you.”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Genmei retorted, looking at him. “We’re not doing it. We haven’t eaten anything.”

“But you taste better than the—”

“Finish that sentence and I’m withholding the privilege.” She crosses her arms as he groans.

“Darling, please. It’s been a couple of days. I need you so bad!”

She touts, taking leave of him and back into the kitchen. “I’m making breakfast for you and me. We have to eat first. After that, we’ll see if I’m in the mood for it.”

Gojo Satoru sighed, defeated as he relented as he moved towards the kitchen, following his wife.

Though, he was certain he could hear the cat take a break from drinking water to laugh at him.

He really hated that cat.

SATORU REMINDED GENMEI OF A CHILD AT TIMES. Sitting on their sofa, Gojo Genmei wondered how long this tantrum would last. Satoru wouldn't remove his arms from her waist for about an hour now as he watched an episode of Digimon Adventures. He didn’t speak, but rather focused on his moping. He didn’t even move as the cat moved on his wife’s lap.

As the cat yawned, Genmei let her hand pet the feline’s head as Satoru suddenly started to list reasons why she shouldn’t waste her time around the ‘nasty old farts’ in Kyoto. The top one being that he needed his ‘recharge’ of her after being apart for a few days. The last thing he wanted was to be alone in the house again without her giving him the warmth of her existence.

His bright blue eyes seemed to glow brighter as she detailed her plan to meet with Gakuganji. It was like a god silently judging her as she spoke of the path towards danger she planned to thread. Satoru has always been someone who had something to say.

It was quite a matter when he didn’t have much to say. Genmei had always been aware of Satoru's great distaste for the inner workings of clan politics. He has always been surrounded by it as a young man, with his father dying early and his status as clan head perpetually bestowed at the crown of his young toddler head.

The thought of a young Gojo Satoru sitting through the dull and whining of the higher ups as a boy, with that unimpressed look on his face crossed her mind. Just hearing the gossip about it by the clan ladies at tea time as a young girl in Zenin manor was enough for her then. Coupled with the years of suffering they had put him through, she can understand his preposition against them.

But even more so, the nature of the conversations around clan politics were never one for the idealists. The air of corruption was easy to spot, even more easy to consume those that touched it. People sided with those they knew peaked their chances to self – interest. It was something anyone would be wise to avoid.

Yet Genmei thought there truly was no certain choice. Mingling with that world, playing a game of flirtation, of hide and seek, was what it took to survive in this world. Everything was as fragile as glass. One step and it all shatters and breaks. Satoru may have convinced them to halt the execution for now. It’s not something that would last.

Just a word seducing them against her husband, the unexpected tide would rush in. It was the ugly truth. If Naoya bribes enough folks, if her grandfather whispers enough words. If the Kamo clan turns and smiles at the right people. Genmei knew that all can twist into disaster. Satoru was but one man, the very essence that could make the world bend to its knees.

Perhaps it was the paranoia, perhaps it was the worry.

But Gojo Genmei feared the day they would turn on him.

She would not let this happen, not on her watch.

His dream was her dream.

They cannot falter.

The sandy haired woman wishes her husband took this in stride. Okkutsu Yuuta had already proven himself, his actions alone last year had spoken for themselves. But Itadori Yuuji was not Yuuta. If Yuuta was the typhoon, Itadori was the tsunami. He had a whole magnitude of concerns that the elders cannot bypass. He was a vessel of Sukuna, the sorcerer that a thousand years ago had wrought their world into misery and suffering.

If he was reborn, if Yuuji could not control him — they fear the worst, they fear what they cannot control. Most of all, Genmei was truly certain that they feel more distaste at the thought that they do not have exclusivity over him. Itadori Yuuji would not feel anything for them, as much as the king of curses wouldn’t. No, he’d be loyal to her husband. And that was even more frightening to them.

Yet, the boy that Itadori Yuuji was not just the vessel of Sukuna. He was a young soul, someone who should not be dealing with the baggage of this world. The elders, the higher ups — they all forget themselves. Genmei could only wonder how many times they could repeat their mistakes.

How many times would they waste potential, to burden it with horrors rather than nurture? Memories flood back as easily as they happened, as though they were lived yesterday. So many voices ignored, so many voices silenced. She pursed her lips.

Genmei wondered what her father would have done if he was in her position.

She had asked that so many times before and still hadn’t found an answer.

How could he have survived the tides of this modern world?

Genmei could only release a soundless sigh.

She turned to Satoru, her lilac eyes reflecting resolve. "You know it as much as I do that they’d listen to me.”

“Listening is different than agreeing, darling.”

“There must be a balancing act. Even if it is a lie, we have to play nice.”

“The phrase ‘playing nice’ has nothing positive to correlate with the higher – ups.”

She cocked a brow. “Don’t you think I know that? But it’s worth a try. Just a precaution. He’s not like Yuuta. This is different.”

“I know it’s different,” Satoru retorted back to her, his lips looped in a frown. “That’s why I spoke in threats, not kindness.”

“Do you trust me?” She takes his face on her hands, forcing the cerulean beam to echo against her lilac gaze. “Do you?”

“What sort of question is that? Of course I trust you.”

“Then let me deal with them, alright?” She whispers to him tenderly. “You had your games with them. Shouldn’t I have my own too? I thought you trusted me more than this.”

Satoru knew that this was for the best. Her words weighed heavily against the higher – ups. Even when he was injured then after what when he was young, it was her that fought against them to ensure he could rest. Genmei was from that world just like him and he can’t forget it. But she was bred to live that life, more than he was. They trusted Genmei. Or rather, considered her a part of the world they created. A life worth more than the ones beyond it.

If not her, then the blood of Zenin Naoki in her veins.

If not his blood, then the name that birthed her into the world.

A Zenin was more their world’s favorite than a Gojo.

Satoru's reluctance wasn't rooted in a lack of trust; rather, it stemmed from an overwhelming concern. The Gojo clan leader releases his wife from his touch. Her lilac eyes blinked in surprise for a moment. Satoru turned off the television. She watched as he stood up, his hands threading through his pockets.

His body moves into a small shrug. As he stood there, his mind raced with scenarios where danger lurked around every corner. It wasn't a matter of distrust but a manifestation of his deep-seated worry that threatened to drown him in a sea of panic.

The weight of responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders as Genmei prepared to face the elders in Kyoto. Every part of him, from the furrowed lines on his forehead to the subtle clenching of his fists, betrayed the inner turmoil. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, now reflected the storm of emotions brewing within.

It was the same feeling as back then. Back then when he stood in front of Suguru, back then when he knelt in front of him ten years later. There was that pit he could never escape. But he wished he could.

Satoru started to pace and soon enough, it became more pronounced. He released a restless energy that mirrored the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind. He was not one to shy away from challenges, but when it came to Genmei, the mere thought of her navigating the intricate dance of clan politics ignited a fire of concern.

"It’s not that I don’t trust you," Satoru muttered to himself, his voice a low rasp. His eyes flitted around the room as if searching for an answer that eluded him. "It's because I worry."

She smiles softly at him. “I know.”

"It's a normal husband thing, you know?"

She giggles. "I know."

The cat left her lap, yawning against the pillow.

Genmei stood up, rising to wrap her arms around him.

His body relaxes in being enveloped in her warmth.

“I’ll be back by tomorrow or the next day, I’m certain.”

“I’ll be going to Sendai with Yuuji.”

“I see.”

She tries to look at his face, but he refuses and leans the weight of his body more and more against her. She couldn’t help but smile further, her hand brushing against the undercut of his snow – like locks. He was once more a child, a child who cannot take part in the parting. Satoru’s never been good at that.

For all the time she had known him, he had always needed to feel the warmth of touch. To have somebody. Genmei could never deny him. How could she, when she loved him too much? Gojo Genmei knew this was a curse she can never exorcise. Her love for him was too much, too overwhelming. And she knows that he knows. He feels the degree of it all just as much.

“Will you have a day off when I come back?”

He sighs, “Who cares? I’ll not leave you alone when you come back.”

Genmei laughs. “You’ll be ignoring life then?”

“What are you talking about? You are my life, darling.”

Genmei felt warmer as she kissed his ear. “You’re too much.”

“So are you.”

“You love me anyway.”

“Hm, I do.”

By noon, she kissed him goodbye as Ichiji waited outside.

Gojo Satoru wanted to go after her and be with her.

But he knew too well that this was something she needed to do.

As the door closed behind her, Satoru's worry manifested in an absent-minded twist of his fingers through his hair. He was a man accustomed to action, yet at this moment, all he could do was wait. It was a form of torture for someone like him, who thrived on seizing control of situations.

He knew Genmei was capable, strong, and fiercely independent. But the worry, the irrational fear that clung to him, was a relentless adversary. He had always made her feel this way – a constant guardian, a vigilant protector. Even when he knew she could take care of herself, he couldn't help but imagine the worst-case scenarios, each more vivid and terrifying than the last.

In the quiet aftermath of her departure, Satoru's gaze lingered on the closed door. His jaw clenched, the palpable tension in the air a testament to the storm raging within him. With a sigh, he moved to a nearby window, his eyes fixated on the horizon as if searching for a sign that would alleviate the weight on his chest.

For now, Satoru found solace in the memories of their shared moments, in the love that bound them together. Yet, beneath it all, the worry persisted, an uninvited companion that refused to be silenced.

He turned to look at the cat.

For a moment, the feline stared back.

“I still hate you.”

It mewled back with the same gusto.

The feline, Gojonyan, hates him back.

Perhaps it was the paranoia, perhaps it was the worry.

But Gojo Genmei feared the day they would turn on him.

She would not let this happen, not on her watch.

His dream was her dream.

They cannot falter.

Genmei wondered what her father would have done if he was in her position.

She had asked that so many times before and still hadn’t found an answer.

How could he have survived the tides of this modern world?

Genmei could only release a soundless sigh.

She turned to Satoru, her lilac eyes reflecting resolve. "You know it as much as I do that they’d listen to me.”

“Listening is different than agreeing, darling.”

“There must be a balancing act. Even if it is a lie, we have to play nice.”

“The phrase ‘playing nice’ has nothing positive to correlate with the higher – ups.”

She cocked a brow. “Don’t you think I know that? But it’s worth a try. Just a precaution. He’s not like Yuuta. This is different.”

“I know it’s different,” Satoru retorted back to her, his lips looped in a frown. “That’s why I spoke in threats, not kindness.”

“Do you trust me?” She takes his face on her hands, forcing the cerulean beam to echo against her lilac gaze. “Do you?”

“What sort of question is that? Of course I trust you.”

“Then let me deal with them, alright?” She whispers to him tenderly. “You had your games with them. Shouldn’t I have my own too? I thought you trusted me more than this.”

If not her, then the blood of Zenin Naoki in her veins.

If not his blood, then the name that birthed her into the world.

A Zenin was more their world’s favorite than a Gojo.

"It’s not that I don’t trust you," Satoru muttered to himself, his voice a low rasp. His eyes flitted around the room as if searching for an answer that eluded him. "It's because I worry."

She smiles softly at him. “I know.”

"It's a normal husband thing, you know?"

She giggles. "I know."

The cat left her lap, yawning against the pillow.

Genmei stood up, rising to wrap her arms around him.

His body relaxes in being enveloped in her warmth.

“I’ll be back by tomorrow or the next day, I’m certain.”

“I’ll be going to Sendai with Yuuji.”

“I see.”

“Will you have a day off when I come back?”

He sighs, “Who cares? I’ll not leave you alone when you come back.”

Genmei laughs. “You’ll be ignoring life then?”

“What are you talking about? You are my life, darling.”

Genmei felt warmer as she kissed his ear. “You’re too much.”

“So are you.”

“You love me anyway.”

“Hm, I do.”

By noon, she kissed him goodbye as Ichiji waited outside.

Gojo Satoru wanted to go after her and be with her.

But he knew too well that this was something she needed to do.

He turned to look at the cat.

For a moment, the feline stared back.

“I still hate you.”

It mewled back with the same gusto.

The feline, Gojonyan, hates him back.

IT WAS MUCH MORE WELCOMING TO SEE FAMILIAR FACES. As she held the hem of her kimono to avoid tripping, she found herself smiling as she got off the train. The weariness of the hectic day started to fade away as she made her way towards them.

Standing in front of them, the two men allowed themselves into a humble bow in front of her. She fondly sighed, shaking her head. They hadn’t changed, even after all this time. There was no doubt in her mind that they had been here for a while, waiting for her train to arrive.

“Bowing to me like this after all this time,” Genmei says as she crosses her arms together. A tsk sound lets out of her. She waves her hand. “It’s as if we aren’t family.”

“It’s inappropriate to not give you respect.” The smooth tone of the elder of the two, Mikoto Akihiko, echoes. He smiles at her as he positions his body at ease. The glistening of the Mikoto badge, the two herons in flight, was bright on his chest. “You are our liege after all.”

Mikoto Nobuhiko lifts his head, his red haori following gracefully in his movement. His own badge shined in bright beautiful silver, with ruby gems. “Aki–niisama is right. It’s inappropriate to act as though you aren’t our beloved elder.”

Genmei’s lips turned into a tight smile. “Are you calling me old, Nobu?”

Nobuhiko’s bright eyes turned mischievous, but his smile remained serene. “Of course not, Genmei–sama. But seeing as I am younger, shouldn’t I respect you properly? After all, Genmei–sama is four years older—”

Before Nobuhiko knew it, Gojo Genmei started to wrap her fingers against both his cheeks as much as she could. Her smile still remained tight as she squeezed his cheeks, pulling through it as though she was seeing a child for the first time. Nobuhiko started to groan against her, squealing.

“Ah, look at my young baby Nobu! His cheeks are so chubby and cute, what a cute baby boy!”

“Aki–niisama, help me!”

“But Genmei–sama seemed to have missed you, Nobuhiko.”

“I did miss him, Aki–kun! He’s still such a baby. He’s such a cutie, isn’t he, Aki–kun? He’s my cute little kouhai!”

Akihiko chuckled, watching the playful exchange between Genmei and Nobuhiko. “Indeed, Genmei–sama. But Nobu will lose his energy if you play with him too much.”

“I’m already losing it right now!”

Genmei released her grip on Nobuhiko’s cheeks, letting him catch his breath. “I’ll play with you later, Nobu.”

“Please don’t.” Nobuhiko sighed, already weary. “Genmei–sama, I don’t think I’ll last if you do that.”

“But I missed my kouhai!”

“I don’t miss being pinched on my cheeks, Genmei–sama!”

Akihiko, always the calm and collected elder, interjected with a knowing smile. "Well, Genmei–sama, now that you're back, we must discuss the matters at hand. There's much to catch up on."

Genmei nodded, the playful glint in her eyes transitioning into a more serious demeanor. "Of course, Aki–kun. I'm eager to hear about the current state of affairs. Much more on the conversations about Itadori Yuuji.”

“Most of the Mikoto elders seem to be in agreement with the rest of them,” Nobuhiko informs her as they start to depart from the station. “Knowing the clan’s history with Sukuna, they would do anything to ensure his reawakening would not happen.”

The lilac eyed woman nodded. “That’s to be expected. For a thousand years, one of the clan’s will to survive is to ensure Sukuna remains gone.”

“The others do not agree.” Akihiko continues for the younger man, his green eyes gleaming narrowly. “They see the boy first rather than the king of curses.”

“Who’s included in that?”

“Your aunt and your mother.” Akihiko retorts in reply, a small smile on his lips. Genmei returned his smile. “It’s keeping everyone on their toes for now. None of our elders have voted.”

“Hm, Satoru spoke about the Zenin and Kamo votes.”

Nobuhiko snorts, his hands diving through his silver locks. “It’s always those two.”

Genmei reciprocates in kind. “Of course, they have the same mind.”

“The Gojo vote is the most important.”

Akihiko nodded. “The Inumaki vote followed the Gojo vote.”

“Considering its regarding the king of curses, the vote of the Mikoto would sway everyone else.”

The Zenin born lady smiles. “I need to get Gakuganji to back out. He has the most sway out of the head elders.”

“I doubt he’d say no to you.” Nobuhiko grinned. “Master Naoki was his favorite student, wasn’t he?”

Akihiko nodded, smiling in kind. “Some things are thicker than one’s greed, after all.”

Gojo Genmei looks up in the sky.

She wonders if her father is up there.

She lets out a small huff of air.

“Let’s get going.”

GOJO GENMEI REMEMBERS TOO FONDLY WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO BE A STUDENT IN KYOTO HIGH. As she walked through the torii gates with Akihiko and Nobuhiko, the past came alive in her mind. Laughter echoed like a familiar lullaby, boots thumped through the steps like an endless heartbeat.

The warm layers of flesh against flesh as they rested on each other’s bodies and embraced. The cherry blossoms danced in the breeze, their delicate petals creating a picturesque scene around Kyoto Jujutsu High. It has been a long time.

Genmei walked through the familiar grounds, her lilac eyes taking in the sights that stirred old ghosts to haunt her once more. The echoes of her own footsteps resonated with the ticklish whispers of Kaiko’s teasing tone. The wind’s blows resounded through the place, the chimes going through one after another.

For a moment, Genmei wondered if those names carved on those wooden pools still stood. Like she always was, Gojo Genmei is a prisoner of the past, and yearned to breathe the air seemed to carry the weight of stories only she could tell. She was the only one alive out of the three of them after all.

As she approached the towering gates adorned with the Kyoto Jujutsu High’s mighty symbols, Genmei couldn't help but recall her own years as a student within these hallowed walls. Nothing has changed. It was as if the building was still an homage to the past, still stuck in time and unchanging.

The scent of incense and the distant hum of students practicing their cursed weapons and their techniques brought her back to a time when life was simpler, and the future held limitless possibilities. Youth often gave those promises. It’s the same promise she carries in hope, for these kids. That youth this time around fulfilled its promises.

The training grounds, where she had honed her skills and formed bonds that transcended the battlefield, were now filled with a new generation of students. The wooden dummies, scarred with countless strikes, stood as silent witnesses to the countless hours she and her friends had spent perfecting their techniques.

The thought of those summer days came to mind effortlessly — laughter echoing through the corridors, late-night study sessions, and the thrill of facing curses side by side. Genmei's fingers traced over the ancient trees before her, their branches reaching towards the sky like guardians of the past. For a moment she wondered if such touch from her to this ancient observer could reach them. If for a moment, Genmei could speak to them again.

The weight of loss pressed on her heart, a somber melody playing in the background of her reminiscence. Genmei knew Akihiko and Nobuhiko were looking at her with concern from behind her. Each visit was a torture, that they knew. One of the willful reasons that

Genmei had resolved to send Nobuhiko to Tokyo High instead was to ensure she wouldn’t walk these halls as often as she had to alone. Just to avoid the memories that were so fresh, so easily opened wounds that refused to heal. That was out of her own selfishness, she knew. Not that Nobuhiko would mind. He told her as much. He’s satisfied with his own story.

She halted for a moment, her lips pursed in a flat line as she spotted the solitary bench in the corner. The bench was perfect during sunny days. It firmly stood beneath the shade of the tree, its gnarled branches reaching out like the hands of old friends. Namie often played with her creatures here. Genmei couldn't resist the pull of old days, and she found herself touching the frames of its wooden body.

Kaiko, with her infectious laughter and unruly hair, always grinning as she readied herself to balance off the bench. Namie, innocent and brightly smiling, pouting as she couldn’t get beyond the number ten when she balanced off the bench.

And her, Genmei, telling them off with her failure to keep her straight face as she laughed when Kaiko and Namie would get into a row. Genmei closed her eyes, allowing the cool breeze to carry her back to the days when three loud echoes of laughter graced through these halls. Beaming so brightly like three stars in the sky.

“I’m sorry if we’re taking too long.” Genmei smiled, turning to her companions. “It’s just….Nostalgia.”

“Don’t apologize, Genmei–sama.” Akihiko shook his head, a small smile on his face. “We were young at one point.”

Nobuhiko crossed his arms, his face full of unreadable emotions.

Genmei was certain he was remembering his own youth too.

Thinking a lot about that doe eyed boy who never got to grow up.

BY THE TIME THEY GOT THERE, GENMEI WAS CERTAIN THEY HAD MADE GAKUGANJI WAIT ANYWAY. Genmei's strides and steps echoed through the hallowed halls, her lilac eyes focused ahead. It was already late when they got around to the main building, where the offices of the school were located. Akihiko suggested the flow of things, Nobuhiko walking behind him and saying things here and there.

But for a while, she was sure she drowned them out, almost being dragged by her own spirits and not her wits. Perhaps it was the overwhelming emotions, she was confronted by the past she wanted to run away from and bury. By this point, she would have expected the voice in her head to laugh at her. As gods mostly do. But she supposed that gods too have lives to live.

Before she realized it, Genmei stood firmly in front of the massive doors that barred the gap between her and that world she wishes to forget. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the ancient corridors of Kyoto Jujutsu High.

The meeting with Gakuganji, the Kyoto principal, was long overdue, and the tension in the air was palpable. Much more so since their last conversation last year had ended in a stalemate. Yet by this point, Genmei was certain the waters had cooled and been forgotten. In his eyes, forgiven. After all, the past was the past. It ought to be over.

Entering the grand chamber where the principal often held discussions of great import, Gojo Genmei found Gakuganji seated behind a large, ornate desk. The room itself exuded an air of ancient authority, its walls adorned with tapestries depicting the lineage of Kyoto Jujutsu High.

The scent of aged wood and lingering incense hung in the air, creating an atmosphere steeped in tradition and gravity. Akihiko and Nobuhiko bowed their heads at the direction of the principal, quietly backing away to the doors and shutting them.

Gakuganji's presence was commanding, it always was something that frightened Namie when they were young. The old man’s figure was framed by the high-backed chair that seemed to possess its own history.

The desk before him, intricately carved with symbols of the Jujutsu world's intricate hierarchy, held an array of scrolls and artifacts, each a testament to the weight of decisions made within these sacred walls. Genmei could see it clearly, the words of a long forgotten script bearing the name of Ryomen Sukuna. At one point, she saw her ancestor's name in one of the scrolls. But that failed to read everything before Gakuganji took her attention off the scroll.

As Genmei approached, the soft glow of paper lanterns illuminated the chamber, casting shadows that danced across the tatami mat floor. Gakuganji's gaze, sharp and discerning, met hers with an intensity that hinted at the countless negotiations and confrontations this room had witnessed.

The air was heavy with the weight of tradition and the echoes of past decisions. One would find it easy to be intimidated if they do not endure this often. The walls after all watch as much as they speak. Each semblance of this place reverberates with the unspoken power of the elders and their chosen favorites.

One would find it easy to be intimidated if they do not endure this often. The walls after all watch as much as they speak. Each semblance of this place reverberates with the unspoken power of the elders and their chosen favorites.

Gakuganji Yoshinobu acknowledged her entrance with a slight nod, his eyes locking onto hers. His gaze, sharp and penetrating, met Genmei's with an equal intensity. He shifted his hand toward Genmei’s companions, who raised their heads from their bow. The room felt charged with the clash of two formidable forces.

"Gojo Genmei," Gakuganji greeted, his voice a low rumble that echoed through the chamber. "It's been a while since someone of the Gojo name set foot in these halls.”

“You never used to address me like that before, Gakuganji–sensei.”

“I’m merely addressing you as your title implores.”

Genmei slyly grinned. “That sounds snobbish even for you, Gakuganji–sensei. I thought I was your favorite.”

The old man snickers. “It is at this point debatable.”

“How heartbreaking!”

“What brings you to Kyoto?"

Genmei beams at him. “You already know what I’m here for.”

“And that is?”

"I'm here to discuss the matter of Itadori Yuuji's execution.” The sandy haired lady exclaims back to the elder. “I trust you are aware of the situation. Given that you've been urging others to vote in favor of it."

Gakuganji's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Ah, the vessel of Sukuna. A delicate matter, indeed.”

“Indeed it is.” Genmei nodded nonchalantly. “But I’ve an even more pressing matter.”

“And that is?” His brow is cocked.

“Tightening the rescindment until further notice.”

He lets an amused breath of air. “Your husband had gotten the execution rescinded for now, hasn’t he?”

“You and I both know the elders shift like the weather does.” Genmei gave a small laugh at his words. “Why else would I be here, Gakuganji–sensei?”

“I do not have the power to—”

“That’s a bold lie and we both know it.”

“The matter is decided."

“But yours isn’t casted yet, isn’t it?” Genmei reminds him, her eyes narrowing at him sharply. “The matter isn't truly decided until you or the Mikoto clan say something."

“You’re observant.”

Her smile tightens as much as her jaw does. “Of course. My blood is Mikoto. I would notice."

“And you mean to use me to get what you want?”

“You promised.” Genmei reiterated to him.

The Kyoto principal leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled together. "Genmei Gojo, you may be a respected figure in the Jujutsu world, but you cannot dictate the decisions of the elders in Kyoto."

Genmei's lilac eyes narrowed, a subtle shift in her demeanor. "I am not here to dictate like my husband. But I don't hold my tongue very well."

"One must know restraint too, child."

"And one must know the value of their words. Is yours so cheap that you forget your place? Or are you just another oathbreaker? Are you not my ally?”

A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the subtle creaking of the ancient wooden floors beneath them. Genmei's words,though veiled in curtesy, carried the weight of a storm gathering on the horizon.

Gakuganji's gaze remained unwavering. "Do not mistake my fondness for abuse or unchecked power, Genmei."

She gritted her teeth. "You do a good job of that without me interfering."

"Still, the decision regarding Itadori Yuuji will be made by the elders based on what they believe is best for the Jujutsu world. You know that better than anyone else.”

“Oh, I know.”

Akihiko’s eyes started to widen.

Nobuhiko started to smile.

At that moment, Gojo Genmei stood.

Gakuganji Yoshinobu’s eyes bulged out.

"After all, you've made me do worse because the elders said so."

The alarms all over Kyoto High started to ring out simultaneously as Gojo Genmei’s body released cursed energy in loud, bright waves. The abruptness of the alarms shattered the ambient stillness, their urgency cutting through the air like a blade.

Genmei's silhouette was outlined by the pulsating glow of her unleashed cursed energy, casting an otherworldly aura around her. The vivid hues of white and cerulean blue danced in harmony, an unbridled display of power that resonated through the ancient walls of Kyoto Jujutsu High.

Cracks started to take apart the windows, wood started to splinter against itself as the sheer force of Gojo Genmei's energy reverberated through the very foundations of the venerable institution. The large expanse of the office, once serene, now bore witness to the tumultuous manifestation of a power beyond comprehension.

The very fabric of Kyoto Jujutsu High seemed to quiver under the strain. The ancient walls, witnesses to centuries of Jujutsu sorcery, now bore the scars of Gojo Genmei's unleashed power.

Genmei leaned forward, her hands firmly placed on the desk, narrowing the distance between them. "I've come here to warn you, Gakuganji. I am trying to play nice with you. But if you keep pushing my hand, it will be a different story. You’ve proclaimed yourself to be my ally. If you wish to be my ally and fulfill your promises, follow my will. Act like it.”

The principal's gaze, unwavering, met Genmei's. His dark orbs against her lilac haze. The clash of wills continued, but now it was accompanied by the destruction of the room, a manifestation of the stakes involved in the decisions being made. In a flick of a finger, all the power disappeared instantaneously as Gojo Genmei managed to calm herself.

“You’ve become too comfortable as that brat’s wife, child.”

“And you’ve become comfortable being forgetful, old man.”

Gakuganji snickers. “You’ll regret this decision.”

“I do not think I will.”

The old man started to laugh. “We will see about that, child.”

As Genmei turned to leave, the remnants of the grand chamber bore witness to the aftermath of her unleashed power. The air, thick with the scent of destruction and charged with residual energy, seemed to settle. The alarms, having served as heralds of the tumultuous events, now echoed in the lingering silence.

The sandy haired sorcerer walked through the corridors, the echoes of her footsteps resonating with the hushed whispers of the ancient walls. The faculty across the building who had retreated in the wake of her power, watched in awe and trepidation as she passed by. Nobuhiko started to laugh out loud about Gakuganji’s face as Akihiko tried to get him to calm down.

The sun, casting its final golden rays over Kyoto Jujutsu High, illuminated Genmei's determined expression. The branches on the ancient tree, though shaken by the tumult, swayed in a final salute to the departing sorcerer. As she stepped into the fading daylight, the courtyard held the traces of the intense encounter. The shattered windows, the splintered wood, and the remnants of the alarms all spoke of a clash of wills that had left an indelible mark on the venerable institution.

Genmei, undeterred by the lingering chaos, walked towards the gates of Kyoto Jujutsu High. The weight of her decisions hung heavy, but the lilac-eyed sorcerer carried it with the grace of one who had faced adversity before. The courtyard, now bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, became a stage for the next act in the unfolding drama. The alarms, having fulfilled their duty, faded into the background, leaving Kyoto Jujutsu High in a contemplative stillness.

As Genmei stepped beyond the gates, the leaves fell and whispered their silent farewell, and the ancient walls bore witness to the shifting tides of power within the Jujutsu world. The struggle for Itadori's life continued, and the repercussions of Genmei's actions would reverberate through the corridors of tradition and rebellion.

“Where to next?” Akihiko turned to ask.

Nobuhiko yawned. “We should go. I’m quite hungry.”

“Mikoto–mori.”

Nobuhiko looked at her. “To do what, Genmei–sama?”

Genmei smiled. “To play with the Mikoto elders, of course."

facts about this chapter

genmei was born on january 10th, 1976, year of the tiger. this makes her three years older than satoru and four years older than nobuhiko.

two herons are the clan crest of the mikoto, and members of the mikoto clan wear a badge to signify where they're from. red from the line of the original ryomen clan bloodline and purple for the line of the original mikoto bloodline.

not all members of the mikoto clan are blood related. the mikoto clan prefer adoption, akihiko and nobuhiko are both product of adoption. they are part of the family which is why genmei considers them bowing to her unnecessary.

as stated by nanami in what a wonderful world, genmei has adopted gojo's personality and perspectives over the years. its what annoys gakuganji and the higher ups as genmei was prior to this, was very obedient to them.

genmei adopted gojonyan many years ago and did so because the cat reminded her of satoru. however, gojonyan hates satoru a lot. he's however very friendly with megumi.

genmei has great hatred for the higher ups as much as satoru. being a zenin by birth, she has some pull with them. however, she can reveal her true colors when her emotions get too much. especially if they put the students at risk.

genmei was very close to suguru and satoru, both being her juniors. she formed a great attachment to suguru and has just as much nightmares as she does with namie and kaiko, who were her kyoto classmates.

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