#reading is how you stop your brain from rusting

[katarh-mest]

me screaming inside my head any time someone says stuff like this: ANY READING IS GOOD ANY READING IS GOOD ANY READING IS GOOD SOME READING IS BETTER THAN NO READING

"YA books are brain rotting at any age" okay I know booktok is annoying but please get offline

[marvelseries19]

STILL HERE

Chapter Three - Castaway

Chapter one | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter five |

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: Time has passed. You've survived, learned how to get food and water, keep warm, and even made a friend, but at what cost?

A/N: I'm kinda lowkey proud of the summary this time :) Here's another chapter, probably out of four or five, maybe, not sure yet. As usual, your feedback is welcome, suggestions, questions, or anything is also welcome, I'm all ears... well, eyes. Enjoy :) By the way, do you guys actually read these things?

Warnings: +18, just because at this point.

Word count: 3k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

Time had become a blur. Days bleeding into nights, seasons shifting with little mercy. The island was cruel and beautiful, both a sanctuary and a cage.

You had grown leaner, stronger. Survival demanded it. The shoulder you’d dislocated never healed quite right, a constant, dull ache that you had learned to push through. The broken ribs had mended, though not without their own reminders—twinges of pain that flared up when you pushed yourself too hard.

The fire crackled steady and sure, a sound you no longer flinched at. It had taken you months to master fire — blistered hands, frustration, tears you hadn’t wanted to shed. Now, it came easily. A skill carved into your bones like every other survival instinct you’d been forced to learn.

You sat cross-legged on the packed earth outside your cave — your cave now — tucked into the cliffs where the ocean wind couldn’t reach you at night. It wasn’t home, but it was shelter. Dry. Warm. Stockpiled with everything you’d salvaged or shaped over three years: rusted metal scraps from the wreck, woven nets, jars made of carved-out gourds, sharpened bones, and a shelf of smooth stones that held what little was left of the emergency kit.

You’d even made a bed out of dried grass and woven mats. It still smelled like salt and earth, but it didn’t hurt to sleep on anymore.

The fish crackled over the flames, speared cleanly on a hand-carved skewer. You didn’t miss anymore — not when it came to spearfishing. The water was your rhythm now. You knew how the shadows moved, where the fish hid, and how long you could hold your breath before your lungs screamed.

You survived.

But that didn’t mean you were whole.

You turned to the coconut sitting beside you, her painted face faded but still watching—always watching.

Red.

You gave her a nod, like she was an old friend. Maybe she was. Maybe she was all you had left.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you muttered, your voice hoarse from days without speaking.

It was always worse when you didn’t talk. Your thoughts got louder. Messier.

“She’d laugh, you know. If she could see this,” you said to Red. “I made a shelf yesterday. A shelf. Out of driftwood and spite.”

Red didn’t answer, but you imagined her smirking. Natasha used to do that — that crooked half-smile when you were being ridiculous.

The ache came back, low in your chest. The kind that didn’t go away with fire or fish or sleep.

“I don’t know what day it is,” you said quietly. “Haven’t for a long time. I stopped marking them when the notches on the wall started to look like a prison.”

Your eyes drifted to the makeshift calendar you’d abandoned. Years, etched in stone. A tally of time that had started feeling like a weight instead of a reminder.

“I talk to you more than I talk to myself now,” you added, glancing at Red. “It’s easier to pretend you’re listening. Pretend I’m not completely losing my mind.”

You leaned forward, resting your arms on your knees, eyes on the fire. The light cast shadows on your face, highlighting the sharpness that hadn’t been there before. The hollows. The scars.

You were still you. But not the same.

“I think I forgot what she smells like,” you whispered. “That’s the part I wasn’t ready for. How your brain starts… letting go. Of little things. Her perfume. The sound she made when she laughed. Her voice saying my name.”

You didn’t cry. Not anymore. You didn’t have the energy to mourn things you couldn’t get back.

“But I still remember how she looked at me. Like I was worth something.”

A breeze passed. You looked up toward the treetops. No birds. No planes. Just the whisper of wind and the endless sound of waves below.

You reached out and gently adjusted Red’s flower crown, then leaned your shoulder against her.

“I’m not crazy,” you told her. “Not really. Just lonely... I just want to go home."

The fish was done. You took it off the stick you made and tore into it with practiced ease. Nourishment. Function. Habit.

But when the fire dimmed and the shadows stretched longer, you didn’t move. You just sat there, shoulder to a coconut, staring at the dark.

And for a moment, just a flicker, you imagined you weren’t alone.

—

The Hydra agent coughed again, wheezing through cracked ribs and the blood clogging his throat. Natasha didn’t flinch.

She stood at the edge of the warehouse, the shadows clinging to her like a second skin, eyes fixed on the man she’d dragged here three nights ago. He was barely conscious now. Not because she needed answers. She didn’t.

She already knew everything.

Hydra had tracked your flight. Waited until you were far enough from any backup. Shot you out of the sky like they were swatting a fly.

They hadn’t even known where you landed. They didn’t care. You weren’t the mission.

You were just the message.

She didn’t scream when she found out. Didn’t cry. Natasha Romanoff didn’t cry in front of others.

But she made sure he did.

The man tied to the chair hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger, but he had smiled when she mentioned your name. That was enough.

Now, he couldn’t smile anymore. His jaw hung crooked. One eye swollen shut. The other darted toward the dark corners of the room like he was still looking for an exit.

There wasn’t one.

Natasha didn’t speak for a long time. The silence did more damage than any threat could.

Then, finally—

“She was supposed to come home.”

Her voice was quiet. Barely there. Almost soft. The kind of softness that came before a storm leveled the world.

“You didn’t take her from S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers. You took her from me.”

She stepped into the light. Blood dried on her knuckles. Her face was blank. Hollow. She looked like someone who hadn’t slept in weeks.

Because she hadn’t.

“She fought for people who didn’t deserve her. She smiled when she was exhausted. She—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed it down. “She was going to marry me.”

The agent trembled. Natasha tilted her head.

“You don’t get to die easy,” she said. “You don’t get to be a name in a report.”

He opened his mouth — maybe to beg, maybe to explain, maybe to lie — but she raised her hand, and he stopped.

“Don’t. I don’t care what you say. I’m not here for closure. I’m here for balance.”

She didn’t scream when it ended.

She just stood there for a long time afterward, staring at what was left of him like maybe it would make a difference. Like maybe pain could fill the hollow space you left behind.

It didn’t.

The room smelled like blood and gasoline.

She left without looking back.

—

Steve and Clint didn’t know where she’d gone. Not exactly. But they knew enough to follow the silence. She hadn’t answered her comms in two days, and when Clint finally cracked and tracked her location, he showed the screen to Steve with a sigh that said more than words ever could.

They waited until she came back.

When Natasha entered the safehouse, covered in dried blood and someone else’s regrets, they were already there — sitting in the dark like ghosts.

She didn’t flinch. She just dropped her weapons on the table with a clatter and peeled off her gloves.

“I’m not in the mood.”

Clint’s voice was soft, like he’d practiced it a hundred times before saying it out loud.

“You’re not the only one who lost her, Nat.”

Natasha didn’t look at him.

Steve spoke next, standing near the window, arms crossed like he was holding himself together by will alone.

“She wouldn’t want this.”

That made her look up—slow and sharp.

“Don’t,” she said, and her voice had teeth.

“She wouldn’t,” Steve repeated. “You know it. She wouldn’t want you to burn down everything just to feel something.”

“I’m not doing this for her,” Natasha snapped. “I’m doing it for me.”

Clint stood now, voice low, pained. “No, you’re doing it because it’s the only thing you know how to do. Hurt the people who hurt you. Hurt them enough to numb the rest.”

“She’s not coming back,” Steve said gently.

The words hit harder than a punch. Natasha blinked like he’d slapped her. Then she turned away from both of them.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“You haven’t let yourself know it,” Clint said, stepping closer. “You’ve been chasing leads that go nowhere, carving bodies like they’ll give you peace. But there’s nothing left out there, Nat. And there’s nothing left in here either. Not like this.”

“I can’t let it go,” she whispered, not to them — maybe not even to herself. “If I stop, it’ll mean she’s really gone.”

Silence stretched.

Steve’s voice softened. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Natasha whispered. “Because if I stop fighting for her, I won’t know who I am anymore.”

Clint came up beside her. Didn’t touch her. Just stood there.

“Maybe it’s time to remember who you were before you met her. And who you were because of her.”

Natasha stayed quiet. Long enough that they thought maybe she was shutting down again.

But then she spoke.

“I want to go home.” Though it wasn't really, not without you.

The apartment was still.

Too still.

The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful — it felt wrong. Like the walls were holding their breath.

Her fingers hesitated over the lock, then turned. The door opened with the softest creak, and suddenly she was inside, and the air hit her all at once — stale and untouched, like time had frozen the moment you were gone.

Everything was exactly how you left it.

The coffee mug you always forgot on the side table. The jacket draped across the back of the couch, still wrinkled at the elbows where you used to fold your arms. The boots by the door, still dusted with sand from that last trip you took together — the one where you’d laughed so hard she’d forgotten to be afraid.

Her legs moved without permission.

She walked through the apartment like it might vanish if she stepped too loud. A ghost drifting through a life that used to be hers. Your toothbrush was still in the cup. Your handwriting is still on the list stuck to the fridge—"get milk / remember to breathe.”

She couldn’t breathe.

She opened the bedroom door last.

It smelled faintly of you — faded now, but still there. That quiet warmth you always carried with you, even when the rest of the world felt cold.

She crossed to the closet and stared at it for a long time before reaching out.

Her hand trembled as she slid the door open.

The clothes inside swayed gently, like they’d been waiting for her. She touched the sleeve of your favorite sweater, then the collar of the shirt she always teased you about — the one you insisted was “lucky.”

And then she saw it.

Half-buried in the back of the closet, tucked behind a shoebox and the coat you never wore — a scarf.

Yours.

She stared at it for several seconds, like her brain needed time to register that it was real. That something of you was still here, still whole, still untouched by the fire that burned everything else to ash.

Her fingers reached out. The fabric was soft and warm.

Her breath hitched.

She pulled it from the shadows slowly, as if afraid it might disintegrate in her hands. The color was faded in places. The end was frayed. It still had that slight bend in the middle where you used to loop it around your neck. She held it like it might break.

And then she broke instead.

Her knees gave out before she could stop them, and she collapsed onto the hardwood floor with the scarf clutched to her chest like a lifeline. Her forehead pressed to her knees. Her breath shattered.

The scent hit her next.

That faint trace of you — barely there, but unmistakable.

And with it came everything else.

The way you used to hum when brushing your teeth. The way you’d curl up beside her on the couch and tuck your cold feet under her thighs. The way you kissed her like you were memorizing the taste of home.

Gone.

You were gone.

And she was still here.

A sob tore free before she could choke it down. Raw. Violent. Like something in her ribs had snapped and let all the air rush out at once. Then another followed, and another, until her whole body was shaking from the force of it.

She curled in on herself, scarf clutched so tight her knuckles went white. Her shoulders shook. Her lips formed your name like a prayer — or a plea.

No one saw her.

No one heard.

Just her and the scarf and the weight of everything she’d been pretending not to feel. The pain she’d hidden behind missions and knives and revenge. The aching silence she drowned in every night when she refused to sleep in a bed that no longer had you in it.

She wept until her throat was raw and her chest hurt from the effort.

She stayed there long after the tears stopped.

Until her body went still.

Until the sun began to rise, casting soft light through the window onto the floor where she lay curled — a soldier made small by grief.

And in her arms, the last piece of you she hadn’t yet let go.

—

The rain had passed by morning, leaving the jungle slick with mist and the air heavy with salt. You’d waited for it — not just because the humidity made it easier to gather drinking water, but because the downpour loosened the earth on the cliffs and gave you better access to what remained of the wreck.

The quinjet had broken apart when it hit the ocean. You remembered that. The sound of metal screaming underwater, the taste of blood, the impossible pressure of being dragged down, limbs locked in panic. You weren’t supposed to survive that.

But you did.

And over the last three years, you’d pulled every salvageable piece of that ship from where the tide left it to rot — a shattered wing here, the broken skeleton of a cockpit there, the cracked remains of what once might’ve been a comms panel, now warped and corroded with salt.

You didn’t know what you were doing at first. Just collecting. Hoarding scraps like they might build a bridge home if you stacked them high enough.

But over time, you started remembering things.

Training. Systems. The way the emergency transponders were built to last, even in the worst-case scenario. They were buried deep — meant to survive a crash, even when the rest of the jet didn’t.

You’d found one last week. It had taken you six months of digging and prying and near-broken fingers just to reach that compartment. It wasn’t intact. Of course it wasn’t. But the casing had survived, and inside—something.

Maybe hope.

Now, sitting under the overhang just outside your cave, your fingers worked through the wires like it was surgery. You’d cannibalized parts from every ruined circuit board, every scrap of antenna you could find. You’d melted rusted solder with fire-heated blades. Wrapped copper with woven threads of your own hair when the cables snapped too short.

And now, by some miracle or madness, the thing sparked.

Just once.

But it was enough.

Your breath caught.

It wouldn’t send a full message — not voice, not even coordinates. But maybe it could do what transponders were built for: a repeating pulse. A ping. Something low-frequency. Something that, if someone out there was listening, could be traced.

You twisted the stripped cable back into the rusted port and flipped the switch.

Nothing.

You held your breath.

Then—

A faint click. A pulse. Barely audible. A slow, steady signal thumping out into the static.

It was working.

It was working.

You didn’t smile. Not really. Your face didn’t know how to do that anymore. But your chest rose, a little higher than it had in weeks. You closed your eyes and let yourself sit with it.

Maybe someone would hear.

—

Somewhere far away — in the middle of a quiet SHIELD base buried in low orbit — a console that hadn’t lit up in months gave a quiet chirp.

Maria Hill didn’t look up right away.

She’d been running diagnostics. Useless protocols. The kind of tasks she took on when sleep refused to come and she wanted something to distract her from the impossible ache in Natasha’s voice every time she said your name.

But then the console chirped again.

She frowned.

An old transponder signature — SHIELD-embedded, but ancient. Malfunctioning. The code was warped and barely legible. Buried in interference. But the system flagged it anyway, because deep in the mess of static…

…it was repeating.

Her fingers moved over the keyboard.

Isolating.

Narrowing.

The pulse came again.

Her heart climbed into her throat.

It couldn’t be.

The signal was weak. Crude. Barely functional. Like someone had thrown together scraps and bones and coaxed them into whispering across the void.

But it was enough.

Maria stared at the screen, her hands frozen above the keys.

Then, slowly, she sat up straighter.

“…Natasha.”

She didn’t call her yet. Not yet.

But the screen glowed, and the signal repeated, and for the first time in years…

…it wasn’t just silence anymore.

-----

TAGLIST: @womenarehotsstuff @seventeen-x @ctrlaltedits @ciaoooooo111 @unexpected-character @redroomgraduate @natsaffection @cheekysnake @viosblog112 @riyaexee @lilyeyama @idontliketoread2127

[vunblr]

The Broken Waltz

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader/ Bucky Barnes x other characters.

Warnings: 18+ only. Angst. Hurt. Sprinkles of Comfort. Dark Content: Dead dove, do not eat. Violence. Depictions of sexual violence. Dehumanization. Brief description of torture. Rape/Non-con. Non-consensual use of drugs. Degradation. Hydra Trash Party. Mentions of blood.

Please read the warnings carefully, and if I’ve missed any, feel free to let me know. I'm serious, this is not like my usual content. If there is a warning you don't recognize, ask about it. You are responsible for your media consumption.

Summary: Before freedom, before choice, there was only function. A tool and a weapon, bound in a dance orchestrated by Hydra’s cruel hands. The tool was meant to mend, the weapon to destroy. That night, the tool got to witness the weapon's other purposes.

Word Count: 5.6.k.

notes: This is a side-story from the completed Toy Soldier series. It can likely be read as a standalone, but for context: Reader is a mutant with healing abilities, kept in cryo alongside the Winter Soldier over the years to repair him and ensure he remains operational. If you didn't read the main story, I'm afraid there will be spoilers at the end.

As the guards escorted her through the dark corridors, their boots echoed against the cold concrete walls. She knew where they were taking her, had only been here once before, but once was enough. It was the night she learned what other uses Hydra had for the Soldat.

She didn’t ask why they’d dressed her like this -a dress, and heels that made her steps unsteady- she wasn’t stupid enough to question it. But the nerves twisted her stomach as they led her deeper into the facility.

They stopped at a different door this time, bigger and rusted, pitted with age. But she could picture the scenario waiting behind it, and her hands started to tremble.

One of the men reached for the handle. The hinges groaned as it swung open, but the sound was swallowed immediately by the music seeping out, a slow, pulsing bass that vibrated through her bones. The scent in the air hit her next, thick with smoke, sweat, and something else.

Her pulse pounded against her chest as she hesitated at the threshold, and a firm hand pressed into the small of her back. Not a push, not yet. Just a reminder. Keep moving.

Someone noticed her. A man near an improvised bar turned to her, his grin was sharp and knowing, as his gaze dragged over her form.

“Ah,” he drawled, sipping from a glass. “About time.”

Her stomach churned. She swallowed it down.

Then a second voice, closer, colder. “Come on, don’t keep us waiting.” A hand closed around her wrist. Not a bruising grip, but firm, insistent. She forced herself forward.

Laughter rippled from the far side of the room, loose and taunting, while bodies draped lazily over worn-out furniture. Half-drunk officers, lounging agents, some already slipping hands beneath pants or unbuckling belts. At the center of it all, stood him.

The Soldat.

He wasn’t restrained. He didn’t need to be. Not with the way they had carved obedience into his brain, made his body react before his mind could resist. His expression was blank, unreadable. But she saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides before flexing loose again. A tell.

His handler sat nearby, with his legs crossed, and one arm draped over the chair like a king on his throne. His gaze flicked over her, unimpressed. “I was wondering if I should retrieve you myself,” he mused. “But it seems you were just putting in extra effort to look pretty for tonight.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even let herself stiffen.

“Sit,” he said, motioning to a cushioned chair. An order, dressed as a courtesy.

She complied.

The handler leaned back, exhaling like this was all a dull inconvenience. He gestured vaguely toward the Soldat. “Let’s see… Orlov, just do it. It doesn’t look like it’s going to get hard on its own anytime soon, and you know how some of the guys get when they don’t get to play with the full package.”

It.

Always it.

Never he. Because to them, that’s all the Soldat was, a thing.

‘Orlov’ stepped forward, a man in a neatly pressed blue suit. Detached, he pressed a metal syringe to the side of Soldat’s neck and thumbed the plunger. The liquid disappeared into his bloodstream. He didn’t flinch.

The handler sighed again, shifting in his seat. “I’m tired of this chair. Get on your hands and knees.”

Soldat obeyed instantly, lowering himself to the floor without hesitation. The handler perched himself onto his broad back like a piece of furniture, rolling his shoulders before reaching into his pocket. A velvet bag emerged from it, and the drawstring loosened between his fingers.

He rattled it once. “I’ll draft the numbers now.”

Excited murmurs rose from the crowd, and the anticipation sharpened the air.

“Patience, gentlemen,” the handler said, in an almost jovial tone, like this was nothing more than a friendly game. A joke among comrades.

He reached into the bag.

And the night began.

----

She didn’t understand why she was here.

For nearly two hours, she had sat motionless, a silent spectator to the relentless degradation inflicted upon the Soldat.

She had watched as they forced him to lick their boots, dragging his tongue over leather, metal, and filth while rough hands struck him at random. The blows landed carelessly: open-palmed slaps, backhanded strikes, sharp cuffs to the head that made him lurch but never resist. They had bent him over next, pressed him down with easy cruelty, and brought out a paddle. She didn’t know what it was made of, only that it was capable of leaving angry red welts blooming across his skin, crisscrossing over old bruises like a map of their past indulgences.

And now-

Now, he knelt in the center of the room, forced to orally service them, one after another. His head yanked forward and back at their whim and other times, they just grabbed his long locks to hold him in place and they thrust harshly down his throat. His knees were pressed into what looked like shattered glass. She couldn’t tell if it had been scattered there on purpose or if a bottle had been dropped and left behind, but the damage was the same. Dark smears stained the wooden planks beneath him, fresh blood dripping steadily from the ravaged skin.

She tried not to watch. She really tried.

But the chair they had placed her in was angled toward the scene, a deliberate choice, and the guard beside her stood too close, with the long barrel of his gun nearly brushing against her arm. And then, there were the sounds. Wet, broken, relentless, rising over the muffled pulse of the music, embedding themselves into her ears.

And then-

A loud crack.

The slap landed hard across Soldat’s face, snapping his head to the side.

“Look at what you did!”

The man who had just pulled himself from Soldat’s throat was seething, his face was twisted in rage. The hem of his trousers was stained deep red since the blood from Soldat’s knees soaked into the fabric.

He flinched as the agent wrenched his head back by the hair, forcing him to look at the damage.

“You useless thing,” the agent spat. His fingers dug into Soldat’s scalp, twisting cruelly. “You think this is funny? How the hell am I supposed to explain-”

He cut himself off with a growl, shoving the asset away like he couldn’t stand the sight of him. “This can’t happen again,” he muttered darkly. Then, firmer: “It won’t happen again.”

Dragging his foot, he shoved a pile of blood-slicked glass shards toward him. “Eat it.”

Silence.

“All of it.”

For a moment -just a fraction of a second- Soldat hesitated.

His eyes flicked up, searching for something.

It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t resistance. Just something close to human, buried so deep it barely surfaced before being swallowed back down.

And then, as if something inside him snapped back into place, he obeyed. His fingers trembled only slightly as he scooped the jagged pieces into his palm. Brought them to his mouth.

The first bite sent fresh blood spilling past his lips.

His throat worked around the sharp edges, every movement of his jaw was slow, deliberate, agonizing. His breath hitched as a shard sliced the inside of his cheek, a small, choked sound that escaped before he could stop it.

A whimper.

Soft. Nearly lost beneath the noise of the room.

The agent’s fury reignited at once.

“Swallow it all,” he barked, yanking at his hair again. “Or I swear to god, I’ll shove the rest of it up your sloppy ass!”

Soldat shuddered, and his body trembled with restraint. His wet eyes burned with the sting of unshed tears as he forced himself to chew. To swallow.

His throat clenched around the shards, red smearing across his lips, his chin.

But he did as he was told.

----

The handler sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath.

It was against policy to intervene while the winners were playing with the asset. But now that the damage was done -now that Soldat had swallowed every last sliver of glass off the floor- there was no choice. If its insides tore beyond repair, the party would be over before it could really begin, and tomorrow's mission would be delayed.

The handler turned to her with a flat, bored expression. “Fix it. Periodically. Its stomach needs time to dissolve the glass, and I don’t need it bleeding out on any of the carpets.”

She nodded. Then, at the risk of being ‘disciplined,’ she hesitated, just enough to seem careful, not defiant. “Sir,” she started carefully, lowering her gaze, “the noise and… the space here makes it hard to concentrate. May I take him somewhere quieter? Just the corner, so I can work properly.”

It was a complete lie. But the man barely looked at her before waving a hand, already losing interest. “Fine. Just don’t take too long.”

She exhaled silently, then reached for Soldat’s wrist.

The skin beneath her fingers was too cold. He didn’t flinch. He just let her guide him through the crowd, moving with the same eerie compliance as always. Around them, heat and alcohol-thick laughter embraced them, with grasping hands brushed against her arms, fingers grazing her waist. She kept moving.

As they weaved through the sea of bodies, she let a slow trickle of healing energy seep through her grip, mending the welts on his rear, and the smaller scrapes littering his skin. She couldn’t do much without direct touch, but it was enough to ease the fresh bruising, to soften the pain just slightly.

When they reached the spot she had chosen, she gestured to a stool, small, rickety, ridiculous. “Sit, darling,” she murmured, gently. “So I can reach you properly.”

He obeyed instantly, lowering himself onto the stool without hesitation. His posture was perfect, straight spine, knees spread just enough to be ready to stand promptly. The blood pooling in his mouth made his lips glossy, and his throat worked hard to keep from spilling it.

“I’m going to help with your mouth, alright?” It wasn’t necessary to warn him. If she had shoved a spoonful of nails past his lips, he would have accepted it without question. But she still gave him the mercy of knowing.

Her fingers ghosted over his jaw before pressing gently against his lips. A soft glow spread beneath her palm, slipping through torn flesh, knitting muscle and skin back together.

His eyes widened, flickering with something unreadable.

Then, hesitantly -almost imperceptibly- he leaned into her touch.

Her breath caught.

For a moment, there was something painfully young in his expression. A quiet, fragile trust that had no place in this environment.

She worked quickly, sealing the lacerations on his cheeks, the punctures inside his mouth, and the shredded edges of his tongue. The bleeding slowed. Then stopped completely.

But she lingered, with her hand still cradling his jaw, feeling the warmth of his breath against her skin. “Better?” she murmured.

His lips parted slightly beneath her touch. He swallowed hard, nodding faintly.

She did the same with his throat, then let her hand drift lower, pressing gently over his chest, then his stomach, focusing on the unseen damage inside his body. She avoided looking at the painful, leaking erection straining against his belly, but it was difficult, especially when she had to kneel to mend his torn knees. He had been like this for hours, courtesy of whatever they had injected into his bloodstream, to endure its effects long past the point of agony.

How much longer would they make him suffer?

When she looked up again, she caught him wetting his lips, noticing how his throat worked as he swallowed. Right. He had spent the last few hours licking boots, servicing men, choking on their pleasure, only to end up with his mouth full of blood.

“Are you thirsty?” she asked softly.

He didn’t respond. He was too well-trained for that. But his eyes betrayed him.

She glanced around and spotted a half-empty water bottle discarded nearby. Reaching for it, she held it out to him. His gaze locked onto it, desperation flashing behind his carefully blank expression.

But he didn’t take it.

His hands remained on his thighs, his fingers curled in silent obedience, waiting.

Then she remembered.

She had heard his handler laughing in his face earlier, taunting him If you’re thirsty, Soldat, find a guest to suck it from. That’s the only drink you’ll be getting tonight.

Her stomach churned. That perverted son of a bitch.

Then, an idea came to her, a fragment from one of those ridiculous romantic novels she used to devour before all this. It might not work. But if it did…

Slowly, she uncapped the bottle and took a generous sip.

His eyes darted downward, and he tensed his jaw. His shoulders went rigid as if escaping from another cruelty, another taunt about what he could never have.

Instead, she reached out, fingers light under his chin, guiding his face up to hers. Then, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his.

He froze, startled by the shift in her demeanor.

Her lips moved against his, coaxing, soft. When her tongue brushed his lower lip in silent request, his lips parted, hesitantly at first, but when she tilted her head, letting the water slip from her mouth to his, he swallowed without hesitation.

But it wasn’t enough.

 The moment she started to pull back, his breath stuttered, and before she could fully retreat, his tongue flickered out, clumsy, desperate, catching on her lower lip as if searching for more.

A low, aching sound left his lips, and she hesitated for only a second before drinking and tipping forward again. This time, she pressed deeper, letting her tongue slide against his as another mouthful spilled between them. His throat worked, taking every drop.

When she finally pulled back, he was panting with damp lips, and his eyes were blown wide with something raw, something dangerously close to reverence.

She licked the last trace from her lips. “What do you say?” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Want the rest?”

A nod. Small, barely there.

But real.

----

The air was thick with sweat and sex, clinging to her skin like a second layer. At some point, some of the spectators had wandered off, no longer entertained, while others -too drunk or too aroused- began touching themselves or indulging in one another.

If there had been even a thread of innocence left in her about what people could do to each other during sex, it unraveled completely that night. Not that it mattered. Damaged goods couldn’t mourn the loss of something already long gone.

She had once agonized over losing her virginity before marriage, racked with guilt over the belief that no respectable man would want her afterward. Laughable. Especially when, just a couple of months later, she discovered her sweetheart had been cheating all along.

And now?

Now, she sat watching these men -these monsters- pound into Soldat, fisting his hair to use his mouth like a fleshlight, carving slurs into his skin with the tip of a knife, playing darts against his flesh as if his body were nothing but a living target board.

Most of them wore wedding rings.

Respectable men with families to return to, wives to kiss, children to lift into their arms. Hours ago, they had taken turns forcing a human doll -chained to a wall- to accommodate whatever they could think of. Testing his limits like he was a broken machine, stuffing objects inside him just to see if he could take it.

They had laughed at his suffering. Struck him for the crime of exhaling too sharply. When he whimpered, they punished him for making noise.

And now, beneath the dim, flickering light, they poured their own cum into cocktail glasses smirking, toasting, collecting it in a disgusting jar that would no doubt be used in some other depraved act before the night was over.

----

A drunken cheer erupted from the corner of the room, followed by raucous laughter. She didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to know.

But her gaze betrayed her, drawn to the loose circle forming around Soldat. Their eyes gleamed, alight with cruel amusement.

A man she recognized -one of the cruelest- stood at the center, with a cigarette pinched lazily between his fingers. He took a slow drag, exhaling smoke through his nose like a bored dragon.

Then the scent hit her nose.

Burning flesh.

Her stomach lurched as she spotted it, a small ember of orange pressed against the meat of Soldat’s thigh. The contact lasted only a second, a brief sizzle before the man pulled back to inspect his work.

He frowned. Unimpressed.

“Nothing,” he muttered, taking another drag.

“Figures.” Someone else snorted. “It’s just a fucking corpse with a pulse.”

“Maybe we’re not trying hard enough.”

The murmurs of agreement were instant. A ripple of dark anticipation.

The cigarette man smirked. Then, without hesitation, his free hand reached down, curling his fingers around the rigid length between Soldat’s thighs.

Heat crawled up her neck and sick, bitter nausea at the sight of what was coming. His body was slick, coated in sweat, his drug-induced erection still throbbing in cruel betrayal.

“Wonder if it’ll react to this,” the man mused.

The cigarette lowered, pressed just beneath the sensitive head.

This time, Soldat flinched.

It was barely noticeable -a twitch of muscle, a ghost of a movement- but they saw it.

And like sharks catching the scent of blood, they surged.

“Oh, you felt that, didn’t you?” A rough hand fisted in his hair, jerking his head up, forcing eye contact. “Bet it doesn’t hurt as bad as getting your throat split open, huh? Do you even feel pain anymore?”

The cigarette was pressed down again.

A sharp, wet inhale.

His stomach tensed, and his muscles coiled like a trapped animal. His body knew to recoil, even if his conditioning held him still.

The ember dragged a slow, deliberate path along his shaft, burning the skin in thin, blackened lines. Flesh darkened beneath the heat, branding him with each cruel press.

Someone passed another cigarette. Then another.

The men took turns pressing them into him, searing small, blistering circles along his cock, his thighs, and hip bones. A slow, methodical defilement. Some fresh and raw, others already darkening, puckering.

A sigh.

Heavy. Exasperated.

The handler stepped forward, boot nudging Soldat’s chin up, as cold, assessing eyes flicked over his ruined body. The spit drying on his bruised skin. The lipstick stains, smeared and fading. The fresh burns now marred his flesh. He curved his lip with disdain. “You look fucking disgusting.” A scoff. A lazy wave in her direction. “Fix it. I don’t need it pissing blood all over the floor.”

She moved toward him on unsteady legs, too slow for the handler’s liking.

He made a show of tapping his chin, exaggerating the gesture as if deep in thought. Then, with a smirk that curdled her insides, he spoke, “You know, pet, you’re already dressed for the occasion. "Fix it with your mouth.”

Her stomach turned. Her steps faltered.

The agents laughed, tossing crude comments her way, jeering that she was finally going to earn her place instead of sulking in a chair.

She forced herself to breathe. “I don’t know if I can, sir,” she tried, with a calm voice despite the tremor threatening at the edges. “I’ve never-”

“Don’t act all shy now, you slut.” The words cut through the space like a whip crack. “Far as I’m concerned, you’ve had your mouth on more than a couple of cocks in here.”

The laughter swelled. A few mocking whistles followed, crude and sharp.

She willed herself not to react. Not to remember.

Instead, she lowered her gaze. Pick your battles. “I meant healing, sir. My mouth… I’ve never used it like that before.”

The handler tilted his head, amused. “What better time to learn than now?”

He turned, spitting his next command at Soldat. “On your feet.”

Then, his eyes snapped back to her.

“You. Put that mouth to use before I change my mind and make you earn your food with your holes.”

She couldn’t stop the shudder that rolled through her body.

A thick swallow. A deep breath. Then she got on her knees, pressing hesitant hands against Soldat’s hips. His skin was clammy under her palms, too warm now, from fever or drugs or both. The scent of his body hit her like a blow, charred flesh, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood that trickled between his thighs.

Her stomach twisted, but she leaned in anyway.

A tentative lick, a slow stripe along his shaft. She reached, searching for the connection, trying to channel her gift through her tongue.

Nothing.

Her stomach clenched. She tried again, swirling her tongue around seared skin, forcing herself to ignore the low, wet noises of the room.

Nothing.

She pulled back, lips barely parting as she murmured, “It- it doesn’t work.”

The handler sighed, in a long and theatrical tone, as if she were a child disappointing a parent. “Useless bitch.” He flicked his wrist, already bored. “Fine. Use your hands.”

A pause.

“While you suck that pathetic excuse of a dick it got there. Don’t want the boys dying of boredom.”

Her fingers trembled as she wrapped them around him, the burned skin hot beneath her touch. She swallowed hard.

The agents were watching. Waiting.

A hand clamped down on the back of her neck, squeezing just enough to make her jolt. "Now," the handler warned with impatience.

Her lips parted, and she forced herself forward, feeling the taste of sweat and burned flesh thick on her tongue. The moment she took him into her mouth, laughter erupted around them. Some sneered in approval, others jeered with drunken amusement.

“Look at her,” one of them drawled, slurring slightly. “Acting like she’s never done it before.”

A sharp slap landed against the side of her face, not hard enough to bruise but meant to humiliate.

His skin was fever-hot on her mouth, the brutalized flesh cracked and raw where the cigarettes had bitten deep. He didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. He just stood there, waiting to be used, to be humiliated, to endure.

She breathed through her nose, shifting her mouth slightly, adjusting to the salt and copper clinging to her tongue.

Soldat’s stomach tensed. Just barely. Just enough for her to notice. Her hands smoothed over his hip in reassurance, though she wasn’t sure who she was trying to comfort.

“There you go,” the handler mused, with mock satisfaction. “Not so useless after all.”

Her hands began to glow faintly, and her gift sought out the worst of the wounds, the deepest burns, the tears that had yet to stop bleeding.

“Ah, help her rinse her mouth”, one of the men said, pouring his drink on Soldat's groin, splashing her face in the process. She imagined the burn of alcohol searing over the scalded skin of his cock, a punishment layered upon punishment.

He twitched in her mouth, jerking from pain or something else, she couldn’t say. And yet, quiet, shameful gratitude curled in her chest, and her lips parted slightly as the mock assistance washed over her tongue, ridding her of the taste of burned flesh.

Her fingers ghosted then over the ruined skin of his shaft, guiding her healing through the raw burns, knitting together flesh that should never have been damaged in the first place. Beneath her touch, she felt him twitch again, the smallest, involuntary reaction to relief.

The room buzzed with lazy amusement. Some had lost interest, slumping back in their chairs with half-drunk glasses dangling from their fingers, while others watched with languid, predatory satisfaction.

"It’s... it’s done, sir," she murmured, keeping her gaze toward the floor, and her hands trembling against her thighs.

Laughter. Mocking.

"I still see it at full attention, pet."

She clenched her teeth, willing herself not to react. Of course it was. The cocktail of drugs coursing through his veins had ensured that much.

“But the healing-”

"Oh, for the love of God," the handler groaned, exasperated. "Just suck it dry the same way you do with Bìkov on his shifts. You’ve already started, after all."

A pause. A slow, deliberate smirk.

"Besides, I think it likes you."

A sharp pat to Soldat’s shoulder, condescending, like a master indulging a particularly obedient pet.

She pressed her lips together, feeling her pulse roaring in her ears.

A slow inhale.

"Yes, sir."

She leaned in again, gently pressing her fingers against the tense muscles of his thighs as she worked his hard, throbbing length with slow and deliberate motions. At some point, his blue gaze flicked down to her. She held his stare as she swirled her tongue around the sensitive head of his cock, washing away the last traces of pain. Slowly, she took him deeper, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked him gently, coaxingly. One hand slid to cup and massage his heavy balls, while the other slid up and down the part of his cock she couldn’t accommodate in her mouth. She started to move with the determination to bring him to completion quickly. 

The room faded away -the leering faces, the harsh lights, the laughs-. At that moment, there was only him, and his taste in her mouth. A perverse intimacy born of cruelty and circumstance.

The tension in his body shifted, and the trembling was no longer solely from pain. His breath hitched, and his fingers twitched where they had been obediently fisted at his sides. A shudder ran through his body, deep and uncontrollable, as his body finally gave in to something other than suffering.

His release was silent. No groan, no exhale of pleasure, only the sharp, involuntary clench of his abdomen, and the sudden, erratic rise and fall of his chest as his hips jerked once, twice. His body convulsed with the force of the orgasm, and his shoulders locked tight before he sagged forward, utterly spent.

For a moment, nothing moved. He was still hard -of course he was- but the unbearable strain had lessened, and the raw edge of his agony momentarily dulled. Even if just for a second, his body had been allowed to take something back.

She pulled away, swallowing thickly as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, trying not to think about what had just happened, what she had done, what he had been forced to endure. She wasn’t sure how she felt. Relief? Shame? It didn’t matter now.

The room, however, reacted differently.

Laughter erupted in the stance, drunken and wild, it was the sound of amusement tinged with something mean-spirited. Someone clapped, slow and mocking. “Well, would you look at that,” the handler drawled, stepping forward. His boot nudged at Soldat’s knee, forcing his posture back into proper submission. “Guess it had more in it than we thought.”

More laughter. A murmur of approval, men slapping each other’s backs like they had just witnessed a particularly good joke.

----

As expected, the jar of collective filth had a purpose.

At some point -between the agony, the laughter, the sick indulgence- someone had forced the asset into a maid’s dress. The fabric clung awkwardly to his frame, and the short skirt pooled in humiliating ruffles over bruised thighs. A lacy headpiece had been pinned into his damp, tangled hair, slipping askew with the weight of sweat and abuse.

And now, they had him kneeling before the jar, a straw pressed between his raw, swollen lips.

After all the abhorrent things she had witnessed that night, this felt… surreal. It should have been absurd, laughable in its ridiculousness. But it wasn’t. Not with the way his hands stayed obediently folded over his lap, not with the way his hollow eyes stared straight ahead, as he drew slow, mechanical sips from the straw.

The men around him roared with laughter, snapping pictures with strange cameras, sleek, silver things with small glowing screens, no film to spool, no rolls to develop. Instant gratification. They posed beside him like he was nothing more than a prop, tilting his chin up, forcing his battered lips into a parody of a pout.

Like a girl sipping a milkshake for a magazine cover.

A beaten, swollen, defiled version of that, obviously.

----

The night had stretched long, and the indulgence had given way to exhaustion. The room had thinned, only the most depraved lingered to watch the final act of entertainment.

Soldat had been given an order.

Dance with her.

His head tilted slightly at the order, and his swollen lips parted as if to breathe in the command like it was something tangible. Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he turned toward her chair.

His tired eyes found her across the room, sunken into herself, bracing for whatever fresh cruelty they had conjured. He moved. Slow, limping, his bare feet sticking to the filth-slicked floor, and the torn lace of his ridiculous maid’s dress swaying pitifully against his bruised thighs. He stopped before her, close enough for her to see the dried blood at his hairline, and the trembling in his fingers as he extended his hand.

A parody of elegance.

A gentleman in a ballroom.

The room was silent now, watching. Waiting. She took his hand -what other choice did she have?- and there was no hesitation in his grip as he pulled her up. He led her to the center of the room, positioning her as was desired, and then… he moved.

Despite everything -the degradation, the broken skin, the exhaustion woven into every fiber of his body- he was a good dancer. He guided her with a firm but gentle hold, leading her through the waltz as if this were an evening of refinement instead of a pit of debauchery.

She forced herself to focus on him. Not the sneers, not the slurred laughter, not the echoes of what they did to him, or what they made her do. Just him.

His lips were split, and a cheekbone was darkened with bruising, yet his eyes -God, his eyes- were what undid her.

Awake. Not just alive, but aware.

And in that awareness, something wretched.

Sadness. Heavy and inescapable, a ghost of a man still lingering in the hollow shell they had carved him into.

She wondered if this skill on the dance floor was shoved into his brain as another tool, another weapon for seduction and subterfuge, or was a remnant of something real. A fragment of the past, long buried beneath steel orders and forced obedience.

She tried to picture it. A different setting. A different life.

Trade the tattered maid dress for a suit and tie, with the sharp cut of the jacket emphasizing his broad shoulders and strong arms. His tangled and dirty hair, clean and neatly styled. His mouth free of blood, curving into a mischievous, charming smile.

Would he have smiled at her? Would he have asked her to dance, some lifetime ago, with laughter in his voice instead of a command in his brain?

God, she would have said yes without a second thought.

As he guided their steps in slow, measured turns, she let her thumb brush over the back of his hand, a quiet, fleeting comfort. Almost imperceptible.

“It’s almost over,” she whispered, her voice meant only for him. “Almost there, Soldat. And then, I’ll make it all go away.”

Physically, at least.

His grip on her hand tightened, just slightly. Not enough to hurt, but enough to be felt. His gaze never wavered, locked onto hers with a force that sent a shiver through her body. His lips were pressed together, then parted, just a fraction, like he wanted to speak but thought better of it.

Still, that tiny hesitation said enough.

----

Silence, at last.

The spectators had had their fill, leaving only the echoes of their laughter behind. Soldat was sent back to his "kennel," and as always, she followed; trailing in his shadow, the designated keeper of a thing they would soon redeploy, its suffering inconsequential so long as it functioned. His condition had to be pristine. His pain was irrelevant.

So here they were.

She sat on the rim of his cot, watching the broken thing beside her, an instrument of war curled in on itself, reduced to a trembling frame of raw muscle and open wounds. He didn’t try to sit, didn’t dare after what they had done to him. His back was to her, the powerful body that could break men like nothing was now curled tight as if trying to disappear.

She knew better than to startle him.

"I’m going to touch you now, sweetheart," she murmured. "Your head first. Then I’ll work my way down, alright?"

No answer. There never was.

But he moved. A shift, subtle and deliberate, and suddenly she wasn’t staring at his bruised back anymore.

Blue eyes met hers, tired, shadowed, yet startlingly present.

----

"Cream cheese or plum jam, doll?" he asked, shaking a thick slice of toast in his vibranium hand.

She blinked.

The past bled away as she lifted her head, meeting those blue eyes that were no longer dull, no longer shadowed.

He'd put it on again, her frilly, maid-like apron. The delicate lace looked absurd against muscle and metal, tied haphazardly around his broad frame.

She swallowed, pushing the memories down, and locking them away where they belonged. "Both, handsome," she answered, carefully setting the cups and cutlery on the table.

Maybe he didn’t remember that specific day.

Maybe the chair had wiped it from him, erased it like so many other things.

And for that, she was grateful.

Tags: @cats-chaotic-mind

Dividers by: @/cafekitsune

[lvciddreqms]

Pairing: Logan Maddox x fem!reader (Motorheads)

Genre: fluff, romance, friends to lovers

Warning: this is insanely cheesy

A/n: this story was requested!

Scribbled hearts

"These promposals are going to kill me." You groaned, smacking your head onto the lunch table. "What, because you don't got a date to the prom?" Logan chuckled. "No.. because they're cheesy, and dumb, and did I mention cheesy?" You said, looking over at the promposal in motion. "You did." He responded with a nod. "I mean, can we talk about the fact that half of them aren't even based off of what the girls like?" You scoffed.

"They seem pretty happy to me..?" He replied, leaning back into his seat as he watched a guy across the quad hold up a giant glitter poster that read: "You auto be my date to prom!" next to a rusted out car with pink balloons tied to the mirror. "Okay, that ones kinda funny." Logan said with a snort. "Funny? Logan, she's terrified of driving. She literally failed her permit test three times." you pointed out, your tone flat.

He winced. "Oof... yeah, uh.. that's rough.." You groaned again, sinking into your seat. "It's like these guys don't even know the people they're asking. They just wanna get a scene, get a video, and go viral." Logan tilted his head, studying you for a second. "Okay Y/n, so what would you want then?" You paused, caught off guard by the question. "What do you mean..?"

"For a promposal. If it wasn't dumb or cheesy. If someone actually did it right." You narrowed your eyes at him to see if he was teasing, but he just seemed to be asking a question. "I don't know..." you said slowly. "Something small, something thoughtful, something that feels like me. Maybe custom to a special memory or something.."

You were about to press him, to ask why he was curious when the bell rang. He stood up, swinging his bag over his shoulders. "Cmon we got auto." He said, pulling you by your sleeve. You followed behind him, observing, a weird flutter kicking up in your chest. You shook your head. Nope. Not going there.

But later that day, when you opened your locker to find a small piece of paper, with a scribbled message surrounded by small doodles. "You're right. Cheesy isn't the way to go." You couldn't stop the smile that pulled your lips, glancing down the hallway to catch Logan looking at you from a distance with a boyish grin on his face. And your heart absolutely did not flutter. Not even a bit.

You slipped the paper into your pocket, cheeks warm, and shut your locker with a soft click. The hallway buzzed with end of the day chaos-slamming lockers, shouted goodbye's, and the occasional squeak of someone's busted up sneakers. But your gaze narrowed in on one thing. Luke. Or more specifically, the way he didn't even wait for a reaction. No smirk. No expectation. Just.. walked off like it didn't matter.

But it did. More than it should've. You found yourself smiling again as you walked into seventh period. And when you sat down in your usual seat, Logan was already there, chin propped in his hand, doodling something in the corner of his notebook. You didn't say anything right away. Just slid into your seat and let the silence stretch for a moment.

Then, casually. "You know, for someone who 'doesn't care' that was a pretty thoughtful note." Luke's mouth twitched, but be didn't look up. "Must've been a coincidence. Maybe your secret admirer's just got good timing." You snorted. "Right. Secret admirer who also happens to have the same terrible handwriting as you."

He finally looked at you, eyes dancing with something you couldn't quite put your finger on. "If it was me-which I'm not saying it was-I'd probably do something better next time." "Oh?" You raised an eyebrow. "Like what?" He leaned in slightly, voice low. "Not telling. You hate spoilers." You hated that he knew that. You hated how he was right. And you especially hated the heat crawling up your neck.

Class started but your brain was somewhere else entirely. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, trying to decipher if this was still a joke to him or if..maybe he was serious. The next day, another note appeared, this time tucked between the pages of your sketchbook.

It was written on the back of a cafeteria napkin, in the same messy writing. "Today's prompt: list three things you'd actually say yes to. Bonus points if they're not cheesy." You looked up sharply, No Logan, just a blur of students. You bit back a smile and grabbed your pen and scribbled under the prompt.

1. A promposal that doesn't involve glitter

2. A date that starts with milkshakes and ends with a movie

3. Someone who actually listens

And underneath, in smaller letters. "You get points if you bring gummy worms."

You left your sketchbook half open on your desk during next period. And when you came back from the bathroom? The list had a fourth item, written in a new line below yours.

4. Logan

You stared at it. Blinked. Then closed the sketchbook quickly, your heart racing in your chest. This wasn't a joke anymore. And honestly? You weren't sure you wanted it to be. You spent the rest of the day in a daze. Like your brain had just hit the gas and the brakes at the same time. One minute you were replaying the moment you found your list edited-edited by Logan of all people. You were trying to convince yourself that it meant nothing.

It was a joke. It had to be. Logan teased everyone. He was effortlessly charming, full of that casual confidence that made it hard to tell when he was being serious. But item four? That didn't feel casual. That didn't feel like a joke. That felt like he saw you, really saw you.

By the time the final bell rang, you'd make exactly zero progress in calming down. Your stomach flipped as you shoved your books into your bag, barely even registering the conversations happening beside you. You were halfway down the hallway when you spotted him-leaning against the lockers like he had nowhere to be and all the time in the world.

"Hey." He said, straightening when he saw you. You stopped, adjusting the strap of your bag. "Hey." There was a pause. "So.." He began, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Did I get any points?" You stared at him, your heart thudding in your chest. "For what..? Stealing my sketchbook?" Logan tilted his head, grinning. "For honesty. And the gummy worms."

You blinked. "You didn't even-" He pulled a little bag from his hoodie pocket and held it up. "Sour, not regular. I pay attention." You stared at the bag, then at him. Then back at the bag. He shrugged, a little less smug now. "I meant what I wrote, by the way. I know I joke around a lot, but... I wouldn't have put it on the list if I didn't mean it."

You swallowed hard, your voice coming out quieter than you expected it to be. "And what does that mean exactly?" He looked at you for a long second, all the teasing melting from his expression. "It means..." He said. "If you wanted to go to prom-with someone who doesn't believe in glitter signs or public embarrassment-I'd like to be that someone." He said, handing you a piece of paper once more, in the middle it read "Prom?" surrounded in the doodles of his that you loved so much.

Your breath caught. You could say no. You could make a joke, deflect, pretend your heart wasn't doing summersalts in your chest. But instead. "Okay." You said softly, a soft smile growing onto your face.

✩

Marcel held the small piece of paper in his hand, looking at it curiously. "Hey, check this out." He called out towards everyone who was inspecting a car. Caitlyn walked over, taking the paper. "... Wonder why Uncle Logan would have this.." She spoke, raising her brow. The paper in her hands looked a bit aged and worn out, it was slightly crumpled up and had some tears on the sides, but the ink remained in the same condition as the day "Prom?" and those small drawings were written onto it.

[yoonguurt]

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.”

[gaoshun]

𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

cw: 3.2k, angst, happy ending, mutual pining, childhood best friends to lovers

note: finally posted the fic i made a poll for. wrote this while listening to this exact audio. split screen or use premium if you have for a better reading experience.

“Play for me!” Shinichiro grins widely as he sits at your chair in your room. You sit on your bed, your guitar in your hand.

You were still in your school uniforms. Shinichiro and you were with your friends and when everyone dispersed to go home, he decided to accompany you home. It wasn't something new. Your house was like another home for him. Your parents knew him well, and his family. It was so common for him to come to your house after school that room privileges were already earned.

“Shin,” You giggle, shy.

Shy because playing in front of someone was always an embarrassment to you. Even if that someone was your best friend. Especially because all the songs you wrote were… for him. You never let him find out though. Everytime he caught you writing lyrics to a new song he would get so excited to read. Half of the time you hid your notebook from him.

“C’monnnn!” He pouted. “I am your best friend. I need to have some benefits.”

“Play for me please. I will always be your #1 fan. And I wanna be the first to hear whatever your genius brain comes up with.”

It was so hard to take his comments and compliments at face value when the deeper meanings begged for you to grab a hold of them and… do something about it. Well, if there was a deeper meaning in the first place. Which, you very well knew, there wasn't any.

Shin made it abundantly clear. Not directly. But it was obvious. Shinichiro Sano had asked out so many girls in his life since you two became friends that you had lost count by now.

That's another thing that no one ever reciprocated those feelings. And you never understood how. People liked him. But girls, they never did. Not in that way. Especially with his history of asking out any girl he had an inkling of feelings for.

How could one not like him? His kind heart? Forgiving, caring and giving. He gave his all to everyone. He wore his heart on his sleeve. Open for anyone to use and hurt him. He was so funny, he made you laugh till your stomach and jaw hurt. He would soothe your cries and do anything for you to stop crying. Even if it ended up hurting him. He was so responsible and mature. Didn't girls like those things in a man?

People made fun of him behind his back. He took it in stride, though. Always laughing at himself along with him. Acting as if it didn't hurt him. But you knew better.

He had practically asked out every girl in the school. Some from outside school too. And unfortunately you were there for most of them. Asked out, rejected, asked out, rejected, asked out, rejected. The cycle continues. But never you.

They said that if you are a girl he would ask you out. But then… why not you? Were you not feminine enough for him? Is femininity what he liked? What did you do so wrong that you were never proposed to? Why did he not like you like that? Just what did you do wrong? Where did you go wrong? Was being his friend the crime? Did he not see you a potential partner because you were his best friend? Just his best friend?

“Fine, fine.” You played with the strings of your guitar as you looked down, a smile playing on your lips.

Getting in the groove you started the tune. The tune you had created and practiced to perfection. Till the music personified your emotions. Coloured them in your feelings. Exuberated with words you never could speak, expressions you hid, fondness you brushed away.

“I wanna be your vacuum cleaner

Breathing in your dust

I wanna be your Ford Cortina

I will never rust”

He giggled and you smiled involuntarily. You continued singing.

“Secrets I have held in my heart

Are harder to hide than I thought

Maybe I just wanna be yours

I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours”

You panicked. For some reason you couldn't tear your gaze away from his deep, deep black eyes.

Fuck, did he catch on? Does he know now? Does he look disgusted by any chance?

“I wanna be your setting lotion (wanna be)

Hold your hair in deep devotion (How deep?)

At least as deep as the Pacific Ocean

Now I wanna be yours”

Shinichiro wasn't smiling. His eyes had gone dark. Expression passive and hard to read. You had never seen him like this. It was kinda scaring you. You willed yourself to continue.

“Secrets I have held in my heart

Are harder to hide than I thought

Maybe I just wanna be yours

I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

(Wanna be yours)”

You eased the song to an end by a few slow, soft strings of your guitar. Slowly you kept the guitar beside you. But the way Shinichiro looked at you made you yearn for the feeling of the guitar on you. It acted as a shield.

“What happened?” You chuckled nervously. That made Shinichiro shake out of his stupor. He grinned. But something told you it wasn't true.

“Nothing.” He smiled.

“That was a wonderful song. I loved the music so much. And the words really displayed how strong the singer feels. Amazing experience, thank you (name).” At least that felt honest, so you smiled back.

“Thank you, Shin.”

“So,” he stood up, leaning against your study table now and crossing his arms. He wiggled his eyebrows. “Who did you write this for, hm?”

“What?” Your eyes widened.

“Oh c’mon. Who’s the lucky guy? Whom did you write it for? Who was the inspiration? Tell me!”

“Shin-”

“Nooo tell me! Tell me! I deserve to know! You have a crush and I don't know? Blasphemous!” He dramatized it a bit.

So you had no choice but to lie.

“Someone.” You acted smug. Acting all cool and mysterious.

What other choice did you have? Tell him? Confess? And then what? Lose years of friendship because you couldn't keep friends as friends and turned them into stupid feelings? How are you any better than the guys the girls in your friend group make fun of? Because you are a loser who isn't good enough for him? And you can't get over him? And seeing him on his knee in front of yet another girl broke your heart a bit more every single time?

The rest of the evening went with Shinichiro trying his hardest to make you open up but you willed your heart strong and continued to pretend. To not show how your heart was breaking into a hundred pieces with every lie you spewed. Until he eventually gave up. Thanks to your mom calling you both downstairs for lunch.

“Another day went by. You didn't confess. Just how long was this torture gonna continue?” You thought as you laid on your bed staring at the ceiling. A tear slipped from your eyes before you closed them shut and fell asleep.

—

The first thing you see the next morning predicts the mood of your entire day better than the meteorological department of japan.

Shin, with another girl. Yes it always hurts but it's nothing new. What's new and extremely shocking – even to Shin is – she. said. yes.

A girl said yes to his proposal. She wants him to date her. Shin is now dating a girl. They would most probably make it official soon. And they would fall in love. Would be one of the many couples in your school. Be highschool sweethearts. Go to university tog- ain’t no way Shin is going to a university. Get married. Have kids. Get ol-

Someone pushes against your shoulder as they pass by to enter the school building. “Watch where you're going.”

But you are too stunned to retort that it was their fault.

—

Shin boasts about his new girl in front of you, Benkei, Takeomi and Wakasa. They all roll their eyes. But still seem happy because he is happy. Except for you. One couldn't have a more fake smile than the one you had slapped on your face. He blabbers on and on about how he did it and what she said and the moment of confession. And of course he was exaggerating a lot, you saw it after all. But the others didn't believe much either. Except Takeomi, he valued every bullshit Shin spewed as if it was set in stone. You rolled your eyes.

“And when I finally said those words, down on one knee as I was. My knees hurt, they are red even now! But I didn't budge. I didn't recite anything of course, I said it all by heart. Then she-”

“I have class.” You cut him off and get up. The boys look up at you and nod. Shin pouts.

“What? Not everyone is as aimless and free as you. People have work.” You raise your hands in defense and smooth your skirt. Exiting the confines of the bench you move exit the otherwise empty classroom.

It's only when you passed a few corridors and entered an usually empty bathroom did you let your tears flow. You missed the class for that period. And wailed without hesitation. No one came inside.

—

“Bro, fuck my life.” You smash your fist against the punching bag hanging in front of you. It was a pretty gloomy looking basement, all greys and dirty whites; one could consider it abandoned by the fact that there was no one here.

You didn't confess and now it was too late. You had gotten over your earlier crying fit. Now the sadness had turned into anger. Not towards him or the girl, but on you. It's all your fault. If only you had been brave enough. Had confessed earlier. Then maybe you would have saved yourself a heartbreak.

No. Of course you can't, couldn't. You couldn’t possibly ruin years and years of friendship. You two knew each other since early years of school. It was the most beautiful thing in your life. The security and safety you felt in this friendship with a guy was unprecedented, to you at least. Years of laughter, memories, mistakes, crimes albeit small and so many more friendships.

You backed away and sat on the floor, playing with your gloves. Your knuckles hurt with constant friction and force they were experiencing against them for at least thirty minutes straight. You sighed. You loved Shin too much to even risk a break up. Nevermind. It is what it is. You have cried enough the past few days, enough now.

“What's gotten into you?” Your eyes snap up and there you see Takeomi.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I am talking about.” He walks towards you. “Been weird always if you ask me but, the past few days you’ve been weirder.”

“You think too much, Takeomi.” You shrug, choosing to say as little as needed.

“You know you aren't as evasive and cool as you think you are.”

“Fuck you man.”

“Just confess.”

“Huh?!” You look up at him, eyes wide.

“We all know. You have liked Shin for like, forever now. How long are you gonna pretend it doesn't hurt you, (name)?”

You are quiet for a minute or two before you mumble, “He is dating someone now.” No use of denying, they have always known.

“Oh c’mon. Do you really thi-” His phone rings. It's Shin.

“Confess, (name).” He spoke, voice of finality. Also sounded as if he knew something but you couldn't pinpoint what. With that he left you alone. And you continued your pity party some time more.

—

Shinichiro wasn't happy.

Shouldn't he have been? He finally had a girlfriend! After so many years and so many confessions, this should have tasted like sweet victory. But… it doesn't.

The girl is amazing. Sweet and cute. Smart, great at history and talented at playing the harp. Definitely above his league. He doesn't understand how he managed to get her as a girlfriend.

But it wasn't even the league difference that made him feel out of place. It was the pain.

Did he even qualify to feel hurt when it was him in a relationship and not you. He had a girlfriend, he was set, right? She seemed to like him, and seemed to enjoy their relationship. All seemed good.

But how can one erase years of yearning? The pining he did after you ever since he met you. He accepts that it was just infatuation in the beginning, a girl became friends with him. Then it was an emotional connection and a strong friendship when he lost his dad and mom one after the other. Then as he turned towards teenage, it was a crush. He liked you. A lot. Everything about you made his heart race, his throat dry and his mind reel.

He remembers how he would always be with you. Is Shin at home? No. Of course he isn't.

Where is he? With (name) of course.

Where are they? Probably doing stupid things together.

Shin would always hang out with you. At your place, at his place. At school. After school. At convenience stores. With his gang. With his friends. With his siblings. At random places. At dangerous places. At the wrong places. Everywhere.

Study sessions together became a routine. Shin wasn't bad at studying. And when needed he would get the work done. He had his own unique ways of studying so studying with him was always fun.

But of course. The same old common ass reason that holds everyone in love with their best friend back. “What if I lose my friendship with them?”

So he never confessed. Always held back. Tried to forget his feelings by trying to date other girls. Soon it became a coping mechanism. He didn't even mean it at one point.

And when you played the song to him a few days ago, confessing that you liked someone; Shin cried himself to sleep. Heart absolutely broken and shattered into pieces. All his hopes died at that moment. World became gloomier than the skies of London. The one person he found solace in might drift away from him, into someone else's arms. Just the thought alone could make him break down into another crying fit.

“Bro for fuck sakes just confess.” Wakasa rolled his eyes. He was so fucking done with this guy.

“She likes someone else.” He mumbles after a minute or two.

“No the fuck she doesn- Whatever. You do your job. Trust me on this. There is literally no reason for you to sulk all the time, you know? It's fucking pathetic man. Just ask her out and get dating already.”

“Yeah man this has been going on for like, forever.” Takeomi chimed in, sighing.

Benkei stayed quiet, empathetic towards his friend. He understood him, but knew that the other two weren't wrong either. Benkei knew you liked him just as much as he liked you if not more.

“Too risky.” Shin pouted. He played with the wall, poking it as he made himself small, arms wrapped around his legs and put his head in between them.

“Oh my fucking God.” Wakasa and Takeomi exclaimed in exasperation.

“Shin, let's have a talk.” Benkei’s voice was deep and comforting. Shin nodded.

—

The one day Shin wanted to desperately talk to you, you were nowhere to be found. In his nervousness, he forgot you had swimming practice.

So when you came back to your class freshly showered Shin almost knocked you over as he skated towards you. “Holy shit Shi-”

“We need to talk!” He exclaims, too loud.

“Okayyy…?”

“I am in love with you!”

The whole corridor quiets down. Not a single person dares utter even a gulp. It was luck that there were still ten minutes for class to start. Benkei, Wakasa and Takeomi watching from the sidelines hidden from view slapped their palms on their heads. This was anything but a romantic setting, and everything Benkei taught him went down the drain. He really wasn't smooth.

“I have been in love with you forever. Since the day I met you. I have never liked anyone other than you. It was, is and will always be you. Even if you decide you don't feel the same way. I’d understand.” He blabbered on and on without taking a single break all in one breath. “But till the day I die I will always hold you close to my heart. You mean everything to me. My best friend, my confidant, my crush, my world. You can say no if you want, that's alright. Please don't feel compelled to say yes just cause my dumbass couldn't control himself and confessed in front of everyone. I promise you this isn't one of those bullshit confessions I do almost everyday with every other girl. I truly mean it, (name). This is more important to me than my life.”

“Shin, shin, shin. Breathe.” You somehow find the will to muster up these words. What with the wide eyes, jaw on the floor, stunned as fuck expression you wore on your face.

When he does, he looks at you. As if waiting. Yeah he did say he would wait for your answer and you could never like him back but… well… that doesn't mean he would just not do anything, you know? He was a boy in love after all.

“But weren't you dating some other gi-”

“Broke up.” He cuts you off. He was buzzing with energy and adrenaline, and almost couldn't stand stable on his feet. “Broke up a day ago. She agreed. All good. Now?”

Everything was quiet for some time. You got your bearings right. A million thoughts in your mind and all a mush at the same time.

You never prepared yourself for when it would finally happen. If it would finally happen. And it did. And holy fuck was this more romantic than anything else Shin could have done-

“Oh wait, I forgot to get on my knees. I am so sorry.” He gets on one knee and looks up at you as if you hung the stars in the sky just for him. You would, if he asked.

You giggled. Then bent down and got on one knee too. Held his outstretched hand in yours and spoke, “I fucking love you too. So much and for so long. So consider this my confession too.”

Shin finally knew what his English teacher meant by ‘being on cloud nine’. Because he was. Irrevocably so.

“You- you do?” His voice was low, almost afraid.

“I do.” You matched his tone as you looked into his eyes and he did in yours.

“Can I hug you?”

“You can do anything you want.”

And Shin pulled you into the tightest hug you have ever received as you two sat on your knees on the corridor floor. He squeezed you close to him and didn't let you go.

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The moment was broken by Tanaka-sensei’s scolding as he subjected you both to an hour of detention.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Knowing Shin and you, of course you two escaped school laughing out loud as you ran hand in hand.

[amagellaniccloud]

Yandere Ghost x Reader

I originally wanted this as a one-shot but, now it is a short series. I never thought I'd be into the Yandere thing but I got into it after listening to Lana del Rey.

I tried to make this as GN as possible, if I missed something please let me know y'all <3

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

This series will contain sexually explicit content. If you are a Minor please respect this rule and scroll past and DO NOT ENGAGE WITH NSFW POSTS.

⚠ Warnings ⚠

Stalking, Severe Anxiety, Drugging.

I'll add more warnings as the series progresses

Fic under the Cut

Everyone always talked about that specific feeling, y'know the one, when it feels like you're being watched. You get and endless waves of goosebumps because of it, your brain starts running at 100 miles per hour, every little sound, the snap of a twig, a crack of a soda can, the whistling of the rusted street lamps, puts you on high alert and makes you snap your head back to see if you're clear from danger.

Well, that is exactly what you are feeling right now. You had been feeling this for a week straight. Whenever you would go to work, the store, etc. there would always be that lingering sense of someone's eyes on you. Now it's even worse, even if you go out in your yard, or go to check the mail you'd get that same feeling.

You had brought this concern up to the authorities but, they didn't do much. You thought that maybe you were just imagining it. However, your suspicion of being stalked was yesterday. You had been applying for a new job and had just gotten accepted, today was your first day. When you got home from work that day, a letter was slipped between the crack of your front door.

Congratulations on the new job! Hope this one's better than the last one. █████ █████ was a real bitch, huh, good thing you won't have to deal with him anymore <3

You bolted inside as soon as you read the contents of the letter. This was it, you were gonna die, This person knew where you lived. You just went and sat on the couch, trying to process the situation.

It turned your stomach, it felt like your intestines were rearranging themselves, and, your heartbeat got even slower, and was squeezing inside of yourself with every passing minute.

You were sweaty, so sweaty that your palms had soaked the letter, now the contents of it barely legible.

You decided to crumple up the letter and throw it away, it needed to get out of your sight. You decided to put on some music and go do work around the house, it would be distracting, you thought. You just needed anything to get your mind off of that letter.

It was the next day, you were running on nothing but caffeine. That night, it was as if your body and mind had forgotten how sleep worked. You just could not fall asleep.

You had put on music in your room to get rid of your poisoning thoughts, but every time the music faded, there was silence. A silence so loud that you thought that the clothes on the chair was a man standing in the corner of your room. That caused you to turn on the lights in your room and just lay on your bed, with your eyes wide open.

Maybe it is something that'll just fade with time. The fear instilled within you caused you to not even pay attention in the work meeting and you had to ask your co-workers about it. The work was….. nice. There were people around you, it wasn't loud, but it wasn't silent there. For the First time in almost two weeks, you felt safe.

You decided to do overtime. It would provide you with the sense of security you were oh-soo longing for. You had even gotten in a 45-minute nap. However, all good things must come to an end. You needed to go home. The place you'd never thought you'd dread so much after your teens.

The drive was long, or, it felt long. You stopped at a gas station to buy some beer or maybe a cigarette. The other person shopping in the store caught your eye though. He looked, hot. He was tall, muscular, and had a tattoo sleeve done. You said a simple good evening to him, he replied with the same and went on your merry way. He was really good looking but now's not the time to chase after men, after all, a man may very well be chasing after you right now.

You shook your head as you shivered at that thought. You needed to go home and eat, caffeine isn't gonna last you forever. When you stepped inside your house, you smelt something from the kitchen. It smelled like a freshly baked pizza and made your stomach growl. You were so hungry that you were smelling things that weren't there….. or, were you?.

You went into the kitchen and found exactly that. A Freshly Baked Pizza. Beside it was a note that read;

You shouldn't work overtime on your second day, you'll get burned out. Here, I made something especially for you. Now eat up ok? I didn't see you pack any lunch so you must be starving. <3

No. No no. No NO NO. As you fearfully baked away from that wretched food you bumped into the wall. Or was it a wall?

In what felt like an instant. A large hand grabbed your shoulder and another hand put a cloth over your mouth. You fought against the person holding you, this is not how you wanted to die, but no matter how hard you fought, the person didn't budge. You were starting to lose feeling in your limbs and your eyes were starting to shut on their own. You tried to get one punch in, as a last-ditch effort to be free, but you weren't able to do anything.

The last that you saw was a familiar blonde man, he looked eerily similar to the one at the gas station. You wanted to speak, yell something but couldn't. As your vision got blurry, you couldn't fight anymore and your eyes closed shut. Maybe they'll never open and then you won't have to face the reality that's waiting for you…

[xoxolaw]

+ THE TURNING POINT

this is an interactive story. if this is your first time seeing this, then hop over to introduction - to get the idea behind this story.

+ CONTENTS

+ CH AD2

The next day, she visited Yuna again.

The rooftop was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city and the breeze slipping between rusted railings. They sat on the same old wooden bench as always—backs straight, but hearts relaxed in the kind of silence that only time and pain could forge into comfort.

Yuna squinted sideways. “Sooo~ you got a boyfriend yet?”

Y/N didn’t laugh or roll her eyes like usual. Instead, she simply looked out at the horizon, lips pressed together.

“…What is that reaction?” Yuna gasped, feigning offense. “No denial? No sarcasm? What are you hiding?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She pulled out her phone instead, thumb scrolling through notifications until she opened the group chat. The screen lit up with a familiar chaos—bad spelling, weird emojis, and the casual affection of people who didn’t realize how much they meant to her.

She tilted the screen toward Yuna.

“These are my friends,” she said, a soft smile curling at her lips. “They went on a camping trip yesterday.”

Yuna leaned in, reading the messages with amusement.

---

Baku 🐻

"These assholes slept while I was driving us."

Gotak 🤙

"We were TIED!"

Junnieee 🫶

"NO MORE SCARY STORIES. I CAN’T SLEEP IN MY TENT NOW!!"

---

Yuna snorted. “They sound ridiculous.”

“They are,” Y/N replied, warmth in her voice.

A pause.

“You didn’t go with them?”

Y/N shook her head. “No. And... I’m kind of glad I didn’t.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—just thoughtful. Yuna’s gaze wandered back to the phone as she scrolled through more messages. Her finger paused.

She smirked. “Everyone’s spamming except this one.”

She pointed at a quiet message near the bottom.

---

Si-Eun 😾

"Y/N, are you ok?"

---

Y/N blinked. Her chest tightened, then softened—like sunlight caught behind her ribs.

“…Sooo. This your boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Then?”

Y/N stared at the message.

“He’s... a nice guy.”

Yuna bumped her shoulder gently. “You never say that about anyone.”

“I know.”

Yuna leaned back, studying her. “You like him?”

Y/N didn’t reply. But her silence wasn’t denial. And that was answer enough.

A breeze swept over the rooftop. Yuna gave a sudden shiver, rubbing her arms.

“You cold?” Y/N asked, already rising.

“A little. But I’m fine.”

“I’ll grab a blanket from your room,” Y/N said, already heading for the door.

She walked down the quiet hospital hallway. Her footsteps echoed gently against the polished tile as she made her way toward Room 409. She’d done this walk so many times it barely registered anymore—

—until she passed Room 407.

She didn’t mean to stop.

But something inside her paused. Like her body sensed what her brain hadn’t yet caught up to.

The door was half open. Curtains pulled wide. Afternoon sunlight poured in—golden and heavy—painting the white walls in warmth.

And there, by the window, sitting in a wheelchair, was Suho.

Alive.

Y/N froze, breath catching in her throat.

“…Suho,” she whispered. The name slipped out like a prayer, brittle and unbelieving.

The boy in the chair slowly turned. Familiar, gentle eyes met hers—curious but soft.

“Do I... know you?” he asked, voice quiet.

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Instead, her trembling fingers reached for her phone.

“Y/N?” Si-Eun’s voice crackled through as soon as he picked up.

She swallowed hard, tears clinging to her lashes. “Suho... he’s awake.”

The hospital garden glowed with golden hour light.

Suho sat between Y/N and Yuna, the wheelchair beneath him almost forgotten in the warmth of the moment. His eyes flicked between them, lit with a spark like someone rediscovering the world one smile at a time.

“I still can’t believe it,” he laughed. “Si-Eun texted me so much while I was out—it’s like I woke up to a whole novel.”

Y/N chuckled.

“And a surprising number of those messages were about you,” Suho added, teasing.

Y/N flushed. “You just woke up and you’re already spouting nonsense?”

Suho grinned. “I may’ve been unconscious, but I’m not blind.”

Their laughter was soft and disbelieving. Like they were still adjusting to the fact that this moment was real.

And then—rushed footsteps.

Si-Eun appeared first, breathless. Gotak, Baku, and Jun Tae followed close behind, their faces flushed from running.

“Suho,” Si-Eun breathed, as if the name alone might break him.

Suho looked up. Recognition lit his face. “Have you been well?”

Si-Eun’s eyes brimmed, lips wobbling. “Mm-hm.”

Suho smiled gently. “Who are the guys behind you?”

“My friends,” Si-Eun said.

Suho’s smile grew. “That’s awesome.”

It was shaky—fragile—but real. And Si-Eun’s smile in return was just as unsteady.

“It’s good to see you smiling like that,” Suho added quietly.

Si-Eun glanced toward Y/N, and to the girl beside her.

“This is my friend, Yuna,” Y/N said. “She woke up yesterday.”

Yuna gave a small wave. “Hi.”

The group fell into soft chatter—somehow loud and calm at the same time. Laughter floated into the breeze, carried on the rustle of leaves and the soft calls of birds overhead.

For a little while, the world stilled.

Y/N looked toward Si-Eun.

He was already looking at her.

No words. Just a glance—clear and steady. Everything’s okay now, it said.

She nodded.

Yes. It was.

As the sun slipped lower, painting the sky with streaks of tangerine and rose, the garden felt suspended in time. For the first time in a long time, everything—and everyone—felt exactly where they were meant to be.

THE END

crafted for you with love by - xoxolaw

[meli-writes]

Mechismo - No. 8 /// Mothball

(Read on AO3) /// (First) / (Previous)

/// CW: drug abuse, light gore, & suicide references. ///

You're sitting in what must be a bunker from... 3(?) wars ago? Seems like 3. It's too fucked up even for the locals to wanna re-use. What it makes for instead is a very conveinent place to curl up and bleed out, service pistol in the one hand that still functions.

Protocol says you should— well now seems like a better-than-normal time to ignore protocol. It always included dumb rules like don't fuck the other pilots and don't put contraband flavour in your ration fluid.

Whatever flavour 'passionfruit' was it was good.

What's a fruit, anyway? Technician said the word once. Stop touching each other you degenerate-fucking-fruits.

Whatever it is, it at least tastes better than the stashed combat stims you just squirted down your throat. Makes it so it doesn't feel so bad to bleed out, but the oncoming overdose also makes it look a lot like there's flashlights scattering a haze down from the surface.

Huh, you remember, bleeding out does leave a trail doesn't it.

There's a really big knife peeping around the corner, and it almost gets dropped with a yelp when you viscon with the eye peering through its reflection.

The eyes don't glow like you're used to. And, "hey," doesn't feel like the standard response either.

"Uhh, hey?" a voice says back.

There's another couple voices that come from even further behind it, and then it continues a bit more puffed-up, "Attention pilot! You are surrounded. Please surrender your weapon and prepare for capture."

The nerves are cute. You suppose this is a first for it too; take your pistol, drop its mag, flick the safety, unchamber the last round and—

Well, you guess you slide it across the floor.

"Pilot. Are you now disarmed now?" it asks.

"What," you reply, confused. "No?"

"But the pistol—"

Oh, right. It only said the pistol, But its eyes don't glow, so it probably doesn't have— "One second. I have like a one-shot in my—" BANG! "—shit okay, that's empty. There's two knives and—"

After a moment a retreated knife peers back out. It takes a few moments to interrupt your muttering, still relaxing from the one-shot not being an attack or maybe— "Aren't you pilots supposed to normally like—?"

"Yeah," you say succintly. Yep, that.

"Oh. And you're not gonna—?"

"Not without the pistol at least." That would've been the easiest option; perfect recall makes it an effortless, automatic task to feel a cold barrel on your temple. The thought of recreating that isn't a particularly attractive one. "And i'm not gutting myself, blegh."

"What about the um— the suicide thingy. Like the tooth?"

You swear your brow raise is audible, knocking a few loose concrete chips from crumbling support columns. "Myth," you explain. "Heard they tried it on one girl—" Pilot. Pilot. Pilot. Shut it, brain. "—but one hit to her angrav in testing and the unmuted shock made her rattle about enough to set it off. Utter fucking clownshow."

You like to imagine that she knew her handler was in the profile of where her mech fell; foam and blood-bile spilling out over a smile.

You look down at your ruined arm. The deliberately replaced one. It isn't damaged but a shot in your upper arm has oozed blood down into the joint until it was too jammed to operate.

"Hold on. My implant has a... it's got an aftermarket laser cutting tool in it. Y'know, in the arm for jacking—"

"Jacking—!?" the voice startles quietly.

"Jacking into the mech. Fuck's sake." You manage to pry open the forearm cover with a loose piece of mostly-rusted rebar. "Okay, shit. It's a real mess in here. One minute."

It would probably be useful to have another cutting tool to disable this one. You're not paying quite enough attention to even remember how you ask for it, the whole room has slowly started spinning, but—

"To cut off the cutting tool?" it says, a little baffled. This is getting weird. When were you supposed to bleed out? "I mean... can't we just cuff you now?"

"No," you say, as if it's incredibly obvious. It's fun to say it. To backtalk. Though that's a protocol-and-handler word. "I could— have off the hand."

That doesn't seem correct.

"Have cut the handcut."

The floor feels cold again.

The mildew looks a lot pinker than it did earlier.

"What?" it asks.

"Y'know... the hand."

"Okay... well, shit. No, you go and—" the voice mutters. You bet it was gonna ask something like what if you just didn't cut it. Does it think you're some protocol-following sucker? No, this is your game now. You're clearly winning too. "Alright fine, someone's getting the tool. You mind if i have a look now?"

"What. You wanna give me the handbook?" you snort. That's a good one. Maybe if it did you could rip out all the pages on protocol and not fucking the other girls and stuff them in your open wound like second-rate gauze. Or is it third-rate? Regular gauze is second. First-rate you think is some expanding chem-shit.

You never get first-rate. You don't even get passionfruit flavour.

You'd need someone else to splice it into the feed for you anyway; your arms, your head, it all feels a bit too wobbly and spread out over the spinning room. What am I even winning? Maybe it's a bit of control, to choose to bleed out—

Oh. Her hand is cold too.

She's cute.

Her eyes don't glow either.

Why don't they glow?

Everyone's eyes are supposed to glow.

"Fuck she's— no, fuck the tool, I need an OD syringe or something. I don't know. Where's the fucking medic?"

You think a smile would look good on her lips too. Nothing spilling out between them this time. Maybe she'll have one when you wake up. But that always takes a while. eEvery time the techs are different, and the handlers have more lines on their faces, and more greys in their hair. And then handlers are different too and they're soft again.

"Hey. Hey! Can you hear me!? Pilot?"

You blink and don't open your eyes. Too heavy. You ask her, "You know what a passionfruit is?"

You blink and the bunker isn't so cold. It's walls are suddenly a sterile green-grey. They don't spin as much. Who the fuck's the dude with the clipboard, you think, and move on. The thought slipping out easily, your lips don't even have to part to do it.

Where did she go? She was just—

You try to look around, and don't see her. On the side where you're missing an arm there's a bowl next you. You start to blink again, and dream of whatever the fuck was the weird purple ball in it.

---

(Masterpost) / (Next)

[lockheed-martin-unofficial]

After reading Metroplex’s comics I love how he’s the embodiment of this image.

Like, spoilers but lemme explain,

Metroplex in his internal monologue:

And I lied. For you, Vigilem. Or perhaps, for myself. I hoped that you would be just another piece of our sordid history, painted over and left to rust away beneath. But you were never one to make things easy. Even stripping you of your name, your mind, your place among us wasn't enough to stop you from returning. What horrors has this Elita wrought to keep you alive? And what horror will you visit on us now when you spill your poisonous heart? I should have killed you then.

And then communicating to others he’s like:

Wind-voice need/facilitate escape. 
Wind-voice present=danger. 
*Carcer=Danger*
Disconnect.

Disconnect.

Disconnect.

Disconnect.

Don’t get me started on him and Windblade because I too am unable to formulate the thoughts about how much I love them. Just spinning this building and his favorite little guy in my brain at Mach speeds currently. Don’t mind me.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

FBSE 6 - A Gith and a Sharran

You dispense advice.

On AO3.

You wake up alone. This surprises you, for some reason. Sweetums is still curled next to you, watching like a cat that ain’t ready to get up. And your other side is…empty.

Astarion was here. Crawled in here, and your pulse spiked all hot and bothered, but the feather baby was right there, and you always hid under the blanket whenever you was messing with yourself and Nugget used to wander into the bedroom.

And you’d been mentally chewing over Shadowheart.

Astarion had sat beside you like girls do on them sleepovers on TV. Told you all about Shar. Who sounds like the loveliest fucking peach you ever heard of. Not that you got a whole lotta room to judge? Sometimes, the only thing keeping you going when you was young was the certainty that everyone in the world who wasn’t on the farmstead would burn in hell once the lord returned with the sword, the lion to the lamb, and scoured the filth from the earth. Leaving only his true chosen. Which was you. You’d finally be vindicated. Finally be borne on high to your reward while everyone else suffered for eternity. You’d longed for it.

You rub your face.

What a fuck shit mess.

You heard it in her voice, yesterday. “She loves me still.” The tremulous shiver. She wasn’t certain, was she. Had been doubting. That is the most dangerous thing for someone stuck in her mentality. All the Aunts and the Pastor and even Mother was right when they said doubt was the doorway to temptation. The crack in the holy armor to let the devil whisper his poison through.

Shadowheart is all swept up in what you used to be. Some version of it, anyway.

“Is there anybody in this camp not fucked over by a god or a monster?” you say.

Sweetums blinks back at you.

You don’t remember falling asleep. Astarion was there, though. Not touching or nothing, just nearby, like a cat. You hope you didn’t slump over onto him; you don’t even remember conking out.

Ain’t no trace of him now. He must’a skedaddled after you crashed out. What an impression you must be making, all official like.

You pick yourself up, start to roll up your things to shove into your magic bag (thank you, Gale). Have to nudge Sweetums to get off the corner of the bedroll.

“Poor baby,” you say. “Still scared?”

You seen what his mama could do. What he’ll grow into. But right now, he’s just a little guy, sensibly spooked by a creepy ass landscape.

“You wanna go find Scratch?” You bury your fingers into the soft feathers between his ear tufts and give him a scritch. He makes a soft, reluctant trill. Almost a purr. It stops the second you pull away. “Lets get you some food and a potty.”

The dog lingers outside the tent, waiting for his friend. Perks up the second you lift that tent flap and gallops over when Sweetums shuffles out. They two of them lick and nibble at each other, and you smile as they trot off to do what they do.

Astarion’s tent is dark and still, the flap tied shut. He don’t need to sleep as much as you—reverie, he calls it. Must just want alone time. Read a book. Do his hair. Probably mutter to himself about picking the loser who turns down a necking session to talk about a god.

Your first relationship is going well.

You’re so lost in your head you don’t even notice Lae’zel until you turn and she’s just standing there.

“Jesus!” you say.

“You have not taken your communication potion?” she says. Like you’d be able to answer if she was right.

“I did. It’s a saying. Good morning?”

“It is neither good nor a morning.”

No inflection, no expression. She just…stares at you.

“Did…you want something?” you say.

“You and the bloodsucker have mated,” she says. So now you’re contemplating throwing yourself into the shadows and joining the ranks of the cursed. “You are both pathetic. How did you manage this?”

For a very long moment, all you can do is blink at her while the gears of your brain flash-rust together. Your mouth opens. You close it. Stare some more.

Lae’zel scowls. “If you do not wish to answer, say so.”

Does she sound…well. Not hurt. You’re pretty sure she’d rather smash out her own teeth than show any kind of vulnerability. But there’s something to her tone. Something that kicks you into talking.

“Mating?” you say, instead of anything useful.

And the woman gives you the most withering glare you ever saw. And you grew up with super fundy cultist Aunts. “You reek of each other. He goes to your tent. One of you is always staring at the other.”

Hey now, that was one time—what does she mean stare? You look at Astarion when he ain’t looking at you. You can’t help it. His face is just…fascinating. Yes, alright, he’s handsome. But then he’s got lines, and he almost looks like a different person at certain angles, or when he’s in a mood. It’s just interesting. You’re kind of…cataloging it. His face.

But Lae’zel’s statement implies you ain’t the only one?

And reeking. Y’all haven’t had any kind of, like, “traditional” sex (part of you says fingerbanging counts, even the once, but penis-in-vagina is so ingrained into you by the farmstead and everything after as the only “real” sex that you just feel weird thinking about it at all). But you doubt Lae’zel cares to argue that point. She’s getting to something. You just ain’t catching it in all the internal screaming.

“I…sure,” you say. “What is it you’re asking?”

Her lips thin in a way that all but shouts “this fucking idiot.” But she squares her shoulders, folds her arms, and says, “Your kind has courtship rituals. What are they.”

Oh. That…huh.

Behind her, a purple tent flap lifts and Shadowheart climbs into what can only charitably be called daylight. Lae’zel doesn’t so much as glance her way. Barely moves at all. But there’s a shift in her, something in her stance, that reminds you of a cat hearing their owner stir, or a sunflower lifting at dawn.

Oh.

“Well. Usually, uh,” you start. What do people do for a date? They don’t got movies or shows out here. Can’t go to a zoo or a museum or the beach. “Usually, I guess, y’all find out what each other likes? An activity to do?”

“Mating?” Lae’zel says.

“I mean…some people…maybe? It. It really depends on the person? Why don’t you ask her what she likes?”

Is…is Lae’zel…?

Holy fuck she is. Gaze flickers. She readjusts her stance. Her cheeks change color, just a bit. The woman fucking blushes.

“I did,” she says.

“And?”

Her gaze meets your like she’s trying to stab you with it. “She said she likes a decorative plant species and cannot swim.”

“Wait, she can’t swim?”

Lae’zel is now trying to murder you with her mind.

Fair point. It ain’t like they got city pools where you can take swimming lessons (at twenty years old with a bunch of kindergartners and an instructor younger than you). A lotta people in medieval Europe didn’t swim, either. Unless that’s another historical misconception.

Anyway.

“Okay,” you drawl. “So you could always give her one of them plants? If we have one?”

You think she might be talking about a flower? That’s traditionally romantic, according to media. Though with Shadowheart (and what Astarion told you about her goddess), you ain’t gonna be surprised if it’s actually some kinda poisonous cactus or something.

“I do not know the vegetation of this plane,” Lae’zel says. Glances over to Gale trying his damnedest to light the campfire (and swearing) (quietly). “How did the bloodsucker convince you to mate with him?”

Well. That is a question, huh. One you also don’t wanna think about. A lotta saving each other’s asses. Riding around on a lizard. Killing people. When he—

“Food,” you say. You’re such a fucking genius. Probably should’a thought of that one earlier, but hey, ain’t nobody’s perfect. “People eat together. Go somewhere to buy a meal, or make them together. And then eat together.”

Lae’zel studies you. Gives the world’s most reluctant nod. Then she turns and just…stalks off. No thank you. No follow up. Not even a “good morning.”

“Isn’t she such a delight?”

“Jesus!” You damn near leap outta your skin.

Fucking Astarion stands right behind you. Which means he snuck up there. Lae’zel fucking saw him do it, and not a one of them gave you a fucking warning.

Fucking goblin ass people.

Of course now everybody looks at you. You give a wave and a fake smile. Turn to Astarion, who outright grins.

“And she isn't’ the only one,” he says. The jackass.

“Morning Astarion, how’re you, how long you been standing there?” you say.

He has the audacity to focus on digging a single granule of dirt out beneath one fingernail. “Good morning to you, darling. Nearly the entire time. Playing matchmaker, now that you’re so experienced?”

Is that…is he jabbing at you? He seems at ease, posture loose and light. But after last night and the days before it, you ain’t exactly sure. Until he lifts his gaze and gives you a saucy little wink,.

He’s teasing.

Y’all both watch Lae’zel stalk right past Shadowheart and disappear into her own tent.

“I got no idea. You really did call it, though.” At his blank look, “Them. I know I said that before, but like, you really called it.”

Oh, he absolutely preens at that (it’s a good look on him) (you should compliment him more).

“I know,” he says. Sidles in close and props one elbow up on your shoulder to lean in conspiratorially. You are not completely distracted by the way his herby perfume fills your senses. “Do you think she’ll actually pull it off? A gith and a Sharran? Either they’ll flop about on top of each other like a dying fish, or else I expect the screaming will keep us all awake.”

You ain’t blushing. It’s just suddenly real warm out. In a sunless, shadow-cursed graveyard of a place with perpetual twilight and shadow monsters.

And then Astarion’s breath tickles the shell of your ear as he says, “Speaking of.”

You don’t flinch away, but it’s close. Y’all have kissed. He’s been basically necking you since halfway through the Underdark, and he’s had his fingers up your cooch. And still, the inner propriety Aunts rage through you that he’s too close, too suggestive, you’re a filthy slut letting him do that.

Even as a warm shiver runs down your spine.

“Let’s see how today goes,” you say. “If we run into another pack of monsters and I get my nose bit off, I don’t think either of us will be in the mood.”

“Oh, perish the thought.”

Dating. You told Lae’zel dating was food.

Astarion’s face is so close. You…don’t actually know that much about him, aside from he’s horny, fussy, and sometimes a huge asshole. You really ought to take your own advice. Learn more about him. And one of the most reliable ways to soften people up is to make them cookies. Or in Astarion’s case, give the man some blood.

“You can feed on my tonight, too, if you want,” you say. “Even if I do get my nose bit off.”

His eyes light up. His hand comes up and he brushes the ends of your shaggy hair (probably developing split ends, goddamnit). “Mmm. You’re such a sweetheart.”

Then he steps away. Bumps the side of your hips with his. His smile makes your heart go all…wibbly (you’re in so fucking deep, jesus fuck).

“Bollocks!” Gale says. Looks up sheepishly from his sad pile of smoldering twigs. “I’m afraid you’ll all have to settle for bread, cheese, and, ugh, cold tea this morning.”

Poor man looks seconds away from kicking the failure pile.

“I ever tell y’all about iced tea?” you say. Maybe something good can come outta this.

[stabbyfoxandrew]

happy wip wednesday! sorry your laptop is being mean :( can we get some mafia front please?

WIP Wednesday (6/25)| Mafia Front Restaurant AU (Part 334)

Now it's all over and done with. Nathaniel steps backwards to avoid a bit of drippy brain matter, watching in disgust as it hits the ground. Then his eyes trail upwards to the rust-colored splotch on the ceiling tiles. He supposes he'll be standing on a chair for this one. He stretches his back out and catches Jean's wince when he does the same. When he sends a pointed look Jean's way he receives a nearly identical one for his troubles.

"I told you I could've handled it alone." Nathaniel says. Though, if he had Paul's head guts would've painted Andrew's favorite booth. So really it's for the better.

"And I told you not to goddamn argue with me," Jean reminds him, rolling his shoulder gently. Nathaniel really should check his stitches. When he tries, Jean shoos him away. "They're fine, stop worrying. Sometimes you are as bad as Kevin."

"How dare you."

Jean waves him off. "Call Stuart and arrange pick up. I'll start on this mess."

"I always have to call Stuart," Nathaniel mutters under his breath.

"Your uncle, isn't he?"

"Is that my fault?"

NEIL

One lengthy phone conversation and the better half of a gallon of bleach later, the two of them finally return to the kitchen to find Kevin all alone on his assigned stool. He's leaned against the wall with his phone in hand, likely reading Twitter posts. He looks up at them when they enter and smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Neil supposes he's on edge about being under the same roof as a dead man, until he realizes Andrew is missing.

"Where's—"

"He left," Kevin answers before Neil can actually ask. "Said to tell you bye."

From the look on his face it's likely much more was said, but Neil doesn't pry. He hasn't got the energy to, not after explaining everything to Stuart— who was less than enthused about the day's developments. Neil isn't exactly in trouble since his life was in danger, but killing a man without an order is sort of frowned upon around here. Mostly because Stuart's cleaner doesn't like to be disturbed on her day off. But Neil can do nothing about that.

"You talked to him," Jean comments. Kevin shrugs slightly.

"A little."

The two of them wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. 

[artistsfuneral]

Silco & Reader - in which GN!Reader owns a Cleaning Company that is known for looking the other way - read full on ao3 - p.1 - p.2 - p.3

Your apartment is as shitty as any other place in Zaun, yet you find yourself strangely fond of it.

Located in the even sketchier part of the Undercity, it used to be all you could afford when you first left your parents. And by the time you were able to pay for something better, the single room that is barely big enough to fit what meager belongings you call your own had kind of grown on you. It really is nothing special, yet somehow you can't bear the thought of leaving.

The walls are thin even by Zaunite standards and oddly crooked in all directions, making it impossible to furnish. When you first had moved in, you quickly came to realize that no proper bed frame would ever fit through the weirdly narrow door, so you started out with your mattress sitting on the floor. Months later you were lucky enough to find a pair of wooden pallets in a back alley five streets down. Nothing is ever easy in Zaun though. No. Not only did you have to drag the two pallets all the way to your building and up four flights of stairs with your bare hands, you also had to fight off a particularly persistent scrap scavenger. The scar their knife left on your shoulder still feels like a badge of honor, even after all these years.

There's no room in your home for a proper kitchen. You own two counters and a wobbly shelf that you squeezed into a weirdly round corner, right next to your half broken refrigerator which is so loud that your next door neighbors have complained about it multiple times. Needless to say, you're eating out a lot.

The lack of a proper bathroom almost drove you away. Your room only comes with a toilet and a sink that has never stopped dripping no matter how many times you'd tried to fix it. Both are shoved in what surely was meant to be a closet space, cut off from the rest of your living space with a sliding door that you had to install yourself. It is not the worst arrangement you've ever seen but it almost became your tipping point.

But then you were called to one of your worst jobs yet and after days spend slaving away on your knees the owner of The Dripping bathhouse owned you so many unspeakable favors you were basically granted free excess for life. You made good use of that privilege.

What really makes you hold onto this raggedy, wonky and rusted room is its particular location. One of your four walls is mostly taken up by a single round window, made out of thick glass. Said window faces the bright neon sign of the escort club across the street, so no matter the time of day, season or weather, you always have a rainbow shining through your window and reflecting off your walls.

In Zaun it's the little things that matter.

A rainbow in your room. A food stand on your usual route to work. The sight of weeds forcing their way through the cracked pavement. A hot bath available at all times. A night of restful sleep.

The last part you're apparently not granted tonight.

Your eyes snap open before your brain can register why. Then you hear the telltale sound of someone pounding their fist against your door with so much strength, you're scared it will give in at any moment now. “Hold on, just a moment!” you yell as you sit up and try to untangle your legs from their blanket prison. You can hear one of your neighbors scream profanities at your visitor for waking them up. Better hurry.

You can count the number of people who know where you live on one hand and only two of them would be pounding against your door in the middle of the night with no remorse. You throw a shirt over your head, possibly turned inside out, and stumble the six steps it takes from your bed to your front door.

Though, living in your part of the Undercity, it's always smart to to better be safe than sorry, so you grab the machete you keep in reach just for this situation, before systematically flicking open your locks. They're really more of a statement than a working security system. You know from experience that all it takes is a good kick into the center of it and it's gone. That's how they got Jakob. No, the locks won't stop anyone determined enough from entering your space, yet each click that echoes through the silence of the night is a big loud warning sign. 'I can hear you trying to come in.' 'Are you sure about this?' 'By now I've had time to get my weapon.' 'Don't you dare mess with me.' The person waiting behind your door huffs in annoyance. They still haven't said anything yet, so you have no idea who they could be, but the fact that your door still stands and they're still waiting, you can make a few educated guesses.

Evidently, this is a work related matter.

Your shoulders lose their tension the moment you realize who was banging against your door. You've known her well, cleaned for her father long before you'd made a name for yourself. The right hand of the Eye of Zaun looks as tired as you feel. Strands of her dark her have fallen out of her ponytail, her makeup is smudged and she's missing her usual black lipstick. Her gray eyes are heavy with exhaustion. “Sevika?” Your voice comes out scratchy from sleep and sounding more confused than you'd like to admit.

While it is not unusual for her to come to you in the middle of the night, it is the timing that catches you off guard. You haven't expected her back so soon. Barely a week ago there was an explosion in one of the old warehouses Silco uses for his... enterprise. You and your crew spent five days getting everything back into working order. For Sevika to appear on your figurative doorstep shortly after you finished the job... That's not a good sign.

“Was there another explosion?” The question is out before you can really stop yourself. Sevika's tired face turns into a distrustful grimace and yeah- you get it. People don't come to your door in the middle of the night for a heartwarming little chat.

You started Spite, Blood & Gore Cleaning Services many, many years ago with nothing but a bucket in your hand and a promise to keep your mouth shut and look the other way. You didn't make it this far in your line of work by asking questions and you're certainly not starting now.

"There was an accident. No questions asked." The woman all but growls out. "Oh fuck, yeah, hold on," you babble, carding your hand through your hair in hopes of gathering your straying thoughts just to wince when your fingers get caught in a rather impressive tangle. There's no time for fake vanity though, so you force yourself to ignore the feeling of having a rat's nest on your head and quickly shut the door again. The machete goes back into its rightful place and you hastily pull on yesterday's pants and your steel tipped boots. You never ask a lot of questions in the first place. Ugly things happens in the Undercity. It's the Undercity after all. But sometimes things get so out of hand that even the Spite, Blood & Gore Team can't help a question or two. Questions like 'How?', 'Why?' or 'What the fuck?!' Then there's also the fact that you've worked as a cleaner for far longer than your employees. Your team is small and consists of people you trust not to mess things up, but trust is a complicated thing in Zaun. Just because your regular customers trust you, doesn't necessarily mean they trust your team. Especially not on days everything has gone to shit. For jobs like those, you've created the No Questions Asked policy. For three times the pay you will handle the work on your own and then immediately forget about the fact that you ever did. You don't ask questions, you don't comment on the things you see, you don't see anything at all. You do your job, clean up whatever needs cleaning and then you're gone again. Like nothing has happened in the first place. Because it didn't. There's a reason why the Chem Barons of Zaun like you so much.

You grab hold of your Go Bag, shove an extra bottle of industrial strength bleach in there and are out of the door before Sevika gets a chance to lose her patience. She eyes your bag critically but doesn't say anything as you jam your key into the lock of your door. Determination settles into your bones. You turn to Sevika and nod, “Lead the way.”

And she does.

Sevika doesn't rush you, but she walks in wide, evenly paced strides that your sleep deprived body has trouble keeping up with. She leads you through back alleys and narrow gaps between houses, clearly picking a much too complicated path in hopes of messing with your sense of direction. You don't need to tell her that there's no sense to it, that you've grown up in these very streets and now every corner and every streetlight you pass by. You don't need to tell her, because she knows. So she's either acting out of habit or you're being followed. You don't question it. Wouldn't have even if she hadn't evoked your policy. Some things you simply don't want to know.

The building she stops at looks abandoned. Old brickwork covered in layers and layers of dust, dirt, grime and what smells like piss. It probably is piss. The windows have long since been shattered and the first floor is furnished with nothing but rubble and rat droppings. It's the kind of building a Piltover citizen would point at if they were asked to describe Zaun. Whatever awaits you can't be that bad, you initially think, so far it feels like a standard job. But then Sevika goes to unlock a hidden door in the far back of the building and leads you up a flight of stairs and you come to realize that you are in a safe house. One of Silco's safe houses. It's the middle of the night and the right hand of the Eye of Zaun has brought you to one of Silco's personal safe houses not a week after one of his most used warehouses has exploded out of nowhere. A shiver runs down your spine. That's not good. That's not good at all. The No Questions Asked suddenly makes a lot more sense. As does Sevika's next action.

Before you understand what is going on she has slammed your back against the wall with so much strength it forces the air out of your lungs. You gasp as you feel your shoulder blades digging into a rough, uneven spot on the wall. That's going to be a sore spot for sure. You don't get the chance to complain about it though. Not even a second after your back hits the wall you can feel the cold steel of a blade press against your throat and your body stills on instinct. You can hear the loud thud of your bag hitting the stairs, your now free hand coming up to hold onto Sevika's wrist. She allows it. The two of you know you aren't strong enough to stop her from slitting your throat. Holding onto her wrist is useless. A desperate attempt your consciousness has made in a moment of danger. Her name leaves your lips and Sevika's gray eyes fixate yours.

“Listen to me and listen closely,” she begins to say. Her voice has taken a dangerous tone, one that you've witnessed many times before but never directed at you. Oddly enough you don't have it in you to feel threatened. Maybe that's just your own naive foolishness. “Whatever you are about to see in there, will never leave the room.” Sevika means business, yet the only thing her attitude accomplishes is that she's starting to annoy you. You frown at her, not ready to admit out loud that her distrust hurt your feelings more than her actions. You've known that woman since you were children. Doesn't that mean anything to her? “When have I ever given you reason not to trust me?” You bark back at her. There's a challenge hidden in your own voice and you can see her fighting to take the bait.

At the end of the staircase above you another door opens. Neither of you moves. You don't look up, eyes still locked with Sevika's. You weren't given permission to look yet and while it pisses you off that she's treating you like she would any other person. You are a professional.

“Now, now, Sevika. Don't be impolite,” Silco's voice calls down to the two of you. Hearing his casual tone at least means that whatever awaits you isn't his dead body on the floor. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding onto. A dark chuckle rings through the stairwell as Sevika takes a step back, knife already hidden away again. “I can't say I've ever seen someone so happy to hear my voice,” Silco drawls out and you turn to face him. The corners of your lips rise without you asking them to, “Don't sell yourself short, sir. You are one of my best customers, of course I am happy to see you.” Next to you Sevika lets out a quiet scoff that you effectively ignore. Picking up your bag, you shoulder past the woman. No matter the circumstances, she hurt your feelings and you're feeling petty enough to let her know it. It doesn't help that you know she's rolling her eyes behind your back.

Silco vanishes into the room as soon as you start your ascent, leaving the door open behind him, clearly indicating for you to follow inside. That's Silco as he lives and breathes. Charming, practical, expecting others to follow him blindly into the unknown. He's kind of earned it, you think.

You enter the safe house ready to clean up whatever horrid mess a No Questions Asked could warrant. A Shimmer deal gone wrong. An assassination attempt messy enough Sevika wouldn't know where to start. An altercation between two or more of the Chem-Barons. Silco doesn't strike you as the kind of guy that hosts excessive orgies but honestly you're prepared for anything.

You are not prepared for this.

[pasukiyo]

OH MY, WE REALLY WERE TIMELESS

bradley "rooster" bradshaw x f!reader word count: 3743 words warnings: fluff summary: down the block there's an antique shop and something in your head said stop, so you walked in... note from author: fun fact, i went to denver night 1 for eras tour and this was my surprise song after listening to it nonstop the week leading up to my show... i had literally talked about how much i fell in love with this song and how it was my song the day before my show and the fact that taylor performed it proves it's my song!! so of course, i had to write about it...

 “You got me sushi for lunch? You spoil me too much.”

 She chuckled as she rested her phone between her ear and shoulder, opening the door to the local sushi place with her hand not holding the plastic bag. “It was more for me than you,” she replied, taking her phone back in her hand as she made her way back to her car. 

 “You know, you can just admit that you love me, it’s alright,” Bradley said into the receiver, and she rolled her eyes as she unlocked her car, swinging the door open to toss the takeout bag into the passenger’s seat. “Yeah, well, wouldn’t be wearing your ring if I didn’t, right?” She tittered, climbing into the driver’s seat, her phone once again pressed between her cheek and shoulder as she started the engine. 

 “Yeah,” Bradley sighed. “That, and you wouldn’t have let me fuck your brains out like last night.”

 Her cheeks burned at the memory as she placed her phone down, letting the call connect to the Bluetooth instead, her lips curling into a smile. “Just can’t help yourself, can you, Mr Bradshaw?”

 Bradley’s laughter permeated the car as she backed out of her parking space, “no I cannot, Mrs Bradshaw.”

 She chuckled as she drove down the street, stopping at a red light and propping her elbow against the car door, her fingers on her lips. “So are you on your way now?” Bradley asked, and she hummed in reply. 

 “Yeah. I’m just now leav—“

 Her words caught in her throat when her eyes set upon a building down the block, gaze locked on the old, rusted sign that read ‘ANTIQUES.’ The silence was filled with Bradley’s voice, “babe? Hellloooooo? Still there?”

 She blinked when the car behind her honked their horn and she realized the light had turned green, her fingers tightening their feel on the steering wheel. Her heart pounded on her chest, unable to shake the voice in her head telling her to stop. 

 Her breath hitched in her throat as she turned, parking in front of the old antique shop, sighing as she shifted the car into park. 

 “Hellooooo? Mrs Bradshaw? My wife? Love of my life?”

 “Um… I’ll be there soon there’s just… there’s just something I need to do really quick,” she finally replied, reaching for her purse. 

 “Oooookay… see you soon?” Bradley said, audibly confused. 

 “Mhm, yeah,” she replied, turning the engine off and bringing her phone back to her ear as she climbed out of the car. “See you soon. Love you.”

 “Love you too…”

 The call ended as she pulled the door open to the shop, the smell of old books, dust, and wood polish wafting to her nostrils, her shoulders heaving when she sighed. The older woman at the counter looked up from her book, her eyes crinkling when she smiled and waved. Giving a small smile in return, she waved back, her eyes settling on a sign on the counter, a cardboard box just below. 

 ‘PHOTOS……….25 CENTS EACH’

 Looking away from the older woman, she stepped closer to the cardboard box, the smell of musty old paper filling her nostrils but she didn’t grimace or cringe away. She pushed her phone inside her purse and began to sift through the photos, a lump forming at her throat as she eyed the different black and white photographs. 

 There was one of a bride, the date on the back reading 1933. Another of two lovers, their faces lit up in smiles as they sat on their front porch, the back captioned ‘July 1962. Our first house!’

 Her lips curled into a soft smile, her fingertips ghosting over the pale faces of the two lovers, their hands laced together over the arms of their chairs. 

 Her heart skipped a couple of beats and she breathed a chuckle, thinking back to when she and Bradley officially moved into their first house together. It was mid-July, the San Diego heat was unforgiving and by lunch, the two of them were drenched in sweat, panting from the amount of moving furniture they had been doing. 

 They had finally settled on a place to set down the couch, muscles aching as they plopped down side by side on the cushions, fluttering their eyes closed as they caught their breaths. 

 “You should’ve just let Jake and Javy come help,” she panted, rolling her neck to turn and face him. Bradley grumbled as he pressed his lips together, rolling his neck on the back cushions and squeezing his eyelids shut tighter. “Absolutely not. There is no way I’m letting Hangman into the house,” Bradley shook his head and she rolled her eyes. “We still could’ve used the help. And they offered.”

 Bradley peeled a single eyelid open and cocked an eyebrow to his hairline, “what do you mean? We’re doing great,” he replied, shifting his weight. She rolled her eyes as she glanced down to his sweat-stained gray tank top, laughing as she gave his belly a few pats. 

 “Sure big guy, I just love being absolutely drenched in sweat and not being able to feel my arms. Or legs for that matter,” she sighed, giggling when he caught her wrist, tugging her closer into him. “Yeah, I know you do,” he grinned. “Just like last night, right?” 

 Furrowing her eyebrows, she rolled her fingers into her palm to form a fist and knocked him on the shoulder, causing him to laugh and tug her down into the cushions with him by the wrist. She couldn’t help but break her glare and laugh as he pulled her weight on top of him, his hand curling around the back of her head, the other gripping her hip through her shorts. 

 “Jesus, you just can’t help yourself, can you Bradshaw?”

 Bradley smirked and leaned in, pressing a teasing kiss to her lips, his mustache tickling the skin just below her nose. 

 “No I cannot, future Mrs Bradshaw.”

 She chuckled to herself as she set the photograph back down on top of the pile of Polaroids, sifting through the old, feeble paper before another photograph caught her eye, and she had to stop and smile. This one was of a teenage couple standing in the driveway, leaning against the hood of a car in their finest clothes. Their hands were locked together, the girl’s head on the boy’s shoulder, each giving the camera a bright smile. On the bottom of the photograph was a date written in black ink: ‘April 1958. Prom.’

 A lump formed at the base of her throat at the memory the photograph brought back, the first time she ever saw Bradley. Girl’s night had decided to move to the small, seaside bar that was the Hard Deck, the sky was void of blue, small flecks of white littering its dark canvas instead. It was a quarter past eleven by the time she and her friend had stumbled in, but you’d never guess it was nearing midnight with how crowded and lively the place was. 

 Her friend had taken her by the hand to lead her towards the bar, dropping it when they arrived and leaving her to wrap her arms around herself instead. Her eyes wandered among the sea of people surrounding her, she was never one for crowds— and they were pretty much shoulder to shoulder with everyone in this little bar. 

 She glanced back to where her friend was in front of her, blinking when she realized her friend had completely forgotten about her, choosing to sidle up to a man with dark, buzzed hair instead. Her face fell at this and she threw her arms to her sides, a furrow in her brow. 

 So much for girl’s night. 

 She scanned the bar and the other surrounding tables for any free seats, unfortunately coming to no avail. Her chest heaved when she huffed, running her fingers through the hair atop her head as she swung her head back around, fully intending to call out her friend for leaving her alone. 

 That was, until she stopped, her gaze landing on someone entirely new instead. 

 Suddenly, the bar didn’t seem so lively or crowded, nor did the noise seem to drill a hole from her ears into her skull. All at once, the crowd seemed to slow, and so did time as her eyes locked onto a pair of hazel eyes across the room, her limbs locking in place. 

 It was a man in an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, exposing the white tank he had on underneath, a pair of aviators hanging off the neckline and teasing a sliver of the skin of his chest. There was a mustache above his lip that on anyone else, she’d have scrunched her nose at but on him… it was just perfect. He was perfect. 

 And he was staring right back at her. 

 And then he was coming closer. 

 All she could do was stand there and wait, feeling color burn her cheeks with each step he took closer, feeling as if she’d burst into flames when he approached, his fingers wrapped around a bottle of beer. His lips were full and pink and shiny with a mixture of saliva and beer, and when he swiped his tongue between them before murmuring a “hello,” his deep, rich hazel irises studying every feature of her face, she knew she was done for. 

 “Hi,” she replied breathlessly, her chest heaving with a breathy laugh. The man looked around, a furrow in his brow, “you didn’t come with anyone, did you?” He asked and she giggled again, eyeing the ground and shaking her head. “No, uh… my friend over there ditched me,” she said, gesturing to where her friend sat with the man in a Navy uniform at the bar. He turned to gaze at where they sat, the corner of his lips quirking when he tittered. “Coyote,” he mumbled beneath his breath before turning to face her once again. “Thank God. So there’s no one I have to worry about? No boyfriend, husband?”

 She cocked an eyebrow at this, trying to suppress her grin. “Are you making a move on me, aviator?” She eyed the aviators still dangling off the neck of his shirt. He followed her gaze, breathing a laugh, “would you turn me down if I was?”

 He seemed closer now. Normally, she’d shy away. But already with him, she didn’t think being this close was such a bad thing.

 “I don’t know. You got game?” She asked, looking up at him, their eyes surging into one another’s. The man grinned, “oh, I got game.”

 They spent the majority of the night sidled up together in the corner of the building, able to snatch a table away from everyone else and most importantly, away from his fellow aviator friends. He told her his name— it was Bradley— and they talked for hours upon end about anything and everything and she was practically spilling her entire soul for a man she had met mere hours ago but somehow, it just felt so right. 

 Before either of them knew it, the noise in the bar seemed to die down as the crowd began to slowly but surely spill away— neither her friend nor this Coyote Bradley spoke of in sight. By one in the morning, it was only them and a few other drunks downing as many beers as they could physically handle at the bar. Soft music played through the speakers, her eyelids growing heavy but still, she didn’t want to leave. If she could stay here in this bar with Bradley forever, she absolutely would. 

 “Are you alright?” Bradley finally asked, noting her heavy eyelids, “want to call it a night?” She smiled, rolling her straw around her drink, shaking her head. “No,” she admitted, kicking her shoes against his. He humored her and gave her foot a playful nudge back, tilting his head up to the ceiling, humming. She cocked an eyebrow at this, “what?”

 Bradley glanced back down at her and grinned, “I love this song.” 

 She paused to take a moment and listen to the song, smooth jazz and soft lyrics permeating the nearly empty Hard Deck. She pointed towards the ceiling, “Chet?”

 Bradley’s grin widened, “Baker.”

 It was then that Bradley rose from his seat, downing the last droplets of beer left in his bottle before setting it back down on the table, outstretching a hand towards her. She eyed his hand curiously before glancing back up at him and his stupidly handsome smile and his stupidly handsome mustache. 

 “What are you doing?” She questioned, prompting him to shake his hand around, gesturing for her to take it. “Come on, the dance floor is all ours.”

 She could feel the scarlet creeping to her cheeks at this and she shook her head, gazing down at her fingers where they cuddled with one another on the top of the table. “I don’t dance,” she replied, to which Bradley groaned and rolled his eyes, snatching her hand with his anyway. “Bradley!” She shrieked as he hoisted her out of her seat, dragging her towards the open floor. 

 “Come on, all you have to do is follow my lead.”

 She whined as he pulled her into his chest, her muscles stiff when he slithered a hand around her waist to rest on the small of her back, encasing her hand with his free one. Her heart was pounding and she was so sure he could feel it against his chest, only adding to the heat pooling in her cheeks. 

 “Your hearts pounding,” he noted as he began to sway them back and forth gently to the music, and she scowled, glaring up at him. “Thanks, I hardly notice,” she replied, sarcasm lacing every syllable but still, she couldn’t help but laugh, feeling herself becoming more and more relaxed. Bradley joined along, gently pressing her in closer to his chest, letting her rest the side of her head just above his heartbeat.

 “Yours is too,” she said in hardly a whisper, but Bradley breathed a chuckle. “It’s because you’re so good at dancing,” he remarked and she rolled her eyes. “Please, this is hardly dancing,” she tittered and Bradley pulled away just enough to catch her gaze, his pools of hazel spilling into her own.

 She thought her heart skipped a couple of beats.

 “Well whatever is it, I think I’d like to do more of it,” he said. “With you, of course.”

 Her vision was glossy and wet with tears now and she sniffed as she dropped the picture back in the box, backing away from the counter to glimpse around the old shop. There was a dark, dusty bookcase in the corner, books scattered about its shelves and the overwhelming smell of old paper and cedarwood made her scratch her nose. Her eyes lined the spines of the books, looking for any stories she recognized.

 That was when she came upon a book covered in cobwebs, the spine reading ‘ROMEO AND JULIET’ in bold, faded gold letters. She sniffed again as she recounted the old tale, a story of a romance torn apart by fate. It was strange, the way the tragedy made her feel now.

 She couldn’t help but let her mind wander, couldn’t help but put herself and Bradley in Romeo and Juliet’s shoes. It was silly– so ridiculous– for her to think this way, to think that even in the 1500s off in a foreign, even if she were forced to marry another man, that she would still find her way to Bradley. 

 She could feel a tear drip down her cheek and she blinked the blurriness away from her vision as best she could, wiping her face as she backed away from the bookshelf, her arms wrapped around herself. And when the haziness was gone from her vision, her eyes caught on a framed photo on the wall, a man in a uniform and his wife embracing in the midst of a crowded street. She blinked down to the year written on the bottom of the frame, 1944.

 Her heart was bursting at its seams– never up until this point had she come to realize just the extent of her love for Bradley. She wasn’t sure what it was about this old antique shop that made her feel so connected to Bradley, as if there were a thread of fate tying them together. But somehow she knew– she knew in her mind, heart, and soul– that they were supposed to find this. Each other. She knew that even in a different life– whether that’d be in a crowded street in 1944, a quiet neighborhood in July of 1962, a school dance in 1958, or in a foreign land in the 1500s– he still would’ve been hers, and they would’ve been timeless.

 She wanted him to be her past, present, and future. She wanted to love him even when their hair turned gray, and she wanted to have a cardboard box full of photos of the life they made just like the one on the counter. She wanted to sit on the front porch with him some day in the future with their grandchildren playing around in the yard, holding hands as they went through photographs they’d taken throughout the years, and Bradley would say “oh my, we really were timeless.” And somehow, she knew that was their future. It was almost as if she could reach out and feel it. 

 She sniffed again and reached back into her purse to fish out her phone, gazing down at the photo of her and Bradley on their honeymoon she had saved as her home screen wallpaper. She took a few moments to simply stare at the picture, to reminisce on the memory before unlocking her device, finding the phone app and pressing on Bradley’s contact.

 “Hello?” Bradley said into the receiver as she turned, walking past the counter to reach the exit. When she rested her hand on the door handle, however, she turned to look at the older woman behind the counter to find that she was already staring back. 

 The woman smiled at her, and she smiled back.

 “Babe? Are you there?” Bradley asked again and she turned, pushing open the exit door. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I’m here,” she replied as she made her way to her car, tugging open the door and slipping inside. “Thank God. Thought I was a booty call for a second there,” he chuckled and she scowled, tossing her purse into the passenger’s seat beside their lunch.

 “Please don’t say booty,” she sighed as she started the car engine, connecting the call back to the Bluetooth. Bradley’s laugh permeated her car, “I want to see your booty. When are you bringing me my lunch?” He whined and her lips curved into a smile, dropping her forehead against the top of the steering wheel and shaking her head. 

 “I’m on my way now,” she chuckled, buckling in her seat belt and taking one last look up at the old, rusted antique shop sign. “I’ll see you soon.”

 “Okay, you better hurry. But don’t hurry too much. Can’t pay another goddamn ticket.”

 “Yeah, and whose fault was that?” She tittered as she back out of her parking spot, making her way down the street towards the Naval base. “Let’s not turn this into an interrogation now,” Bradley replied. “Anyways, I’ll see you soon?”

 She smiled, “yeah. I love you.”

 “Love ya too, darlin. Can’t wait to see your boot–”

 She rolled her eyes as she ended the call before he could finish his sentence, her heart still pounding against her chest, every feeling she felt in the antique shop still weighing heavy in her chest. Before she even knew it, she was pulling into the Naval base, ID in hand. At last, she had made it to base, taking the takeout bag and her purse with her as she exited her car, a lump forming at the base of her throat.

 She made her routine walk through security and down the hallways before she finally reached the lounge she’d always meet Bradley in and when she pushed open the door, there he was, sitting at a table near the back, watching the sports highlights playing on the television. Jake and Javy were there too, as well as a few other aviators she hadn’t seen much of too. 

 “Mrs. Bradshaw in the flesh!” Jake exclaimed when he caught her eye from the other side of the room and she watched as Bradley’s head shot up, his lips curving into that stupidly handsome grin of his. “You got Rooster sushi?” Javy gaped as she walked by, setting the bag of takeout on the table in front of Bradley as he stood, cupping her face in either of his hands to give her a peck on the lips. “When was the last time anyone’s ever brought us sushi, Hangman?” 

 She chuckled as she settled herself down into her seat, wringing her hands together as Bradley rolled his eyes at them. “One of the benefits of having the best wife in the world,” he shrugged before settling himself down in his own seat across from her, tearing open the plastic bag to fish out the carry-out boxes.

 “God, you really do spoil me too much, babe. Gonna have to train extra hard after you treat me like this,” he practically moaned at the sight of his favorite roll when he opened the styrofoam box, but all she could focus on was him. She could feel the familiar sting of tears burning the outskirts of her eyes, her chest burning with the same thing she felt in the antique shop. 

 Bradley must’ve sensed there was something different in her, for after he stuffed his cheeks full of sushi, he glanced up at her, furrowing his brows at her tear-filled expression.

 “Ish somefing wrong?” He asked through his mouthful and her chest heaved with a laugh, shaking her head and wiping at the tears lining her eyelids. “No, nothing’s wrong,” she tittered, reaching for his hand where is rested beside his takeout box. He let her fingers slip between his, although still bewildered as he looked up at her. “Then what is it?” He questioned, and all she could think to do was smile.

 “I’m just… I’m just really glad we found each other.”

a/n; so yeah... in conclusion, timeless is my song!

TAGLIST

@oliviajdjarin

[skzpixie]

Taglist: @mynameisnotlaura, @palindrome969

Kai: Hey, you want some leftovers?  Minho: What's that?  Kai: You've never had leftovers???  Minho: No, because I'm not a quitter. 

-

Chan: I drink to forget but I always remember.  

Kai: You're drinking orange juice. 

-

Kai: Can we talk about that mass email you sent?  

Changbin: Why? It was important.  

Kai: All it says is, "I'm back on my shit".  

Hyunjin, shrugging: The people need to know. 

-

Kai: *pitches an idea*  

Jeongin, impressed: Huh, there might be something here!  

Seungmin, under their breath: Yeah, a lawsuit. 

-

Kai: You know the sound a fork makes in the garbage disposal? That's the sound that my brain makes all the time. 

-

Kai: Twilight Sparkle was the main character because she represented the element of friendship—  

Hyunjin, tied up: PLEASE, I JUST WANT TO SEE MY FAMILY AGAIN!

Kai: I'M NOT DONE!  

Kai: And Rainbow Dash was the sporty girl— 

-

Felix: Coca Cola can remove rust from metal, imagine what it’s doing to your body.  

Seungmin: Pfff, getting rid of the rust, idiot.  

Felix: THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS!  

Kai: Hmm... I've been drinking soda and my body's rust free... not sure where you're getting your facts from... 

-

Jeongin: Don't have a bookmark? Try ketchup instead!!  

Kai: What makes you think I read? 

-

Kai: Christmas lights?  

Chan: Check.  

Changbin: Thermos of hot cocoa?  

Chan: Check.  

Felix: Santa suits?  

Chan: Check.  

Kai: Shovel?  

Chan: Check.  

Minho: Alibi and bail money?  

Chan: Check- wait, WHAT?! 

-

Han, taping a knife onto a Roomba: Be free, my child.  

Kai, entering the room with a small cut on their ankle: Who the f- 

-

Changbin: I love you.  

Kai: I love you too. I've waited so long to hear you say that.  

*Kai and Changbin kiss passionately*  

Minho, to Seungmin: You owe me 20 dollars. 

-

Seungmin: Changbin, I don't like you.  

Changbin: What did you say?  

Seungmin: You heard me!  

Changbin, internally: And it turns out I actually didn't hear what the fuck you just said. 

-

Chan: WHOEVER CAUSED THIS MESS IS GOING TO-  

Felix: It was me...  

Chan: ...Is going to be forgiven because everyone deserves a second chance. 

-

Felix: We call that a traumatic experience.  

Felix, turning to Seungmin: Not a "bruh moment".  

Felix, turning to Kai: Not "sadge".  

Felix, turning to Han: And DEFINITELY not an "oof LMAO". 

-

Jeongin: You use emoji’s like a straight person.  

Kai: That’s literally the worst thing anyone has ever said about me. 

-

Hyunjin: What do you think Kai will do for a distraction?  

Han: She'll probably, like, make a noise or throw a rock. That's what I would do.  

*Building explodes and several car alarms go off*  

Han: ...or She could do that. 

-

Kai: Am I a boy? Am I a girl? It doesn't matter. I'm going to burn your house down. 

-

Kai: *cocks gun* Go to Bed. This is no longer a request, This is now a Threat. 

Hyunjin: I’m not stupid, you know.  

Kai: Well, you’re doing a really good impression of it! 

-

*Kai and Felix texting*  

Kai: Come downstairs and talk to me please. I'm lonely.  

Felix: Isn't Hyunjin there?  

Kai: Yes but I like you more. 

-

Jeongin, referring to Han and Felix: Those guys are dorks.  

Kai: Yes, but they’re my dorks. 

-

Seungmin: Is anyone going to tell me what's going on in here?!  

Changbin: It's kind of complicated, but Kai- 

Seungmin: Got it. Forget I asked. 

-

Seungmin: Hey do you wanna hang out this weekend?  

Kai: Generic excuse.  

Seungmin: I can’t believe you said that out loud, to my face.  

Kai: I can. 

-

Felix: CHARACTER. FLAWS. ARE. FUCKING. IMPORTANT.  

Kai: Me when someone tells me to stop eating mayo packets like they’re gogurt tubes. 

-

Changbin: If you want my advice-  

Han: No offense but you’re the last person I want relationship advice from. You tried to kill your significant other. Multiple times.  

Changbin: First off, that was before we started dating. Secondly, they’ve also tried to kill me.  

Hyunjin: It’s true. It was mutually attempted murder. 

-

Kai, singing to the tune of I Kissed a Girl: I killed a guy, and I liked it-  

Seungmin, whispering: Should we call the exorcist?  

Hyunjin, also singing: The taste of his cherry chapstick.  

Chan, appalled: Call the exorcist. 

-

Kai: What’s your name?  

Changbin, whispering to Jeongin: Can I tell Her my real name?  

Jeongin: No!  

Changbin: I’m… Jeongin.  

Jeongin, whispering to Himself: The ONE TIME he gets my name right… 

-

Kai: The shadow realm? No, I’m sending you to Ohio! 

-

Hyunjin: Subs are so fun to play with. All you have to do is hint at what you might do, back them into a corner with a look, or grab their wrist in a certain way and they're a wide-eyed mess.  

Kai: What the fuck kind of Subway are you going to?  

Han: Substitute teachers deal with so much shit.  

Seungmin: Guys. 

-

*at 3am*  

Felix, holding the vlogging camera: *runs into Changbin’s room and turns on the light* Wake up sleepyhead!  

Changbin: *wakes up* Dude!  

Felix: *cackles*  

Kai: *sits up from where they were sleeping behind Changbin* What the fuck, Felix?  

Felix: *jaw drops* Wait WHAT- 

-

Kai: Clownery. Tomfoolery. Absolute fuckery, I am going to revoke your life privileges. 

-

Changbin: Stay foxy.  

Han: Die lonely. 

-

Kai: How many children do you have?  

Chan: Biologically, legally, or emotionally? Because there is a difference. 

-

Chan: Hey, Changbin? Can I get some dating advice?  

Changbin: Just because I'm with Kai doesn't mean I know how I did it. 

-

Kai: “Ladies and gentlemen” is unnecessarily gendered, overly formal, lengthy, and honestly, I’m falling asleep already. “Cowards” on the other hand, is inclusive to all genders, to the point, and dramatic. 

-

Kai: Hey guys, I’m making french toast sticks in the oven. I’m gonna take a quick nap, so wake me up in 5 minutes to flip them over.  

*5 minutes later*  

Jeongin: Kai it’s been 5 minutes, time to flip your sticks.  

Kai: snnnzzzz...  

Jeongin:  KAI YOUR STICKS! 

-

Han: Life is like Kai. It's short. 

[volterran-wine]

As the incredibly gobsmacking writer that you are, do you have any remedies for the type of writer’s block that makes you contemplate if life is even worth living if you cannot write again? Or do we both suffer from the same terminal illness?

My skills probably only rival those of Dr. Seuss, though. So the world would probably be in more agony if you ever stopped.

Oh sweet Anonymous, the sad news is that we all do in fact suffer from the same terminal illness. No creative is spared from this particular strain no matter how much we try to avoid catching it.

But the good news is; "We all have the same terminal illness."

This is something I have spoken about with all my creative friends, mutuals and peers alike―it is our lot in life to struggle to some extent. I was at an intimate reading with Ocean Vuong some years back and got to chat with him and we talked about just how expensive being a creative soul is, especially when it comes to writing. And by expensive I mean it in every sense of the word, it steals time, it rips a small part of your soul out when you do it, it is not always a monetary juggernaut, we sink down into a headspace it is difficult to explain to others, it is emotionally taxing...

It is not strange we hit a Writer's Block from time to time, sometimes I wonder if it is our brain telling us 'hey, perhaps slowing down would be a good idea?', I tend to laugh in it's face and pour another glass of wine however...

So, I do have some tips on getting through a Writer's Block.

Nathalie's failsafe (not really) tips on getting over writer's block and other issues;

Read. Anything. Wether it be some horrendous smut from 2009 posted up on fanfiction.net or Crime and Punishment, the most important thing is to wake up your braincells in charge of writing or creating. For me the most important thing is to get excited about writing, and seeing what everyone else is capable of tends to motivate me more than anything.

Throw whatever you are working on out the window and write something purely self-indulgent. If I am truly stuck in the mud and need to get some writing done, doing this helps me. I have an entire Google Doc filled with little snippets of nonsense because I came up with a neat sentence or concept. The most important part is getting back to it.

Take a break if you really need it. Sometimes our writing is tied to things we have to work through in the peace and quiet away from the written word. Go outside and smell the roses or crisp winter air, it may just help.

A personal one; I paint when I cannot write. If you ever see me take an extra long break I am most likely cursing over my oil sticks in my kitchen.

Sometimes I find that I need to get in the right mood to write, depending on the story that can mean a very specific playlist or a moodboard that inspires me just right―sometimes indulging in another creative outlet can shake loose the other ones.

And if all else fails; strangle the muses, get in a fist fight with them. Write in that draft no matter how shitty it may sound or look, sometimes I have entire chapters filled with only dialogue because I know what is going to happen in said chapter but have little energy to write anything else. Most of my drafts look something like this;

For me, writing can both be the easiest thing in the world, or like pulling teeth with a rusted pair of pliers. And sometimes I just need a really long fucking break.

Oh and dear Anonymous? Any creative lost to the ether is a loss worth mourning, the world would be in agony no matter what.