#yes i know this looks terrible but the lighting was a nightmare to work with

[captain-hen]

MAY GRANT 7.08: 'Step Nine'

[astraystayyh]

Echoes of love

"to love someone is firstly to confess; i am prepared to be devastated by you."

Chapter ii. to remember

genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.

pairing : minho x reader. (3racha cameo)

summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

cw : depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. allusion to mc having a bad family history with alcohol. suggestive in the end (allusion to sex but no smut). reader had she/her pronouns.

word count : 11k words.

song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me/already gone/enough.

chapter i. skz quotes series masterlist.

A.N: PT. 2 IS HERE!!!! i hope you'll enjoy this one, she's my baby and i put so much work and thought into her, so feedback is highly highly appreciated!!! thank you to my @forlix for being with me every step of this journey, i love u the most<33

Day 33. 

With a gentle, absentminded sweep, your fingers trace the delicate contours of your wrist, a faint dance with the pulse beneath your skin– the cocoon of the soul you’re gradually growing accustomed to. It is a trying task, you've found out, to no longer yearn to flee from your body, leaving the weight of your worries for your bones and flesh alone to bear. 

A subtle fragrance floats in the air surrounding you- the familiar gardenia and honey tones of your sweet perfume. It is a scent you reserve for special occasions, such as this one- your first date, in three months according to the world, in more than a year for your memory. 

You swiftly retrieve a mirror from your pouch, checking your appearance for the tenth time in mere minutes. Your nude lipstick is still, unsurprisingly, in place, and you smile reassuringly at your reflection. She smiles back, though sometimes you half-expect her not to. In defiance, perhaps, maybe even repulse. 

The melodious chime of the café's bell captures your attention, and the man you've been awaiting finally enters. He confidently strides in, clad in a blue polo and black slacks, an evident effort poured into his appearance. 

Standing before you, his warm, gleaming eyes meet yours, effortlessly melting your lingering worries. You smile at him, he beams at you. 

“Did I keep you waiting?” Changbin, your date, asks as he pulls the chair adjacent to you. 

“No, just in time.”

Two weeks ago. 

Day 17. 

“Use me. Use me to remember,” Minho whispers, the distance between your lips resembling the thin edge of a blade. 

You close your eyes, the world narrowing down to the sound of your heartbeat, a rhythmic drum drowning out any attempt at coherent thoughts. Kiss him, your heart chants, kiss him and all your memories will flood back. But what if they don't? What if the abyss persists before the brightest beam of light?

A tender kiss lands on your forehead, gently interrupting your tumultuous thoughts. Minho’s lips are as warm, as soft as you remember them. They're now imprinted into your skin, no longer a hazy memory beyond your reach.

His hands cradle your hair, smoothing it down, making the ringing in your ears soften. You surrender to his gentle embrace, to the soft tide of emotions rippling from him to you, pulling your wounded soul to safe shores. 

“You need to forgive yourself,” he whispers, his words echoing against your skin, lips still pressed to your forehead. A rush of warmth overwhelms you, all your senses coming to life, ringing the alarm- he sees you, he sees through you.

“None of this is your fault,” he assures, a sudden cooling balm against your scorching wounds. These are the words you've been aching to hear. You didn't know, but Minho did, reading between the lines of your quivering lips and your reluctance to look into his eyes. 

He knows you better than you know yourself. 

“Don’t blame yourself, please.”

“But all I do is hurt people,” you confess, tears streaming down your face like a relentless downpour, soaking Minho's hands. 

You expect punishment to strike you, bolting lighting aiming straight for your heart as you finally admit to your biggest sin- the shadow of sorrow that trails your every step. It is the way it has always been since you were a child. It is what you fled from. 

What you don't expect is for tenderness to cradle you instead— in Minho's warm hand as he gently guides you to his chest, your ear resting above his steady heartbeat. Its rhythmic cadence akin to a lullaby- you shouldn't apologize for existing, you hear it sing to you. 

“If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you. you’re forgiven, okay? I forgive you. Today and tomorrow. I'll forgive you until you'll forgive yourself.” 

“Okay,” you nod, muffled words against the fabric of his shirt.

“Now, will you please come back with me? The cats will miss you a lot if you don’t,” he suggests, pressing his cheek onto the crown of your head. 

“I don't want to leave them,” you reply in a small voice, dewdrops gathering in your eyes at the thought of running again. 

“You don’t have to. It’s your home too.”

“Okay,” you sigh in acceptance, relief, encircling his waist with your arms. He is all inviting, like an open book, and you're resting between his pages, scribbled with love confessions for you. 

The world stills, waves slowing their relentless crash against the shore, as you draw in a deep breath from the pits of your soul. You don't remember all you’ve once felt for Minho. But you know it must have been safe, like stumbling upon a haven and then learning it was specially carved for you. 

“I miss you, Minho.”

“I know, I miss you too.”

Day 19. 

“Minho, can you come to the kitchen please?” your voice reverberates through the house, weaving through the air and reaching the bedroom where Minho has been ensnared, his less-than-graceful complaints echoing loudly for the past hour. You had sealed him within without explanation, only making him promise not to leave the room until you told him to, much to his dismay, and deep down, amusement. 

He chuckles lowly to himself as he rises from the bed, before making his way to the kitchen. There, he finds you near the doorway, hands concealed behind your back, dusty flour adorning your cheek like an artist’s absentminded paint stroke.  

“So…,” you trail off and Minho smiles, crossing his arms before his chest.  

“So?”

“A situation may have happened.” 

“Which situation?” he inquires amusedly, attempting to peer past you into the kitchen. Your extended arms block his view.

“You know how I got a concussion from the car accident,” you ask. 

“I do.”

“I think it may have affected my cooking abilities.”

“But you didn't have any to begin with?” he muses, tilting his head to the side innocently. 

“Shut up,” you playfully admonish before clasping your hands in a silent plea. “Will you help me?” 

“Mm, what are you making?” he inquires, leaning against the doorway.

“Pudding.”

“Pudding?”

“For you.”

“Oh.” 

A blush creeps up Minho’s neck as he grapples to find a reply, his surprised gasp hanging into the air. You giggle faintly, entertained by his sudden speech impairment. 

In response, Minho takes a step forward, delicately brushing away the flour on your cheek, his thumb hovering near the corner of your mouth. “How did this get here?”

“Huh?” you sputter, pink splashing across your cheeks like spilled Rosé. 

Minho is testing your waters, dipping one toe in, hoping he’ll find your reassuring embrace lurking beneath the surface. Did you blush from the heat of the stove or his touch? Minho doesn’t know. Minho needs to find out. 

“And you also forgot this,” he lightly pouts, reaching over your head to the hanger behind you, caging you between his arms. 

He’s sacrificing his heart, placing it on the frontlines of hurt once again. Yet, when you look up at him, dewy eyes flickering to his lips, Minho feels a single match lighten up in his core, not enough to burn all his doubts. But enough to signal hope. 

Hope is a perilous possession, akin to cradling a fragile glass that threatens to shatter at the slightest tremor. Hope is the only thread Minho can now hang onto. 

“You forgot your apron,” he finally says, withdrawing two aprons from the hanger. He drapes one over your head before placing a hand on your shoulder, gently turning you around. He silently ties the strings into a ribbon, his fingers brushing against your spine. He can distinctly remember the feel of your bare skin beneath his fingertips, silky, smooth, intoxicating. 

“There, a pretty knot,” he whispers, not moving back an inch, waiting for you to swivel around. Yet, you remain silent, undoing your hair from its loose ponytail. Your hair cascades over your shoulders, resembling the unveiling of curtains, and Minho senses something unfurling in the depths of his stomach.

“Tie it for me?” you whisper, handing him the hair tie without looking back. Your fingertips brush against each other, and Minho inhales deeply.

“Sure,” he says, voice thick with emotion, he needs to drink water. He needs to drink you in. 

He gathers your hair strands in another low ponytail, trembling hands as they brush against the nape of your neck, akin to powerless leaves before the autumn breeze. He’s close, so close to you, so much his chest almost brushes against your back. 

As soon as he’s done, Minho swiftly steps back before doing something he’ll surely regret, like placing a tender kiss on your shoulder, or worse, confessing that he misses the simple act of brushing your hair at night. 

“So, pudding,” he clears his throat, rolling up the sleeves of his white hoodie. your eyes follow his movement, lingering on the veins protruding on his forearms. Minho feels a bit foolish for wanting to flex for you. 

“It’s really easy actually. bring me two eggs?” 

“Sure,” you grin, heading for the fridge as Minho retrieves sugar from the cupboard, throwing away the odd liquid mixture you managed to conjure. 

You stand beside Minho, eyebrows furrowed as he explains why the milk needs to be brought to a boil before adding the cornstarch, or how adding the vanilla at the very end will help preserve its flavor. You listen intently, nodding along, and the tension between you dispels, leaving place for something comforting, familiar– you’re erasing the remnants of his sobs, the sight of him crumbling over the green kitchen tiles. 

“Let's leave it to chill,” he finally says, closing the fridge’s door. 

“Okay,” you nod, packing away the butter. Minho leans against the countertop, an ember of curiosity ablaze at the tip of his tongue

“Why did you want to make pudding?” he asks and you freeze in place. 

“To see if I’m capable of not being a lost cause,” you respond playfully but the undertones of your voice indicate otherwise- laden, charged. One more match that you could light up? 

“Really?” he says softly, taking one step toward you. 

“No,” you giggle faintly and he nods, a gentle smile unfurling on his face, gradual as the eclipse of a moon.

“It was supposed to be your birthday gift. That's why I locked you in the room. I even bought little birthday hats for the cats, silly I know, and very late, but, turns out I’m a horrible-” 

“I wanna see the birthday hats,” he cuts you off.

“Really? They’re really ugly.” 

“It's my birthday gift, right?”

Five minutes later, you and Minho are seated on the floor, legs crisscrossed, three perplexed cats before you, and on their heads, obnoxiously neon green hats.

“They look so…” you tilt your head, assessing the view before you. 

“Stupid?” Minho suggests, eliciting a startled snort from you that swiftly transforms into an almost maniac cackle, which in turn, catches Minho off guard. He gazes at you bewilderedly before succumbing to a fit of giggles, which intensifies your laughter, as you punctuate his shoulder with light hits, tears streaming down your face in an attempt to regain composure.

One hundred matches light up in Minho’s heart at the sight, all at once.

“My God, they look so stupid, I’m so sorry,” you laugh harder, your body collapsing to the ground, hands tightly clutching your stomach. 

They can laugh again, the house sighs in relief, something other than sobs can still echo within my walls. 

Day 22. 

“I miss the sea,” you sigh softly, cradling a cup of chamomile tea between your hands. Minho, absorbed in his book, glances up to find a melancholic expression etched on your face—a poignant blend of sorrow and longing that he knows weighs heavy on your heart. 

“We saw it over at the bridge, no?” he ventures tentatively, setting the book aside on the living room table.

“Yes, but I miss the sand, and the waves lapping at my feet. I miss feeling the sea, not just seeing it.” 

“I’d take you, in a heartbeat,” he says assuredly, ready to bring you the moon if only you dare ask. “But it's far, and you can't get into a car.” 

“I can try.” 

“You can?” he questions, hope budding in his eyes.

“I mean- I want to, it's just… I don't know,” you retract, nails drumming anxiously against your cup, gaze lost into the amber liquid.  

“Talk to me, yeah?” he smiles softly, draping a reassuring hand on your arm. His thumb swipes across the slate of your shoulder, and an impossible knot in your throat untangles. 

“The accident took a lot from me. My health, my memories, a year of moving forward.” You quiet down, eyes meeting his in a barely veiled vulnerability. Silence speaks of your hardest loss— him. 

“Can you help me get the sea back?”

Minho’s radiant smile is louder than any spoken agreement.

…

Thread by thread, drop by drop, your fears unravel as Minho lowers all the car windows’ before gently guiding you into the car seat, dispelling any prospect of feeling confined within the vehicle. 

He remembers everything, even the panic that gripped your being when you went into his enclosed car, nearly a month ago. 

“Can I blindfold you? It might help, so you wouldn't see the car lights since it’s night,” he suggests.

“Yeah, that'd be nice,” you agree, your hand lightly gripping the car seat.

“Hey, hey,” he calls out gently, “I'm here, okay? The second you feel overwhelmed I'm stopping this car.”

“Will you drive safely?” 

“Of course. I promise you.” 

Your nod is met with the softening of Minho's eyes, as he delicately tucks a strand of your hair behind the curve of your ear. 

“I'm proud of you,” he whispers, tone laden with so much tenderness, love, that your throat becomes a garden, vocal cords bound not by thorns but the delicate blossoming of flowers. 

With a gentle touch, Minho wraps a tie around your eyes, cocooning you in a tranquil darkness. His hand seeks yours instinctively, fingers intertwining with yours akin to the wind weaving through the strands of your hair.

In this moment, every fracture within you is delicately filled by Minho.

He starts driving, a soothing piano instrumental playing out of the car’s speakers- his hand still in yours. “Breathe,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing a soothing path across your palm. 

“Follow my touch.” A gentle sweep to the right, an invitation to inhale slowly. “In,” his voice guides, and you draw in a deep breath.

Another caress to the left, a silent directive to release your confined breath. “Out,” he whispers, and you exhale, surrendering to the rhythm orchestrated by his thumb.

He raises the music’s volume, his touch becoming a maestro, speaking silently to you. You’re grateful for it, for the way in which he’s driving- avoiding curbs and speeding, safely, making the wheels float across the road. 

Your heart still constricts in your chest, anxiety squeezing your veins, bleeding them dry, but you focus on Minho’s thumb, you let it guide you, like a compass navigating the dark tunnels of your heart. 

“We're almost there,” he reassures as he stops by a red light. 

“I look silly, right?” you reply, giggling a bit. 

“What?” he asks, confused. 

“I can feel you looking,” you clarify. 

“How so?”

“My right cheek is tingling.” 

Minho snorts incredulously. “What does that even mean?”

“You have a piercing stare. You're like melting through my skin and vibrating my bones.”

“Idiot,” he chuckles. My my my idiot, Minho grieves to say once again. The human heart is peculiar, he learns day after day, mourning the loss of a myriad of minuscule things, even words. 

“And, you don't look silly,” he clears his throat minutes later, as he finally parks by the beach.  

“You look pretty,” he utters, unraveling your blindfold, and you blink, caught between the sudden light and the weight of his words. “You always do,” he concludes, a whispered confession that lingers like the afterglow of a sunset, painting your world in golden hues.

“Minho, I…” you trail off, eyes landing on the vast sea ahead, blending into the sky in an alluring shade of turquoise. “We're here!” you shout bewildered, a magnificent grin on your face. 

“We are,” Minho smiles, drinking in the delight in your expression. 

“Oh my god I missed the sea!” you giggle as you undo your seatbelt, quickly opening the car’s door and taking off running. 

Minho follows closely behind, captivated, as he watches you glide across the shore, the sand ricocheting off the soles of your shoes. You look like a fairy, bending the wind to your will, coaxing it into a choreography that mirrors the rhythm of your movements, your messy footprints marking your pathway to happiness once again. 

Upon the sand, you finally settle down, and Minho walks over, sitting beside you. Both of you quietly gaze ahead, entranced by the moon's silver glow caressing the water’s surface. Each shimmering wave resembles glistening diamonds, a celestial mirror reflecting the lights in the sky.

“Have I ever told you why I love the sea?” you speak after a while, tone softer, more content. 

“You did.” 

“Can I tell you again?” you say. Can I tell you what I still remember? He understands. 

“Of course.” 

"There was a beach near our home, back then," you reminisce, a nostalgic aura enveloping your words. “And whenever I felt lonely I used to go there and watch the waves, to calm me down. But, one time, I was really overwhelmed so I ended up crying. And then, coincidentally, it started raining too.” 

Your eyes widen slightly, a hint of amusement in your voice. “At that moment, I chuckled at the timing, how the sky was crying with me.”

“Ever since that day, I liked to believe that the sea is made up of the sky’s tears, the ones that fell in sync with those of humans, so it'd comfort us. And the tears grew from a pond to a river, to a vast ocean, as humans cried more and more. That's why sometimes the sea’s waters are gentle because those are tears of happiness falling somewhere. Sometimes they're stormy, since someone is crying out of anger. Sometimes they're melancholic, just relentlessly crashing against the shore, because someone is in pain. Like we are.”

A tranquil hush falls over the night as you quiet down, before turning around to meet Minho’s teary eyes, mirroring yours.

“And if the sea persists through tempests and tranquility, if it goes on despite the myriad of emotions it holds within, then so will we.”

Hope isn't fragile, as Minho once believed. Hope scrapes its bloody palms against the rough surface as it climbs defiantly to the pinnacle once again. Hope picks out rugged stones with weathered hands and builds a home out of them. Hope is strong, it clutches onto the thinnest threads so we’d endure and endure once more. As many times as we need to. 

“Well, the sky isn't crying right now,” Minho notes.

“I know,” you smile softly, “Because we're holding on to hope.” 

Day 26. 

Under the soft glow of the TV, Dori settles comfortably on your shoulders, nuzzling her tiny nose onto your face every now and then. Soonie and Doongie are a bit far away, playing with a piece of yarn, captivated by its vibrant red threads. 

It is an ordinary, comforting setting to watch a movie with Minho, on a Sunday night, a bowl of popcorn nestled on his lap while his cats lounge around. So familiar that the world around you blurs, like the vague brushes of an impressionist painting— a vivid déjà-vu sensation clinging to your body. You’ve lived this scene before. You want to live it again, now and in the future. More and more. 

However something is different— your skin tingles, a buzzing sensation that travels from thigh to knee to hand, as if your body knows that something’s amiss. Minho’s touch perhaps, his palm casually resting upon your skin. 

You don’t know where this urge is coming from— to lay your head on his shoulder, to have him run his fingers through your hair. Even more, to lose yourself in the nutmeg and peppermint notes of his cologne, to disintegrate your worries into his hold and rest. 

“Would you mind if some of my friends came over?” Minho speaks up suddenly, cutting off your trailing train of thought. 

“Hm?” you hum absentmindedly before clearing your throat. “I mean, no, I don't mind. Who are they?”

“Han and Chan. They’ve been asking about you for a while now.” 

“Sure, this is your home.”

“It is yours too,” he says, gaze locking onto yours. His eyes are like a dark tapestry woven with threads of stardust- you’d never tire of looking into them, into the universe they seem to cradle within. 

Do you know that there is a galaxy inside you? You almost slip out, words in an urgent race against your mind. You barely stop them at the tip of your tongue, before smiling and peeling your eyes away from his, painfully, like scratching a burn scab long before it heals. 

…

“They’re here,” Minho announces as someone knocks on the door. 

“Okay,” you smile, a tad nervous. You’re not even sure what for. 

“If they annoy you too much tell me, I’ll kick them out,” he reassures, raising his brows playfully at you. 

“That's mean,” you giggle, albeit soothed by his words.

“They already love you,” he grabs your wrist, his thumb gently swiping over your pulse. “No need to be worried.” 

He drops it, as though a countdown is ingrained into his brain— never to touch you for more than ten seconds. Wouldn't it be selfish, pathetic even, to ask him for more? 

As Minho heads to open the door, you linger in the living room, idly fidgeting with the hem of your sweatshirt. It is a weird circumstance to greet strangers who know you— you may have brushed against their shoulders in an alley and not known who they were. 

Your thoughts dissolve as two men saunter into the living room, stopping in their tracks once their eyes land on you. They’re both beautiful– that is the first thing you note, closely followed by how relieved they seem to see you. Simultaneous soft sighs escape them, gentle smiles blooming across their faces. Tentatively, you return the gesture.                          

Minho takes the initiative to introduce them. “Yn. This is Chan,” he points to the man on the right, clad in black from head to toe, his smile grows wider, his eyes disappearing into moon crescents, two dimples peeking gleefully on his cheeks. 

“And Han,” the younger man, sporting a Supreme t-shirt despite the cold, beams at you, highlighting his round cheeks, and an adam-apple that weirdly resembles a heart. 

“I want to hug you but Minho put us on a strict no-touch notice because of your ribs,” Han speaks first, a small pout tugging at his lips as he glances at Minho, who simply rolls his eyes at his words. 

“You can never keep something for yourself,” Minho sighs, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. You stifle an amused giggle. 

“And she technically doesn’t remember us so it’d be weird for her to hug a stranger,” Chan notes, offering you an understanding smile. 

“Hey, I didn’t mean it in a creepy way! more of ‘Oh my god I’m so happy you’re alive, thank you for still being here, I was so worried about you’.”

“But were you worried?” you ask, tilting your head to the side.

“Of course, I-”

“Then why weren’t you at my bedside?” you question, an eyebrow raised, and Minho chuckles at your words. 

“W-what?” Han asks, glancing worriedly at the two men by his side. 

“Why weren’t you there sobbing when I woke up? It doesn’t look like you were worried,” you muse, throwing a wink to Minho who walks over to you.

“Right, you should’ve sent her a pic of you crying,” Minho adds, as you drape a hand on his shoulder. 

“A picture for every day you didn’t come see me,” you say solemnly as Han’s face grows paler by the second. 

“I-I didn’t, I really was worried, I swear, I kept asking Minho every day about you and…” he trails off as giddy smiles break out on your face and Minho’s before you both burst out laughing. 

“You guys are evil,” Han laments, as Chan pats his back in faux sympathy, a string of giggles falling from his full lips. 

“I’m sorry. we made you dinner to make up for it,” you grin and Minho looks at you pointedly. 

“He made you dinner,” you correct with a huff, and Minho smiles, satisfied, raising his brows smugly at his two friends. 

“Let’s choose a movie then!” Han claps, turning to the TV as Minho sidles by his side.

“I’ll set up the table,” Chan announces.

“I’ll help you,” you offer, and he nods, clearly grateful for your assistance.

You’re taking out four plates from the cupboard, Chan effortlessly bringing out the glasses, clearly familiar with the nooks and crannies of your home, when he suddenly speaks.

“How are you, Yn?” 

“Do you want the truth?” you ask back, and he grins. “Always.”

“I’m okay. Right now. I don’t know if I’ll still be tomorrow, you know? It all fluctuates so much.” 

“Mm, I understand,” he says, and something about his tone indicates that he isn’t saying this just to comfort you. “And that’s okay too. What you went through wasn’t easy, but good times will come again. They always do, you know, just like the sun always comes back after the rain.”

“The sun,” you repeat, as you glance out at the living room, where Minho is laughing at something Han just said, his head tipped back, bunny teeth peeking out. 

Perhaps the sun rays were by your side all along. 

“Thank you, Chan,” you beam at him. “Truly, for being worried about me too.”

“It's nothing to thank us for. We care about you, even though you don’t remember us,” he pouts, a hand on his heart in mock offense. 

“Hey, it’s not my fault I got amnesia!” you chuckle. 

"Excuses!" he drawls with a playful tone as he exits the kitchen, and you can't help but laugh quietly to yourself. You recognize what he's doing���making light of your accident to alleviate the weight on your heart.

The night blurs in your memory, but this time it is tinged with happiness and laughter. The three men recall fun stories of their time together, a seven-year bond rooted in love and care, albeit silently. You witnessed it in the details—Chan ensuring the food was on their plates first, Minho peeling shrimp for Han, the latter rubbing Chan’s arms when he complained of being cold.

Then you saw it directed towards you– how they put on the movie you wanted and watched in anticipation as you took the first bite of food, draped the fuzziest blanket around you, and rushed to your side simultaneously when you stumbled on your feet.

You were loved, although you didn’t know of it. The accident took away your memories but it didn’t plague theirs. 

“Thank you,” you beam at the two men as you walk them to the door. Opening your arms wide, you invite them in for a hug. Han embraces you first, a large smile on his face, and you gently beckon Chan in too. “Easy,” he whispers in Han's ears, careful not to put any pressure on your ribs. They both pat your back as you wrap an arm around their respective shoulders before leaning away.

“I’ll call you,” Minho bids them farewell, tipping his chin forward. They wave to him before finally leaving

You close the door, leaning against the auburn wood. Minho watches you, a soft smile playing on his face.

“Good?” he inquires, closing the distance between you.

“Mm, good,” you reply with a smile as he halts just an inch away. His intoxicating scent envelops you, permeating your bones and flowing through your veins like liquid warmth.

A torrent of memories floods your mind—images of you pressed against this same door. It is dark, a stark contrast from your first memory, a lone lunar beam of light slashing through the night. Minho’s hands grip your waist with a fevered urgency, while yours entwines around the nape of his neck, in passion, in hunger, almost as if you were deprived of him for so long.

You angle his mouth closer to yours, his lips pressing against your own repeatedly, a desperate attempt to brand the contours of his mouth into your soul. His hair, a cascade of midnight silk, tickles your fingers with an electric charge, like the crackling of the air before a storm. His tongue sweeps across your lower lip, seeking entrance, one you willingly surrender, white flag easily thrown to the ground. With every kiss, your bodies meld together, so much so that you could merge into the door, disappearing into the shadows as one.

“What's wrong?” Minho breaks your trance and you snap out of your reverie, a bright flush adorning your cheeks. 

“N-nothing,” you stammer. 

“You’re all red, do you have a fever?” he asks, coming closer, his hand pressed to your forehead. His woody scent envelops you once again– everything about him is enticing— his cologne, his lips on you, his fingertips dragging underneath your shirt, his eyes piercing yours, undressing you before his hands ever could.

“Yn?” he questions and you grab his jaw, angling his face away from you. 

“Stay like this, don’t look at me for a moment.”

“What?”

“Just… please,” you say and he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief, and yet he complies, his side profile now facing you.

How does he live with these memories each time he looks at you? 

You take in a deep breath, focusing on his silhouette. It might seem counterproductive to fixate on the same man consuming your thoughts, but how could you not when he was mere centimeters away, his eyes averted from yours?

You exhale softly as your gaze glides along the graceful curve of his neck, a solitary mole resting just beneath his sculpted jawline, leading the way to his plump lips, a cupid's bow delicately carved by the hands of the divine archer himself — crafted to be kissed, to be adored.

Your eyes trail up, tracing the high bridge of his nose, another mole perched at its pinnacle, sharp and smooth as if chiseled by a master sculptor, one who dedicated months to perfecting his artistry. His eyes are a mesmerizing brown, punctuated with long lashes that flutter like the delicate wings of an angel with each slow blink.

Minho sweeps aside strands of his hair, his fingertip delicately fluffing them upwards. It dawns on you, a sudden revelation of the necessity of art — to immortalize such beauty for generations to come.

You imagine admirers gazing upon Minho, sighing in sheer amazement, their hearts tightening with emotions that words struggle to encapsulate in the face of this epitome of beauty. Inside and out, you reflect, inside and out. 

“You told them not to drink around me, right?” you ask softly.

A blush grows from the base of Minho's neck to the tip of his ears, like roots expanding into the soil. He sighs before finally looking at you.

“I did. How’d you figure it out?” he wonders.

“I asked Han if he wanted a drink, but he refused so categorically that I assumed he didn't like alcohol. But most of his stories were of him drunk,” you chuckle quietly, and Minho shrugs sheepishly.

“We get loud when we drink. You don’t like that,” he says simply as if it’s a given, an absolute certainty that he’d do anything but make you uncomfortable.

He's beautiful, the light of his heart basking his face in a glow that even Michaelangelo's skillful hands wouldn’t be able to replicate.  

And he loves you. 

Till when? Your heart sounds out in alarm. Till when will he love you? What if the grains of sand slip away from the hourglass before you can reciprocate his love? Two stars colliding at disparate speeds, never converging into a singular entity, destined to erupt and scatter into cosmic dust.

How long do you have left? How many more days will he love you for? 

How many more days do you have to love him back? 

Day 30. 

Minho is sick. 

He tried his best to conceal it from you, as he came back from his dance studio, strands of his hair clinging to his forehead, a thin sheen of perspiration above his right eyebrow. Yet, his uncharacteristic silence betrayed him, as he quietly retreated into the shower, emerging with a solemn expression on his face. 

Seated on the bed, book long forgotten by your side, you bit your lip tentatively. “You're okay?” you inquired, perched on the edge, concern etched in your gaze.

“Mm, just tired,” Minho responded, his attempt at reassurance falling short as he laid down on the floor mattress. “Can you turn off the lights?” he softly requested. “Hurts my eyes.”

“Yeah, of course. Will you sleep now?”

“I think so.”

“Okay then. Good night, Minho,” you uttered gently, the veins in your heart tangled with worry. “Good night,” he whispered in return.

In the stillness of the night, you were roused by soft whimpers escaping Minho's lips. He writhed in apparent discomfort, his features contorted with an unseen anguish. His pupils moved furiously underneath the thin layer of his eyelids, betraying the tumultuous thoughts raging in his mind. 

You've never seen Minho so disrupted in his sleep, mouth slightly hung agape as if he struggled to breathe in the depths of his dreams. Your worry for him came back to haunt you ten times fold.

You lean over the bed, gently shaking his shoulders. “Minho, wake up.”

“No... no-no, don't-don't go,” he whispers, caught in the vines of a restless dream, seemingly wrapping around his mind, trapping him in. “Minho, come on wake up,” your pleas grow more insistent, but so do his. “Don't go, s-stay,” he implores, voice broken, prompting you to abandon your bed and join him on his mattress.

“Minho!” you call out, shaking him until his eyes finally flutter open. He gasps for air— as if inhaling his first breath on this earth, shooting upright, wide-eyed and disoriented. 

His gaze locks on yours and he instantly cradles your face in his sweaty hands, bringing you closer to him until your noses bump into one another. “You didn't go,” he whispers, and you shake your head. “I'm here.”

“Fuck,” he swears, releasing his hold on you and sinking back into the pillow. 

“Minho, what's wrong?” you ask softly, afraid you're treading on stormy waters.

“I… I don't know. I don't feel good,” He admits, fingers tugging at the collar of his shirt, as if the fabric morphed into a vise around his throat. A flush creeps up his neck, red dots splashing across his ivory skin. A droplet of sweat traces a slow path down his temple, as the white fabric clings uncomfortably to his warm skin.

“Do you have a fever?”you ask, placing your hand on his forehead, sensing an unusual heat radiating beneath your touch. “Minho, where is your thermometer?”

“Bedside drawer,” he breathes out.

Fetching the thermometer, you gently tug at his chin, opening his mouth to check his temperature. “Stay still”" you instruct, watching anxiously as the numbers climb steadily.

“40°C, fuck Minho, you have a really high fever,” you exclaim as he shuts his eyes, an unmistakable weariness claiming him, rendering him malleable, akin to the silk pillow he's resting on. 

“I feel dizzy,” he admits, burying his face into the covers. 

“You need to take a cold shower now,” you urge a sudden lump materializes in your throat at the sight of his suffering. 

“It's okay, I'll just sleep.”

“No, no, it's far from okay!” you almost exclaim, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as if you were peeling an onion—your own emotional layers unraveling, exposing the depth of your concern for Minho.

“Minho, please, you have a really high fever,” you plead, feeling an unexpected surge of panic at his unwillingness to cooperate.

“Yn… are you worried about me?”

“I am.”

“It feels nice. Please be worried about me more,” he mumbles, eyes still closed, eliciting an incredulous laugh from you. 

“You are so unbelievable, my god,” you pull him up and he doesn't resist, nearly stumbling on his feet.

“Okay?” you ask, running your hand through the nape of his neck.

“Mm,” he hums, burying his head in your shoulder. “Sleepy.”

“I know, you'll sleep after the shower,” you reassure softly, guiding him to the bathroom, his entire body weight leaning onto yours. There, you turn on the light, your right hand holding Minho's waist tightly as you lead him to settle atop the toilet.

“Can I take off your shirt?”

“Are you planning to undress me?” he smiles lazily, hooded eyes locked onto yours.

“No, I just-” you stammer, but he’s quick to cut you off.

“Because I don't mind.”

“I can't believe you're flirting with me while you're sick.”

“I always am, I can't help it,” he says, raising his hands as a silent signal for you to remove his shirt.

“You're awfully candid tonight,” you observe, seizing the edges of his shirt and drawing it over his head. His tongue glides across his lips, his gaze drawing tantalizingly slow over your form, and you clench his shirt tighter in your hands. He's the one with the fever, yet it's you who feels ablaze, flames of longing licking at your every sense.

“Come here,” you beckon, the icy water now flowing as you turn the knob. He reaches his hand out to you, and you grasp it, guiding him under the frigid cascade, soaking you both.

“C-cold,” he stutters, and you nod, your breath escaping in short, visible puffs.

“I-I know, just a little longer,” you reassure.

2 a.m. is a peculiar time to shower, the water droplets echoing against the tiled floor is the only sound that can be heard. That, and your labored breaths in tandem with the chilly embrace of the water filling your bones. The quiet makes way for other unspoken sentiments to surge forth, electric and palpable, heightened by the way Minho gazes at you through the liquid curtain, his hands clinging tightly to your arms for stability.

Droplets of water weave seamlessly through his hair, and an unexpected pang of jealousy grips you— you envy the liberty of those water beads as they thread through his locks, tracing the contours of his broad shoulders, nestling in the enticing recesses of his collarbones, without fearing the consequences of such acts. You don't dare look further down, wary that the rivulets on his skin may lead to your own undoing. Instead, you close your eyes thanking the stars that you weren’t wearing a white shirt, which would have turned translucent by now. You don’t even want to contemplate the consequences of such a premise.

After a few minutes, you turn off the water, stepping out of the shower and swiftly enveloping Minho in a towel.

“Go change, I have some spare clothes in here. Oh, and don't wear a top,” you instruct.

Minho chuckles quietly and you roll your eyes. “Shh. Make sure to dry your hair too.”

Taking your time in getting dressed, you peel off each wet layer, depositing them into the washing machine, before donning a spare pajama from a cabinet. You stroll to the kitchen to pour Minho a glass of water and retrieve medicine from the drawer, lingering at the counter long enough to ensure he'd be dressed by the time you return to the room.

You knock softly before opening the door, and the sight of Minho freezes you in your tracks. The room basks in warm, orange hues from the lamp's glow, playing upon Minho's skin and casting enticing shadows on the contours of his muscles—a masterpiece created by the skilled hands of light. His toned arms rest between his legs, back against the headboard, and an inexplicable urge to flee washes over you, your heart sinking to your knees in the face of his long-avoided vision of beauty.

You swallow the tumultuous thoughts raging within you before handing him his medicine, which he drinks diligently. Pressing your palm to his forehead, you're relieved to find a slight reduction in his temperature. “It will go down more once the medicine takes effect,” you assure.

“One of my students had a nasty cold. I think I got it from him,” he explains, and you nod, your hand lingering near his. Your fingers twitch as his pinky brushes against yours—akin to birds fluttering their wings in anticipation, awaiting, aching for a release from their cage, at last.

“I'm tired,” Minho sighs, closing his eyes. “Lay down,” you gently instruct, and he complies, resting his head on the pillow.

“It's cold,” he whines, swaying like a child throwing a bedtime tantrum. He's endearing, melting the frost that had gathered in your heart.

“You have a fever, silly,” you chuckle, pushing strands of his hair from his forehead, twirling them around. “Your hair's gotten longer,” you muse as you braid a tiny section of his bangs, only to undo it again.

“Can you play with my hair some more?” he requests softly.

“Of course,” you reply, threading your fingers through his locks, jet black as if all the stars in the sky collided, leaving behind nothing but a dark abyss.

“Please stay healthy, Min. Take care of yourself too.”

“But I like it more when you take care of me,” he pouts, before sighing shortly after. “I'll probably regret a lot of my words tomorrow, right?”

“Why is that?” 

“Because you don’t feel the same for me,” he confesses, leaving you silent, grappling with the echoes of his words. What do you feel for Minho?

The question jolts the breath from your windpipe violently, an unyielding force crashing against your lungs till the answer finds its footing on your tongue.

“Can I ask you something?” you finally speak, cringing at the sound of your voice disrupting the fragile quiet. 

“Anything.” 

“Where did your scar come from?” you inquire, gesturing towards the mark just below his belly button.

“I got surgery a long time ago. I’m kind of self-conscious about it,” he confesses, a bit shyly. 

“Really? But it’s beautiful, it looks like a strike of lightning,” you sincerely remark, coaxing a tender smile from Minho, unfolding like the gradual sunrises of autumn.

“This is exactly what you told me months ago.”

“Did I?”

“Mm, and then you traced it with your fingertips,” he grabs your hand, hovering it over his stomach. You can easily slip out of his grasp; you choose not to. 

“Like this?” you murmur, tracing his scar gently, fingertips grazing his skin like a lit fire, subtly enough not to scorch. His flesh tenses beneath your caress, muscles constricting as you navigate from right to left—a trajectory of dusty stars akin to the Milky Way, his skin soft to the touch, rippling beneath you with thinly veiled goosebumps.

“Yes,” he breathes out, his gaze wide, running furiously over your face. Yet, your attention lingers on his skin, shadows dancing across its surface, its honeyed hue a shade you wish to sear behind your eyelids. Your hands ascend and descend, mapping his body which blushes in response, as if his very being memorized your touch, imprinting your fingerprints onto its memory. You slide down his forearms, pausing over his fragile veins, seemingly offering you his life.

Silence envelops you, punctuated only by the weighty exhales escaping you both, for there are feelings that words cannot encapsulate, no matter how much human languages strive to, ultimately succumbing to the profundity of silence— the one language only souls comprehend.

Your hands ascend to his neck, thumb grazing the tender skin cradling his pulse. It resonates throughout your bones, echoing from his being to yours as if you’re harboring two lives within you.

“You… you could've kissed me over at the bridge,” you whisper, bringing to light the question that’s been lingering at the back of your mind. “Why didn't you?”

“I wanted you to kiss me because you wanted to. Not because you longed for our past or our future. I wanted you to want me in the present,” Minho explains, vulnerability seeping into his words, like honey melting into a warm cup of tea. 

“I’m scared,” you admit, your voice a fragile murmur, even as your head leans forward, hair cascading around Minho’s face, enclosing him in an intimate curtain. Minho gently grabs your hand and cradles it against his cheek, pressing a tender kiss to the center of your palm. 

“Right now. Do you want me?” he asks simply, offering himself openly to you. 

Do you want him?

After a momentary pause, you tentatively lean in, planting a gentle kiss upon his forehead. A resonant exhale escapes him, as your lips trace a path along his cheeks, leaving behind a trail of tiny kisses. Moving to the tender skin beneath his eyes— as easily bruised as your emotions—you bestow soft pecks to it as if seeking forgiveness for every tear he shed in your name.

His eyes remained closed, his trust evident in the surrender of his being to you. The answer to your internal query is written all over his features— the hushed exhale escaping his body, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the tranquility nestled between his eyebrows. 

Yes. Yes, you do.

Your lips finally meet Minho’s in a delicate union, unmoving like rose petals folding onto one another. A surge of warmth emanates from the depths of your heart, coursing through your entire being like sunrays, submerging your soul in a tranquil white glow.

Leaning away ever so slightly, you press a tender kiss on his lower lip, enclosing it between your own. Your hand cradles his jaw, running gently through his damp strands. Your lips move against his slowly in a saccharine kiss, parting, only to meet again, in the same tenderness, perhaps a growing one as you become accustomed to the contours of his lips, to the languid moves of his mouth, following your rhythm. You were leading the dance, his lips mere puppets to your heart’s wishes. He didn't rush you, only allowed you to kiss him, whichever way you wanted. 

A pause, a moment suspended in time, your hands trembling as they rest upon his cheeks, his palm hovering above your own, offering a comforting press. The gesture reassures you in your curiosity that won’t be satiated, urging you to seal your lips on his with a tentative fervor. The world outside dissolves into a distant murmur, the seconds blending into a timeless run, you slamming the door before your worries protesting at the entrance of your mind. Tomorrow, you’ll find the answers. Tonight, you are kissing Minho.

As you press a final, lingering kiss to his velvety mouth, visions of you at peace flood your being. You see yourself sinking into the warm pool of your aunt’s country club, you see yourself walking on the beach with sand molding to the contours of your feet, you see yourself laying on the grass while observing sunrays weaving through the trees. And then, amidst your most serene memories, the act of pressing your lips to Minho stands out, the warmth of his mouth against yours eclipsing all other sensations.

Leaning away, you rest your forehead on his shoulder, and Minho's hands cradle your hair.

"Which lip balm do you use,” you giggle against his bare skin, relishing in the sweet taste of his lips.

“Yours.”

Day 31.

Minho’s nose is buried in the crook of your neck, his arm draped across the expanse of your stomach. He sinks further into you, binding himself to your body, anchoring his hold on your being. You are warm, your skin is soft to the touch and Minho doesn’t want to wake up from this tender dream, akin to plummeting into a sea of silky pillows, falling into a blanket of clouds. 

Except, he's awake, Minho realizes with a jolt. He blinks repeatedly, allowing the sunrays to stream to his eyes, his pupils dilating once they settle on you— so much their obsidian depths swallows the brown of his irises whole. You stir beneath his touch, making your cheek press upon the crown of his head. He's fully awake now, snatched from the velvet threads of his dreams made up of you, thrown into your arms once again after thirty-three days. 

A soft gasp escapes Minho’s lips, the air stolen from his lungs as if it was yours to claim. Echoes of the night replay in his mind— a fever, you tending him to me, a cold cascade of water, you tracing his scar, and then, the kiss.

You kissed him. A long shiver runs down his spine at the memory, a subtle twitch that stirs you from slumber once again. 

What does one kiss mean? The question dances wildly in Minho’s mind. More importantly, what do you want it to mean? 

Minho whines softly, closing his eyes for a few seconds, relishing in the fragrance of your hair, in the serenity that floods his being each time he’s around you. This was his most restful slumber in weeks, because you were near, his mind recognizing you, relaxing underneath your touch, drifting to a mindless sleep. 

Reluctantly, he untangles himself from you, a bittersweet departure from your arms. Work was calling his name. 

He prayed you’d call his too soon. 

….

You wake up to an empty bed, the only lingering trace of the night you spent being the tingling of your lips, as if aching to be kissed once again. You sigh, running a hand through your face. It was much easier to succumb to your heart’s wishes when it was late at night, when minho laid bare beneath your touch, so enticing in the gentlest of ways. When you were cradled by the moon’s soft glow, blanketed by the night’s cloak of darkness.

But it was light now, the sun was glaring as it streamed through the windows, exposing all the flawed ways of your mind.

What does one kiss mean? 

Nothing, if it wasn’t minho who you had kissed. If it wasn’t as tender as the meeting of your lips. 

The tomorrow you believed far quickly came, and you still beheld no answers. A few hours drifted by and you still knew nothing. What does this kiss mean? It's late afternoon and you’re strolling through the park nearby and you can't find an answer. The question rings in your mind as you sit by a bench, and you still don’t know.

“You seem preoccupied,” a voice quips up nearby and you startle. You hadn’t even noticed the man sitting by your side. His arms crossed before his chest, making impressive muscles constrict beneath the snug fabric of his black shirt, a cascade of fluffy black curls sat at the top of his head, a slight smirk etched on his lips.

“Pardon?”

“I said you seem preoccupied.”

“No i heard that,” you roll your eyes subtly, “do i know you?”

“No. You just look worried, that's all.”

“You really don’t know me?” you ask, a tad apprehensive, unsure if this was someone else your memory faulted you of. 

“No? Are you a celebrity of some sorts?” he inquires, tone much more cheerful, angling his body towards you.

“No, i’m not,” you giggle, before quieting down, an exhausted sigh escaping your body. “Is it that obvious then?”

“Yeah. I’m afraid so,” he pouts sympathetically, tone almost desolate and you huff, burying your face in your hands.

“Do you need help with something?” he offers after a while, his concern evident in the frown of his brows. You are comforted by the anonymity of talking to a stranger, you were but a blank canvas to him. You wouldn't see him again, anyways. 

“I feel lost. I can't seem to find the answers I'm looking for.”

“Maybe you’re just not asking the right questions.”

Oh. 

The guy claps his hands suddenly, long before you could dwell on his words and their implications

“I actually have a question for you!” 

“Ask away.”

“Do you want to go on a date with me?”

“No?” you chuckle, amusement dripping from your voice. “I don't know you?” 

“That's the point of a date.”

“Are you this bored?” you smile, arching an eyebrow at him. 

“I'm not bored. I just need to take my mind off things,” he shrugs, a slight smirk on his face. but you somehow see beyond it, right into the dull twinkle of his eyes. Maybe he also couldn’t find the answers he was looking for.

“So you're using me?” you fake outrage and he giggles, a high pitched sound that reverberates through the playground, making some kids nearby stare at you. You stifle a surprised laugh. 

“I'm not using you if I tell you upfront why I asked you out.”

“You are right, but i decline your kind offer,” you say solemnly and he nods, shaking his head in defeat.  

“Here is my card, in case you change your mind. Or need a little escape, call me,” he smiles, handing you a sleek black card before getting up and dusting his pants. “See you,” he says, as if he was sure you'd call him back. you stare in disbelief at his retreating figure, before glancing down at the card. 

Mr. Seo Changbin, you read, CEO of Gold’s Gym— the largest gym branch in the country.

Oh wow.

The amused smile lingers on your lips as you gaze ahead, lost in thought, contemplating the words spoken by Changbin. Maybe he was right; perhaps you are afraid of asking the right questions. Sucking in a deep breath, you decide to take the longer route home, eventually finding yourself outside your favorite bakery; the one you discovered on one of your many walks with Minho.

You go to open its door when an unexpected tingling at the back of your neck freezes you in your tracks. Your heart tightens in your chest as you turn around slowly, greeted by the sharp eyes of two familiar faces—Lia and Mari, your coworkers from before your accident. A tentative smile graces your lips, but the alarms of warning in your mind intensify. 

“Hey, yn!” 

“Hey, guys,” you greet back, taking a step backwards from them. 

“How have you been since… You know, your accident,” Lia pouts, but the question lacks sincerity, as if they were wearing masks before you, concealing their true intentions. You wonder which one they'll put on next.  

“Good, i’ve been good,” you force a smile, as their eyes move up and down your body, judgment dripping from their gaze.

“We wanted to come see you but we didn’t know if you were still at your listed address. Since your boyfriend lives there.”

“Oh, um, yeah, I still live there.”

“But didn’t you forget about him?” Lia feigns ignorance and you feel anxiety picking at your skin like relentless protruding needles. You want to run. 

“Lia that’s rude. I think he's her ex-boyfriend now," Mari chuckles, mockery palpable in her tone.

“Poor Minho, he must suffer a lot. Say hey to him from me,"Lia smiles, a chilling feline grin, her eyes narrowing down like a hawk peering at his prey. 

“I will.”

“We’ll see you at work. If you’re still able to keep up with the tasks,” they leave, ugly laughs echoing after them, and an urge to throw up overtakes you, the scent of pastries furthering your nausea. You hasten your steps toward your building.

You’re almost safe, almost, keys trembling in your hand as you struggle to enter your apartment, when the door adjacent to you opens. Your neighbors smile at you, although it is a gesture tinged with pity. You painfully smile back before slamming the door.

Yeart hammering in your chest, you press your back against the door, hand clawing at your throat. 

“Did you know she got into a car accident, and apparently she forgot her boyfriend?”

“Really? They were so cute though.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame.”

Their words suffocate you, stepping atop your lungs, syllables choking you from within. Is this what everything thought of you? Did they all pity you for the accident? For forgetting your lover? Did they see you as a burden, a parasite plaguing his life? Is this what Han and Chan saw when their eyes lingered on you? Is this what the librarian and florist whispered to each other each time you passed by? 

You didn’t know these people and yet they had their minds set on you, fixated storylines you couldn’t change, no matter how much you tried to rewrite them.

Your thoughts spiral like the unloosened screws of a ticking clock. Minho, the unanswered questions, the expectations of others—everything converges in the base of your mind, making your ears ring cacophonically within your skull.

You slide down the door, fingers trembling as you take out your phone then Changbin’s card from your pocket. You dial his number with haste. You needed a breather, to talk to someone who knew nothing of you, of who you were, of who you could be. 

“Hello?” his voice booms clearly through the phone.

“Changbin,” you breathe out. “Let's go on a date tomorrow.”

You were asleep when minho came back from work, your back turned towards him, soft exhales escaping your body. He didn't want to disturb you, so, he made sure to come earlier the next day, a strawberry and cream pastry in his hand that he knew you loved. Perhaps, you’d both talk about your kiss today, what it meant for you both. 

But, he doesn’t find you home. The only indication that you had just left was the lingering scent of your perfume, tickling his nose as if to mock him. Poor minho— the gardenia and honey tones spelled out in the air; the one fragrance you strictly reserve for dates. The one you used to put for him.

It looked like you found your answer after all. 

Day 33. 

“Did I keep you waiting?” 

“No, just in time,” you smile as Changbin pulls the chair in front of you, settling down with ease, a pang of confidence coloring his movements.

“How are you, today?” 

“Better, i think,” you falter under his scrutinizing gaze, your facade cracking. “I don't know, it’s all complicated,” you sigh and he nods, signaling for the waiter to take your drinks order. Chai latte for you, hot chocolate for him. 

“Spill, what’s preoccupying you?” he leans forward, arms crossed on the table. 

“You don’t even know my name,” you giggle, looking around at the warm interior. Cozy, faint music playing in the background, taupe chairs and amber tables, the smell of cinnamon rolls wafting through the air. Minho would like it here. 

“What's your name?”

“Yn.”

“Okay, Yn,” he emphasizes, a slight smirk on his face. “Spill.”

You shake your head as the waiter places down your drinks, wrapping your fingers around the heated cup, hoping the warmth would seep into your being through your palm lines. 

“Did you want to become a therapist by any chance?” you muse, arching an eyebrow at him.

“No, it’s just fixing others' problems helps me forget my own,” he winks and you snort at his honesty. it was admirable, how frank he was to a complete stranger. 

“Fine, it’s a long story, but basically…” you lick your lips, wondering what’s the best way to go on about this. “I got into a car accident and I lost my memory of the past year and so.”

Changbin winces at your words and you sigh. “Yeah. Except I was in a relationship before…”

“And you totally forgot about it?”

“I did. It hurt him a lot.” 

Changbin nods in understanding, taking a sip of his drink. He places his chin on his palm, carefully eyeing you. 

“But how does that make you feel?” 

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You're the one who lost your memories after all.” 

“I feel guilty for forgetting such a relationship.” 

“Why is that?”

“Because everyday i can see why I fell in love with him.”

“And you don't love him now?” 

“No,” you quickly say before pausing, shoulders dropping under the weight of your questioning. “I don't know. It's complicated.”

Changbin absentmindedly tugs at the charms of his bracelet, gaze flicking down to his wrist for a couple seconds, before locking on yours intently.  

“Describe him to me in one sentence.”

“You sound like my annoying French teacher,” you roll your eyes and he huffs, not offended in the least. “Look, I just want to know my competition.”

“Do you have a retort for everything?”

“What can I say? I'm witty and all that,” he shrugs confidently and you giggle before quieting down, muling over his question. “In a sentence…” you muse, fingers drumming along your cup. You don't even realize that a fond smile has unfolded on your lips, but Changbin does.

“He's the light rain that falls during spring, that makes the flower bloom and the smell of earth waft through the air. He brings things back to life, in a way.” 

Changbin smiles softly, tilting his head to the side. “Can you really not see it, or are you hiding the truth because you're scared?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Yn, he brought you back to life.” 

“I… no.” you pause, voice faltering. “Did he?” 

You see Minho pushing you on a wheelchair to your home. Minho protecting you from your mind. Minho washing your hair. Minho making you tea. Minho baring his soul to you. Minho helping you cook. Minho bringing the sea to you. Minho holding your hand. Minho comforting you before comforting himself. Minho forgiving you so you'd forgive yourself. Minho devastating himself so you'd piece your heart together. Minho, minho, minho.  

“Fuck, he did,” you whisper in realization, as a grand feeling swells in your heart suddenly, pushing your heart against the confines of your ribs. Flowers bloom into your entire body, petals melding into the coursing blood in your veins, butterflies fluttering their delicate wings across your chest, an effulgent light flooding in like the sun was spilled inside your very core. 

“Aren’t I so smart,” Changbin grins, satisfied at the awestruck expression on your face.

“What should I do?” you ask anxiously, gripping the edges of the table. 

“Go talk to him. Don't waste any more time.”

“You are right, oh my god,” you grab your purse, standing up abruptly. “I have to go, I…”

“It's okay, don't worry about me, I'm always the side chick,” he sighs in faux sadness and you giggle, swatting his shoulder. 

“Thank you so much. I'll repay you for this, I promise!” you start walking before stopping and turning around. 

“Oh and Changbin?”

“Yes?”

“You know what to do too. They made you that bracelet right? You haven't taken your eyes off of it.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, “those are my lines.”

“They are mine now too,” Laughter dances from your lips as you flee the café, taking off running to your home. It was near, merely a five-minute walk, nestled beside the playground where you encountered Changbin. Yet, urgency propels your steps, a fervent need to reach Minho swiftly. You had wasted thirty-three days, three million seconds that could’ve been spent with Minho. You don’t know how many more breaths the universe might extend, what if the stars tire of your reluctance and blow the winds of his love to another soul? You couldn’t stomach it. 

You climb up the stairs, chest heaving, breaths escaping your being in an erratic rhythm. you didn't even know what to say, your words remained unscripted, unsure of what confessions will spill forth when your eyes will meet Minho's. Yet, you're not worried. You know that whatever surfaces would be surging from your heart. 

What you don’t anticipate is for an uncharacteristic silence to find you at home, the scent of your perfume faintly wafting into the air. Minho sat in the living room, a bag by his side, his head downcast. The cats watching you from the corner of the room. 

A desert- dry sensation clings to your mouth, your tongue heavy as if crafted from lead. Your once vibrant excitement extinguishes, much like a match blown out, leaving only a lingering stench behind. 

“Minho?” 

“Yn,” he responds, eyes actively avoiding yours. “I was waiting for you. I... I'll be gone for a few days, a week at most.”

“What? Where to?”

“I already told my parents to come pick up the cats so you don't have to worry about feeding them. The fridge is stacked, so you-” his voice falters, “so don't worry about that either.”

“Minho... what-what are you saying?”

“I need time away, alone. I'm sorry, I tried, I tried so hard, Yn, but there is only so much I can take,” he whispers, and your heart shatters, tiny million pieces blown away by the wind.

“Minho, look at me,” you crouch before him, your hands resting on his knees. He still avoids your gaze.

“Minho, please,” you plead, and his eyes finally lock on yours. They glisten with tears, reflecting light akin to a celestial mirror.

“My heart hurts so much, but it's not your fault. Loving me once doesn't mean you'll love me again, and it's okay if you want to see other people. I just... I need to go somewhere, for a little. I need to make room for the pain because it's overwhelming me,” he confesses, his words eating at your insides. Was it too late? Have you lost him?

Minho gently takes away your hands before standing up. Fear overwhelms you as you watch his shoulders drop, his eyes glazing over the walls one last time. He will come back, but not here, not to you. He's bidding goodbye to the home and you because you killed his hope. He would leave everything behind but echoes of him that you'd be sentenced to hear alone, every day, every night.

“Minho,” you seize his wrist, “Minho, don't go.”

"Why?" he asks in the smallest voice you've heard from him. He's like a river cut off by a dam, yearning to run back home, to flow the way it used to, back to you. His heart rings loudly in his ears, pain overwhelming him, yet your touch calms him down. You are the knife and the medicine, the scorch and the cooling balm; you are everything at once.

“I'll make room in your heart, I'll take out all the bad weeds and start again. Just don't go.”

“What do you mean?” He's breathless, hope inflating in his heart, clouds parting to reveal the sun.

“I know things won't go back to the way they used to. I don't think I'll ever remember everything, but I want you to tell me,” there is a lump growing in your throat, but you push it away. Your voice breaks and cracks, yet you still speak. You need him to know.

“I want you to take me to all the places we've visited and then tell me how we fell in love in them. I want you to show me how I loved you,” your hand trails down his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, pulling him closer. “I want to learn you, what you like, what you hate, what makes you angry and what makes your heart flutter.”

“And I want to love you, not because you love me, but because my heart chose you," your hand travels up his arm, settling right down at his cheek. Your thumb swipes across his tender skin. “I choose you over and over again. It's you, Minho, it's always been you.”

“You want me again?” he says tentatively, eyes wide, pouring onto yours—your galaxy to love, to admire, to peer into for the rest of your life.

“I want you. Please don't go.”

“Swear it, please.”

Instead of ephemeral words, you softly press your lips to his, as you did last night. “I swear,” you whisper against his mouth. “I'm falling in love with you,” you peck his lips, hand snaking up against his neck, moving his mouth closer to yours. “Not falling,” you say, pressing your forehead to his, nuzzling his nose against your own. “I'm coming back. I'm coming home.”

“You came back to me,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

“I'll always do,” you promise, a grin overtaking your mouth. “Can you kiss me, Minho?”

Minho blinks in amazement, his eyes darting all over your face, each blink resembling the capture of an image. He's stitching this moment into his mind, the hue of your cheeks and the gleam in your eyes. He missed the way you're looking at him, the slight shiver running through you as he brushes his lips against your own, slowly savoring the feel of you so near. His hands find your jaw, cradling it softly, and then he kisses you, just like how he dreamed of doing for the past month.

The kiss is dizzying, far different from your previous one. You’re no longer grasping at elusive cigarette smoke, fleeting through the gaps between your fingers. You are no longer awaiting a beacon of remembrance to shine upon your mind. You have minho, and he's delicately nibbling your lower lip, eliciting a soft gasp from you. His tongue glides across the tingling expanse, soothing down the pang of hurt, asking you for more. You willingly give it to him in a fervent, whirlwind kiss, his hands finding solace in the curve of your waist, while yours become poets, weaving tales in his hair, tugging at his strands the way you've always yearned to. 

It is muscle memory, to press your body against his, to gasp into his mouth, to match the rhythm of his tongue, the way it circles tantalizingly around yours, the way you groan against his mouth, as he briefly parts from you, his giggle a sweet prelude to meeting your lips once again with increased fervor. His tongue weaves words against the roof of your mouth— I missed you, I want you, I love you.

Minho snakes his hand around your lower back, guiding you back until his legs find the couch. He eases you down, fingers hooked through the loop of your jeans. You kiss him again, a cadence as natural as breathing. Time unravels, rewinding to mend the fractures in his heart, erasing thirty-three days of heartbreak in mere seconds. You kiss him, again and again, thirty three days of longing exploding in your touch.  

“Are you crying?” you whisper against his lips, your thumbs delicately swiping across his damp cheeks. Unaware of his flowing tears, he closes his eyes, embarrassment coursing through him. “I'm here,” you reassure, peppering his face with kisses – from his ear to his nose, cheeks to the corner of his mouth. “I'm here, honey. I want you.”

“Only me?” he questions, tone fragile.

“Only you,” you kiss him again, tenderly, inhaling life through his lips. “Let me show you how much, hm?”

Your lips trace a path down his neck as you draw his shirt over his head. An ivory canvas, he is meant for you to mark, to touch however you desire. Your lips graze the scar on his stomach, kissing it in the way you've ached to do since two nights before.

You're sinking to your knees before him and yet you’re the one in control, rippling shivers all over his skin. He’s impatient, needing you close, so he quickly pulls you up, before hovering over you, his hands drawing everywhere, running wild across your body. He missed the plush feel of your skin, the contours of your body that he yearned to explore once again. He's a prisoner deprived of the light for so long, sinking into the sun once again. 

Minho's eyes never leave yours, as he touches you, moves in you in ways your soul seems to remember. He's gentle, removing strands of your hair out of your eyes, smoothing down the side of your head. All encompassing, drinking in your moans and groans, burning you up and soothing you all at once. “Good?” he asks, again and again, waiting to hear your affirmation before picking up speed again. Your answer is yes each time he asks, as he seals the void in you, the one he's been carefully stitching up for the past weeks. You store his glazed eyes and scrunched eyebrows in the gallery of your mind, you make room for new memories with Minho. 

You're overwhelming him, in the most beautiful ways, contradicting feelings coursing through him like a rain flood. He's aching yet relieved to have you beneath him, lost in waves of pleasure so he grabs your hand to anchor himself, entwining his fingers with yours, before bringing it to his mouth, placing a tender smile on your palm. You beam at him, trust reflecting in your eyes as you bare your being to him. It is a rare fortune to be chosen by you not once, but twice, he can't believe how lucky he is to have you as his guiding star.  

Your eyes never leave Minho’s, a shimmering pool mirroring your emotions. You see everything you feel in him—your better reflection. You had missed him, you were home now. “Miss you,” he whispers as he buries his face in your neck, seemingly hearing your thoughts. “Missed you so much,” he mumbles as your hands tangle in his hair, tears descending gently upon your cheeks, as they are on his. “Please don't leave me again.”

“I won't- I won't,” you promise, as light floods your vision, reaching the pinnacle of your pleasure. Colors burst before your eyes in a kaleidoscope, resembling shades of Minho— the warm brown of his eyes, the honeyed hue of his skin, the pink tint of his ears whenever he's embarrassed, the red of his lips, swollen as they kiss you. Tonight and tomorrow and every day after this one. 

Day 1.

In the hushed aftermath, your head rests upon Minho’s bare chest, listening to the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat, calming down as the seconds trickle by. His arm curls around your body protectively, keeping you from slipping off the couch. Your knuckles trail up and down his shoulders, soothing the places where you had scratched too hard. His hand seeks yours, delivering a kiss as tender as the silence enveloping you—quiet and secure. The forgotten past doesn't matter; you will rewrite your story once more.

“Do you think our designated stars are sad somewhere far away?”

“Why would they be?” 

“I don't know. Don't you think it's bittersweet how they missed out on so many days of loving one another?”

“I don't know, did they?” he muses, planting a tender kiss on your shoulder. “I think mine loved you all the same.” 

[moonpascal]

Something Stupid

𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖥𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝖲𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗋𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗀 “𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇’ 𝖲𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽”

credit gifs on pinterest*

warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort

logan howlett x mutant!fem reader

✰ a/n: all work is mine and i do not give permission for it to be translated or published anywhere else, thank you! ✰

-

 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘨𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘭 𝘣𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶

It was late, and all the students were either in bed or studying. Wandering to the kitchen, you see Logan already nursing a beer. You couldn’t help but chuckle at him always sneaking alcohol into the school. Despite Charles always finding them and throwing them away. 

Shuffling to Logan, you gently wrap your arms around him, laying your head on his shoulder. “How were your classes today?" Your voice muffled pressing light kisses. 

“They were fine, same shit different day” he grumbled, taking another swig. He seemed tensed—well more tense than usual. You gently massage his shoulders, gliding your hands with your power. Relieving any sore muscles from training. You can see him relaxing, which always makes you feel better about your powers. 

"Bub, you just know how to make me feel good” he smiled. Oh how you love to make him smile. To ease his pain, may it be to project something else during his nightmares or take out simple knots in his back. You would do anything to make him feel better. 

“All for you Logan, I love you” you breathed out, hardly containing a smile. You couldn’t help it. Logan brings you so much joy and what better way to express it?

You walk to the other side of the island, what feels like an eternity. Glancing at Logan waiting for him to do anything. It didn’t even look like he was breathing, the beer bottle in hand long forgotten.

"Logan, please say something” hell pleading for some sort of relief from the pain brewing inside. 

"Kid, I think we should stop seeing each other,” he mumbled. His fist clenched, “This shouldn’t have gone on as it has.”

Tears threatening to fall, you couldn’t help but scoff. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes, I'm serious! I told you in the beginning and you ignored it! I’ve lost too many people, you knew I didn’t want anything serious!” He shouted.

“I thought things changed, I thought we could move past this! You won’t lose me,” you choked back a sob. You could feel your power slipping, trying to breathe struggling to catch your breath.

“You don’t know anything,” he grumbled, “you’re just a naive kid. What we had was just benefits. But you kept pushing to be more and I can’t!” He knew what to say, to push you, to get rid of you.

“Fuck you Logan, hope you enjoy finally being alone. Because no one is going to be there for you like I was.”

You pushed past Logan, the air feeling tight.

Once out of sight, you teleport to who knows where. Sitting in an empty field you let go. The pain erupts out of you. You can’t grasp what’s happening around you, all you see is blue. The only thing, the constant thing that is plaguing your mind is Logan.

~

As Logan grabs another beer, he hears a faint whisper in his head. “Goodbye Logan.”

——————

So this was the absolute first thing I've ever written and posted. I don't know how to feel about it. I've just kinda had this idea and it's been nagging at me for weeks.

I have written since middle school, so I'm extremely behind on what feels like everything. I'm also terrible at being descriptive. But I hope it was at least enjoyable!

thank you for taking the time to read this! <3

[aureatchi]

⚕ ᡣ𐭩 . ° . AND IF THERE WAS A PLACE I HAD TO CHOOSE…IT’D BE IN YOUR ARMS TONIGHT. (bedroom session) ft. dazai, chuuya, fyodor, akutagawa, sigma

— how the bsd men treat you when you’re sick. (& more)

a/n. started writing when i was sick djsjsja. tagging my moots who were under the weather anytime this month <3 to them & anyone else unwell, feel better soon !!

info. fem!reader. fluff. established relationships. light angst & hospital in akutagawa’s. chuuya plays the guitar. you play the piano in fyodor’s. sigma’s a chef. some inspo from RED for dazai & fyodor’s (our hcs!)

DAZAI will cuddle with you anyway, even when you are buried under bundles of blankets. he still thinks you need a little more warmth…and you look just too cute wrapped up in what resembles an igloo to not nuzzle with you! however, don’t be surprised when he blames you for making him sick once you recover, as if it wasn’t his fault.

“A-choo!” Your eyes were watery, you felt too cold for your liking, and it was harder than usual to breathe through your nose. Your sneeze made you sit up in discomfort, and you hastily pulled the covers toward you.

“‘Bella? Are you alright?” Dazai sat up next, meeting your eyes as you turned your face toward him.

He noticed how flushed your cheeks were and how watery your eyes were as you frowned—no, the first thought Dazai had wasn’t Oh no! You’re sick!

“Aw, love! You look so cute!” And he tackled you back down.

“Osamu!” you shouted as he lay practically atop you, squeezing you like a teddy bear.

“‘Samu!” you repeated once more. “You’re going to suffocate me!”

“You feel so cold, though, darling!” His reply was muffled as he buried his face into your neck.

“It’s like you’re trying to get yourself sick!”

He sat the both of you back up.

“H-huh? What’d you mean? Why would anyone willingly get sick?”

“Oh, I’m not sure either!” you exclaimed. “Maybe so you can use it as an excuse to skip wor-“

You sneezed again, interrupting your statement, seeing through Dazai’s plan.

“Bless you ‘bella!” he replied, a bit too excited. “What were you saying?”

“I. Was-” you sneezed again. And then twice. And then thrice.

“Aw, my poor baby!” Dazai spoke in his infantile voice. “Looks like you’re super sick…don’t you worry your pretty head about that. I have a solution.”

“Yes, please,” you responded—as best as you could with him pinching your cheeks—thinking Dazai would finally get up and bring you medicine so you didn’t have to do it yourself. That was, in fact, a terrible assumption.

“You trust me so well you didn’t even wait for me to tell you!”

“Uh-”

He then proceeded to pepper your entire face with kisses.

“Get-well kisses! They work better than medicine, trust me. Because these ones are made from lo-ove~.”

“Osamu!” you shouted. “You’re really going to get sick!”

“Do you really think I care, pretty?” He moved his face so his nose was touching yours. “I’ll tell you a secret. I know why I’d get willingly sick. So that I’ll be taken care of by my favorite girl in the world-“

“You’re so stupid!” you facepalmed. “You see being ill as a reward?”

“Yeah, I’ll make you believe so by the end of the day,” he winked. “I’m not going anywhere.”

…

Thankfully, Dazai did give you medicine to clear your stuffy nose. And then he told you to stay in bed while he would prepare you…breakfast.

“Oh no,” you said, knowing well that you mostly cooked the meals for a reason. Dazai was good at many things, but there were exceptions. He wasn’t the worst cook, but he certainly wasn’t the best.

“Wait, please trust me on this one!” he pleaded before you could get up. “I promise you I won’t burn the house down.”

The brunette was staring at you with dramatic puppy-dog eyes, and you were too tired to object any further.

“You have to make sure it’s edible, too,” you glumly replied.

…

It felt like almost an hour passed. You started to get worried—was he really struggling with cooking you something? You imagined the kitchen would be a chaotic nightmare by now, and it was enough to make you want to check on him.

But the moment you decided to get up, the door opened with Dazai bringing in a bowl of hot soup. Surprisingly, you could smell the aroma—and it was good.

“You really underestimated me, ‘bella?” Dazai smirked as he placed the bowl on a portable bed tray. “Bon appétit!”

“I haven’t even tried it yet,” you smiled back. “It might be the worst soup I’ve ever had.”

It wasn’t bad. You hated to admit it, but it tasted delicious.

“The virus must’ve affected my taste buds, too,” you chuckled. “Because for someone whose forte isn’t cooking, this tastes really good.”

Dazai wiped his head with a phew! “I actually…put in a lot of effort. I wanted to make sure I did it all right for you. Sorry it took so long.”

You wanted to hug him. You found it so adorable that he had really taken his time to make you something.

“Awe, thanks, Osamu,” you responded. “This was really sweet.”

“So…do I get a few kisses and back rubs as a thank you?” he asked.

“Sorry, back rubs? I’m the one sick; you should be the one giving me them!”

…

Dazai ended up giving you the massages in exchange for continuing to cling to you without complaint. You accepted and were defeated at this point—the man really wasn’t going anywhere.

He continued to stay with you until you felt better, and very unsurprisingly he spoiled your recovery celebration by becoming sick himself.

“Heh…” he mumbled as you looked at the thermometer with a frown. Contradicting was Dazai with a large smile, despite just finding out he had a fever.

“Your turn, ‘bella!” he exclaimed. “I already called Kunikida saying I’m going to be out for another week! This almost beats a vacation.”

“Osamu!”

“What? Any time spent with you feels just as amazing. And this is just a result of how well I’ve taken care of you.”

CHUUYA wants to make your recovery as comfortable and entertaining as possible—he doesn’t want his darling feeling mopey the entire time. after all, enjoying something distracts one from the botherations of being sick, right?

You hadn’t done as much as you would’ve liked today. Unfortunately, you were sick, but not to the point where you had to visit a doctor or were stuck in bed. It was an inconvenient gray area, where you were still able to do things but accompanied by the mild symptoms of a cold.

“Nah, doll, you’re just a workaholic.”

Chuuya laughed as you pouted while trying to do your laundry. Just because you were sick didn’t mean you should skip your chores. You would probably still go to work the next day, too—as long as you weren’t dying, you’d be alright.

You sort of felt like you were, though. You were overcome by a haze of debilitation, whether you wanted to admit it or not. But you couldn’t just sit around all day.

“I’m fine though, Chuu,” you replied, but a contradicting sneeze immediately followed.

“Your nose is saying something different,” he replied, handing you a tissue. “If you’re so bored, how ‘bout we do something actually fun? And won’t exhaust the life out of you?”

“Well, what are you thinking?” you asked, curious as you wiped your nose.

…

Chuuya had you sat by the table with a bowl and a box of cornstarch.

“Out of all people, it was Q who showed me this.” You raised an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, baby, it’s not dangerous. It’s weird, but I can’t deny this entrances me.”

Chuuya poured some cornstarch into the container and added a cup of water. “It gets a little messy, but…” he started combining the contents until it became a gooey mixture.

You started giggling. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but it definitely wasn’t the sort of crafts experiment you did as a kid.

“Chuu, this is quicksand. You’ve never made it before?”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Quicksand? Nope. But look—if you play around with it, it becomes solid—isn’t that amazing? But if you let it go-“

“It turns back into liquid, yes,” you replied before you sneezed again.

“It’s so weird! What kinda manipulation is this?

You couldn’t help but laugh at how the Port Mafia executive was captivated by such a simple science project. You watched as he played around with the oobleck.

You realized you could live this day simply as well. You proceeded to make your own cool mixture as well.

“You got some on your face,” Chuuya said a little after you were finished with your venture and were washing your hands.

“Where?” you asked, about to touch your head.

“Right here,” you felt his thumb gently rub your cheek and then move around your neck to tug you closer.

“Just kidding.” He stole a kiss in its place.

…

Chuuya sat down on the edge of the bed with his guitar. It was late afternoon, and you decided for once a very needed nap. But not before your lover entertained you with one more thing.

“I’m gonna give ya a little performance.”

He strung his guitar several times and ensured everything was correctly tuned.

Your widened eyes in curiosity made his heart warm. You were so enamored with everything he did—just as he was utterly obsessed with you.

He started playing a familiar tune. Your favorite song. You immediately smiled despite your oncoming headache.

“One day, I think I’ll write my own song for you,” Chuuya said. “You work so hard, how couldn’t you be the inspiration of a ballad?”

You cherished times like these. Even though you were sick, you had the company of the soft, sweetheart side of the Mafia Executive.

FYODOR is full of surprises, and you falling ill is no exception. unexpectedly, he decides to let go of his schemes and responsibilities for the day, to make sure you’re feeling better.

He could already tell by your unusual exhaustion yesterday evening. You didn’t do anything that required more exertion than usual, and it was too frigid in the year for you to feel so hot.

Fyodor already knew you wouldn’t feel so good when you woke up the following day. Your cheeks were flushed, and your head was pounding. It even ached to sit up. It was the worst combination.

Feverishly, you sneezed. A tissue was immediately placed over your nose.

“Blow, milaya.”

You looked up at Fyodor, who was standing by the bed. His amethyst gaze fell upon you—his usual amalgam of tranquility and complacency looked a bit different today…was there a hint of concern shining through his eyes?

You took the tissue from his hands and blew your nose.

“You’re supposed to be at work, no?”

You tried your hardest not to get sick because of this reason. You would be another hassle on Fyodor’s list of endeavors. You hated the thought of contributing, especially when he was already stressed and occasionally neglected his own needs with what he already had to do.

“You would really expect me to when I had to carry you to bed last night?”

The previous evening was a blur. Sometime after dinner, the weather immediately flew over you, and all your energy just drained out.

“Ah.” You sneezed again into the tissue. “Well, I think I’ll be fine on my own. I know you have a lot on your hands. I can take care of myse-“

“Please believe me. You’re not being a burden,” Fyodor cut you off and directly addressed the point you had been dancing around. His hand found yours and started to massage your fingers. He felt ice cold against you—or perhaps, you were on fire.

“Is your throat sore? I’ll make you some tea.”

…

He didn’t leave you alone for too long. Fyodor returned with a cup of hot ginger tea that you immediately took, desperate for some relief for your throat. Your nose was quickly soothed by the warm, sharp aroma of the ginger as you held the mug close to your mouth.

If there was one thing you learned, there was a type of tea for every occasion. Fyodor had an entire cabinet dedicated to those beverages—all precisely arranged.

“Is it alright?” Fyodor asked as you sipped, the liquid alleviating the soreness in your throat.

“Yes, of course,” you replied. “Maybe after I can try to get up…” your voice trailed off as you struggled even to shift your position.

“What’s wrong?” Fyodor moved beside you again as you frowned.

“I feel really sore. Like I ran a marathon without stretching at all yesterday,” you dryly chuckled, even though that had not been the case at all. Your whole body ached; it felt uncomfortable to move anything, and you felt awfully weak.

Fyodor didn’t respond for a moment, thinking.

“You can still entertain yourself without moving. Do you want to read? I’ll bring you to the living room.”

You curtly nodded your head and picked out one of the many books on the large shelf before Fyodor carried you to the sofa in the next room.

“Stay on my lap,” he said, holding you by your waist when you tried to move away.

“I don’t want you to get sick too,” you replied, confused.

“I won’t, don’t worry. Besides, I’m doing a favor for you.”

He motioned for you to enjoy your book and not pay attention to him. So you did as he said—you flipped to the page you left off on and tried to immerse yourself in the plot.

It got easy to do so and lose track of reality because Fyodor started to massage you—hands moving in circular motions on your shoulders to ease and relax the pain on your joints.

You felt both too hot and cold alone on your bed earlier. But here, in the embrace of your lover, you could see the end of your little tunnel of fever.

“Thank you, Fedya,” you whispered sometime after.

…

He got up to do something on his own a little later, but not before tucking you into the softest blankets you owned on the couch. He admired you for a moment right after—a touch of amusement in his eyes.

“What’s so funny?” you asked with a pout. You felt like you were made into a burrito.

Fyodor had thought the same.

“Milashka,” he simply smiled.

You thought he went away to attend to the business he was able to at home—Fyodor was infamous for being a workaholic after all, but you were surprised once again when amidst your reading, you heard a melody coming from the other room. Rich and resonant, you realized he was practicing his cello.

You placed your book down and freed yourself from the warm blankets before making your way over to the next room, disregarding the dull pain that still accompanied you.

Fyodor didn’t pause as you entered and sat down on the piano’s stool. You opened the cover and placed your fingers on the keys before smoothly joining in with the composition you had secretly been learning while he was away so you could play with him.

He probably suspected it anyway, but you still smiled and felt a little pride as you harmonized with him without error—and while sick.

♬♩♫♪

There was a moment of silence after the final note. You felt at peace. The tune made you sleepy.

Fyodor stepped towards you, and you lifted your head to meet his gaze.

“You played it perfectly, lyubov,” he said before kissing your forehead. “How about a nap now as a reward?”

…

After a glass of water and an adjustment of the heater, Fyodor tucked you back under the covers. He checked your temperature with the back of his palm, and he was appeased to find that your fever had noticeably gone down.

You suddenly giggled, catching Fyodor off guard.

“Why are you giggling?”

“I had an observation,” you chirped. You wanted to tell him it was evident he had been stealing physical affection from you throughout the day and that he wasn’t sly, but alas, exhaustion had overcome you again.

You took his own hand in yours. “Wash your hands after,” you whispered before placing a kiss on his fingertips. “This was nice. I feel better because of you staying.”

AKUTAGAWA feels that the roles have been reversed because it is usually him who is sick, and you helping him get better. however, this time it’s you, and so he wants to repay all the care and love you showed him. for once, not to prove something, but to show proof of your adoration towards him.

You didn’t want Akutagawa to visit you that day. You had sent him a text earlier that you were sick—your pneumonia was so severe that you were admitted to the hospital. He immediately rushed over right after.

You told him he didn’t have to—truthfully, half of your heart didn’t want him to because of his already weakened immune system and his tendency to get sick easily.

Yet he still showed up at your bedside with a “get-better” box and pink tulips, a mask covering half his face.

“Ryu, I appreciate this so much,” you told him, a cough accompanying your statement. “But I promise you don’t need to stay—I don’t want you to get sick too.”

He didn’t respond before striding over to the sink as if he were in his own house, grabbing a vase and filling it with water. You watched him trim your flowers, place them in the container, and then putting it on the counter.

“Ryu…”

“You’re in the hospital. Do you think I could just go about my day like my girlfriend isn’t sick?”

Even though his tone was straightforward, his hand gently brushed away the hair covering your eyes.

He was visibly bothered. He hated seeing you in the hospital gown, lying on the bed. He hated the IV line attached to you and the distant beeps! of your vitals. Akutagawa went through this experience more often than not, and if not painful, it was always irritating and unpleasant.

He would never want you going through this, even once.

“Are you comfortable? Should I move you to one of the VIP rooms?”

“That’s not necessary, thank you though,” you replied. You noticed the exhaustive distress in his argentine eyes.

“I’m going to be okay, Ryu,” you reassured him. “I promise. Just don’t touch me for now.”

Akutagawa nodded. “Are you hungry? Is there anything you’re craving?”

“I want…something sweet,” you bashfully replied. “All the hospital food was savory…they missed a dessert.”

You could see the corners of his mouth slightly lift up—an unlikely smile, especially in a place like this. “No explanations are needed. I’ll be back.”

…

He returned with one of the sweets you always picked up whenever you went grocery shopping and a couple of figs for himself. Akutagawa didn’t like sugary things that much, but this fruit he could eat for days. He indeed ate one a day—you were able to observe how long he would be gone on a mission based on how many figs he brought with him.

Akutagawa had brought two today. Was he planning to stay with you overnight? You knew he hated the hospitals—he would never willingly go to one.

Yet here he was, pulling up a chair by your bedside.

“I brought a book,” he said. “Can I read to you?”

“Of course,” you replied. “I didn’t feel like using the TV here anyway, so nothing’s been entertaining.”

The onyx-haired pulled out a book from his coat.

“Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book, called True Stories from Nature, about the primeval forest,” he started.

When Akutagawa was sick, you often read him children’s stories to combat his restlessness. He was calmed by your voice and fell asleep faster than any over-the-counter medication ever worked.

The first time you had found him in the hospital before you were even in a relationship with him, you introduced him to The Little Prince. At first, he scoffed and turned his back the other way, pretending not to listen. But his furrowed brows relaxed, and his frown lifted as you continued with the story—the theme of the openmindedness of children compared to adults, loneliness, love, and loss all gave him something to think about.

Eventually, the book became a source of comfort and light to Akutagawa, and now he had his own copy.

"‘And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.’” By the time Akutagawa had gotten to that part, you had dozed off into a nap.

…

When you finally awoke, the curtains were closed, and the only source of light came from an ambient lamp on the nightstand. And in this night, you also felt a soft pressure on your legs—Akutagawa’s head. He had fallen asleep too, with the book still flipped to a page.

You felt both adoration and woe in your heart. He was sacrificing comfort and possibly his health for you. You desperately felt the need to stroke through his white-tipped raven hair, but you didn’t want to heighten any more chances.

You fell asleep again after minutes of watching your lover’s chest delicately rise and fall, just as he carried his true self without his violent front.

…

Akutagawa stayed until you woke up the following day. He went out to do some errands and then returned with a small gift for you he picked up during the day. That was the routine he followed for the next three days, always content to find you better than the previous day until you were all better.

A nurse came in with a final evaluation and discharged you. You changed into new clothes Akutagawa had brought you before running up and embracing him.

He hugged you back tightly, relieved that you were finally out. He turned to the vase of the pink tulips, which were starting to wither.

“Just in time,” he said.

“The get-well-soon flowers,” you giggled, taking your first good look at them. You loved how he knew of flower symbolism.

“Let’s get out of here,” Akutagawa said, holding out his hand for yours to take. “I despise dwelling in this place any longer.”

SIGMA is worried sick, even though you’re the one sick. how could he not, especially when he isn’t with you? are you feeling alright? drinking enough water? eating well?

“You’re sick?” Sigma asked over the phone.

“Is it my fault? I mean, I was feeling unwell last week, but I got better in a day, so I didn’t think it was that serious…”

“No, it wasn’t; please don’t worry,” you replied. You hated when your lover blamed your problems on himself. “But yeah, it sucks. I even lost my smell! I can’t smell anything.”

“Really?” You sensed his worry through the call.

“Do you need to go to a doctor? I can pick you up and take you there—or I can call the doctor to your house if you’d prefer that-“

“No, it’s okay! It’s not that serious; I’ll be fine in a few days,” you said. “I just wanted to let you know because I won’t be able to see you for a week. But don’t worry about me. I’ll update you.”

“Oh, I see,” Sigma responded. “Alright then.”

Firstly, Sigma was most definitely worried. Secondly, you couldn’t smell? He knew how much you loved the dulcet scents of the desserts he created and the delicate fragrances of your favorite flowers. You must’ve been even a little upset when you realized that sense was gone.

Of course, he wasn’t going to leave you to battle the viruses alone, despite you having just said you didn’t plan to see him until you got better. So, the part lilac, part pearly-haired immediately set out to plan a sweet surprise for you.

…

The next day, Sigma showed up at your front door with a homemade bento box and a few bags of groceries.

“What are you doing here?”

“I at least have to check if you’re eating well.”

One thing that hadn’t changed since meeting Sigma was the butterflies in your stomach feeling. He always showed nothing but ultimate consideration and compassion towards you, treating you like royalty.

“I’m trying,” you replied honestly. “Everything tastes the same. I can’t smell any of it.”

“Maybe it’ll be more appealing if the food looks nice.” With that, he walked to the dining table.

“You haven’t had lunch yet?” You nodded, expectably to him.

“Sit down, love.” He pulled out one of the chairs. You followed him, taking a seat as he prepared your meal—putting a placemat on the table and setting the bento box on top.

You opened the container, and you were revealed with an assortment of the prettiest foods. For the first time this week, you were hungry.

The ones that caught your eye the most were the rice balls decorated to look like chibi versions of you and Sigma. A part of you didn’t want to ruin something so cute.

“What—this is so cute, Sigma! You’re so creative,” you complimented him. “It’s like you cook with magic.”

You noticed Sigma’s cheeks tint a rosy pink. “T-thank you. Go ahead and eat while I prepare your dessert.”

“Dessert?” you asked as you eyed the remaining grocery bags he was holding.

“You’re going to bake here?” You weren’t complaining, but you wondered why he didn’t decide to do it at his place.

“Yeah. That way, it’ll taste the best. Everything tastes the best when it’s freshly baked.”

…

You ended up eating everything. Sigma’s cooking never failed to impress you, even for a previously sated stomach.

“I finished!” you exclaimed, earning a smile from Sigma in the kitchen.

You hadn’t paid attention to what he was making in the meantime. He had put the tray of mystery into the oven a few minutes ago, so you were unable to see what it was.

“It’ll be done in twenty minutes,” Sigma said, walking over to you and taking your hand. “Was it good?”

“Very tasty; I’m full now,” you replied, looking up at him. His ashen eyes shone a gleam of fondness once he made eye contact with you, causing him to fluster again. He was so cute—at times, Sigma still acted like a schoolboy with a crush on you.

“You know your body makes room for dessert,” he noted coyly.

He guided you to stand up, and as you did, a familiar scent softly breezed past you.

The smell of your favorite muffin—and the smell of Sigma’s kitchen. It was faint, but it was there. Your eyes widened in wonder.

“Wait, Sigma—I can smell this!”

Even though it was a bit dramatic, you were cheerful to finally be able to smell any thing after a couple of days. You spun with Sigma around the room in delight. Surrounded by the aroma that made you feel truly at home and the sunrays through the windows, you started to dance together.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked, a bit concerned you were spinning around while feeling unwell.

“Yes,” you reassured him, drawing Sigma into an embrace. “I’m just thrilled right now. I think you’re cooking does have magic.”

…

The muffins were out and looked mouthwatering. Sigma took the first one from the tray and peeled down the wrapper.

“First taste is yours,” he said, taking your palm and placing the pastry in your hand.

“Today, I’ll be Sigma’s food critic,” you joked among the two of you. “He’s baked my favorite muffin—I’m rea-ally picky about this dessert, for your information. So I’m going to be really harsh on this review…”

Catching him off guard, you ate the entire sweet in one bite. You started laughing when Sigma abruptly gasped.

“Mm! That was delicious!” you declared, trying to sound like you were trying this for the first time. However, it contradicted the way you were reaching for a second one. Sigma had made this for you hundreds of times before—there was never one time you refused a muffin from him.

“Eleven out of ten!”

“And so are you,” Sigma added, bopping you on the nose. “If my cuisine does involve magic, then I hope that the food works better than medicine.”

bea’s acoustic songs are always so calming & pretty; in my mind, this is what chuuya plays for me. <3

i saw you said you were sick on the dash this month, i’m glad you’re feeling better by now/feel better soon, this is for you <3 @lovedazai @cheriiyaya @chuuyrr @osaemu @atlasnessie

i heard if you rb, your fav will give you get-well kisses until you feel better !! reblogs are cherished; they are what support me the most <3

© AUREATCHI 2024. no reposts or translations. do not steal. dividers by cafekitsune.

[morganski-19]

It’s a month after Starcourt when Steve realizes that Robin isn’t leaving. That she meant what she said about sticking around. That they were trauma bonded in two ways now. One in the average minimum wage worker way. The second in the way no one should ever have to be. 

If he had the choice to do it all over again. He’d never ask her to get involved. Would have told Dustin to wait until his shift is over, and then they could go figure it out. It might have taken longer. They might have never figured it out at all. But then another person wouldn’t have been dragged into the bullshit. Robin wouldn’t have nightmares anymore. 

She wouldn’t find herself on his doorstep at two in the morning, drenched in sweat from a mix of the heat and the fear. Bike fallen on the ground by her feet. He wouldn’t have to keep lying that she woke him up. Even if they both knew he hadn’t fallen asleep before four a.m. since that day. 

He won’t have someone to call when he wakes up screaming. Because he can’t call the kids, it’s not their job to calm him down. That’s his. Their phone calls don’t go both ways. Robin’s do though. She insisted on it. 

Worst part of it all is that Steve doesn’t want Robin to leave. But knows she will. This is just until the nightmares stop, then she’ll realize that he’s not worth it anymore. Just like the rest of them. It’s always until the person gets what they need out of Steve, and then they’re gone. No one ever stays because of who he is. 

It was clear the day he dropped Tommy and Carol. How they ran away like flies when you took away the food. They were terrible people, but they were his friends. His only friends. Since elementary school. It all seemed so trivial back then, but he appreciated them for what they were.

Regret is a funny thing. He doesn’t regret dropping them. It would have happened eventually. He regrets the hole that it left though. The emptiness that he’s been running from for a while. They filled the house when his parents were away. Which was more frequent now that he was an adult. They didn’t need to look after him that much anymore. It was his job now. 

Robin made it her job too. Without him asking. He never would have. But when they were both ready to get back to work, she was right there at his door with a resume in hand. Ready to get them both a job together again. Why would they ever need to work at two separate places? They were a package deal now. 

For now. Steve reminded himself. There will come a day that Robin will see that Steve isn’t much different from the kid she hated in high school. He’s still rich, and messy. Still can be really mean when he doesn’t mean to be. He’s sorry for it now. But that doesn’t change the fact that it still happens. 

Yet, like clockwork, she keeps coming around. Keeps calling at the same time every night to talk for hours when they should be asleep. Makes him realize how much he’s going to miss this when it inevitably ends. 

He’d prefer for it to happen rather than later. So he can be less attached. So it will hurt less. 

“How are you still here?” Steve asks one night. When the room is light enough for the nightmares to creep away, but dark enough to still hide the the fear on his face. 

“What do you mean?” Robin asks. Like her being here at all isn’t some big miracle. 

“You know who I was in high school. You know the things I said. The things I did.”

Robin props herself up on her elbows. “And? You’re not like that anymore.”

Steve shakes his head. She’s not getting it. “Part of me still is. Somewhere. I still snap and insult, and be just mean when I feel like I need to be. Even though I don’t half the time. It’s like a reflex I can’t get rid of. I might act like it, but I’m not much different than I was back then.”

“You are,” she says with absolute certainty. 

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Robin’s face comes into view. “I might have not known you that well, but I can still see it. In the way you carry yourself, in the way you act around those kids. The person you were back in highschool wouldn’t spare them a second glance. Wouldn’t spare me a second glance. The minute you walked into the ice cream parlor wearing those stupid shorts and dumb hat and saw me behind the counter, it would have been over. I would have been the subject of your torture. But I wasn’t.”

Robin takes Steve’s wrists and pulls him into a sitting position. Looking at him like she means what she says. He believes her. 

“Instead, you were nice to me. Considerate. Snappy sure, but in the way that secretly made me laugh. And never mean, not really. Even when I gave you every chance to be. I was waiting for who you were in history class to show up and he never did. Instead I saw the real you for the first time and I liked it. You are so much more than you give yourself credit for.”

“But what I said-.”

“Is in the past. The person who said those things wouldn’t have made fun of my crush on Tammy Tompson as fast as you did. Or accepted the fact that I liked girls at all. Might have done a lot of things I’m not sure of.” She pauses, swallowing. “When I told you, I was so scared. I had no clue how you would react. And you have no idea how relieved I was when it played out the way it did. You’re the first person I’ve told about this. You don’t know what that means for me.”

Steve stares at her. “I didn’t know that.”

She shrugs. “Yeah well. Now you do.”

“Why me?”

“Well I sort of had to reject you for one,” she jokes. “But, after I saw the way that you protected Dustin and Erica, me, without even blinking. Something about you just felt safe. I know that’s risky as hell and might have not worked out with most people. I just had a feeling that it would work out with you.”

“I’m glad you told me,” he whispers. “I’m glad that I was able to be that first person. And that you felt that you could tell me at all. After all the shit I said.”

“Again, you’re different now. Intentionally different. I might have just been a bystander in the Steve Harrington experience until recently, but I can see that. I hope you can too.”

[ataraxiaspainting]

Heyy!! I don’t know if you still do Chrollo fics , but if you’re doing recommendations/commissions , can you make something like where the readers like “do you think you’ll kill for me one day?” and he’s like “yes. of course I will my darling” ?? It’s based off a sound I heard somewhere .. I think the song is called “I want it all” by Lana del ray. Thank you!! 🫶

damn he really would say that huh?

Bad Habit.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Synopsis: “Where there is carnage, there is beauty.”

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, general anxiety and uneasiness, references to disturbing works of art (Saturn Devouring His Son, The Nightmare, Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan), manipulation, and talks of violence.

Word Count: 900.

*~*~*~*

There are as many things people can see as beautiful as there are shades of light shining through a prism.

Spectrums are quite common along with comparison and placement. It varies greatly from person to person, their preferences and their life experiences and their joys, and their fears.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, yes, but the eye of the beholder is also the window to their soul, to their psychological responses and traumas and memories of a past that would rather either be forgotten or worshiped. Every soul is different, and there is beauty in that. So, why do you find the heart and soul of Chrollo Lucilfer, whom many would call beautiful if they never knew him for what he truly is, so, so simply lovely? It does not have to do with his mannerisms or his confidence or his knowledge of virtually everything in this world, you concluded one day, after receiving yet another call from him, with him, as always, asking general questions like if you miss him and such. It is because he is the only thing I can cling to that will stay here, with me.

You cling onto him like a lost puppy, yearning for any sort of affection they can get no matter the cost. You did that when he first transported you from one place to another with hardly regarding any words from you on the matter. You do that now, in this art museum, full of unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar artwork and unfamiliar architecture. You missed home, back then. You still do now, and Chrollo still does not care one bit.

His hand is like a cuff, his arm like a chain, as he walks with you from one room to the next. But, still, it is the only thing that keeps you from falling apart.

So, like a sort of dance, you two move in sync. It is up to Chrollo as to if or when you will stop. It is never up to you, after all.

Does Chrollo enhance the horrific allure of these paintings, or does he once again bring all the attention to himself?

*~*~*~*

“Mythology often comes from our own woes.” He says, pointing upward, slowly, to Cronos’s eyes, which are bloodshot and large and dark. “A popular theory was that Goya was representing an oppressive government through Kronos, and the son that was prophesized to kill him as an adult represented the people who had started to revolt. But others don’t see it that way, oddly enough.”

You don’t respond, you simply look at the beheaded infant, which looks so soft and so rotten at the same time, with blood and deskinned chewed flesh running down his neck. He fits into his father’s hands perfectly, like he was made to be eaten.

*~*~*~*

“While most incubi are written and drawn as physically attractive creatures, this one in particular looks more akin to a gargoyle than that of a man.” He hums, and you can feel his hand wrap more tightly around yours. Not so much in a strangling, hurtful way, but rather just in a sort of reminderful way. “Maybe Fuseli was trying to make sure that the point of what the incubus really is is sent across to the viewers?”

With not a single word coming out of your mouth, a sure sign that you are zoning out his words, he squeezes a bit tighter to get your attention back where he wants it to be.

“What do you think, beloved?”

Once again, instead of answering, you choose to remain silent and focus your attention on other things. So, you look around. To the floor. To your high heels. Everything else, anything else. Only silence remains for a few more moments, but when the silence is not enjoyed any longer with another increase in his grip, you decide to answer before you get yourself into trouble.

“...I… I think that maybe it deals with sleep paralysis.”

Chrollo widens his eyes and smirks, and from those actions alone you know you have created a believable lie and concept that is sure to be amusing to him.

You’re forgiven.

*~*~*~*

“Historians say that the son’s death was the point of no return for Ivan.” A cradling of the arms and a Cat’s Cradle are the same; they both trap those within them.

Eyes are still eyes, whether they are real or not. Ivan the Terrible’s show a thousand tragedies and a thousand other faces his destiny could have worn, if he pushed the other one aside, if he had the strength to.

“Just like how Ivan was his son’s undoing, his son was also his.”

*~*~*~*

“...Would you ever kill for me?”

Violence is often not the only path Chrollo can choose to take. His words can be another, albeit that road will be much longer, and less smooth.

Who knows what he will choose when the hour of the heist comes to fruition when the art can finally be grasped and never let go of?

Which path do you prefer?

Which path does he prefer?

Do you prefer to be threatened with sweet honey that sticks to your skin or is so hot that it burns it?

“Of course, my dear.”

What you find grotesque, like the way the topic of violence is spoken so naturally from you and him, Chrollo always seems to find beautiful, like the way your moving lips are so lush.

…

Paintings are often just a reflection of how the world is, after all.

[gojoswhitebabydolllashes]

The fall can be greater once at the top.

Logan howlett x reader

-

DEADPOOL AND WOLVERINE SPOILERS !!!!

-

Warnings: Canon divergence.

-

I couldn't say I blamed them. They all wanted to know so much, but I had nothing to tell. Logan didn't remember me. He doesn't. And he may never do again. I may never hear him love me or feel his embrace or cook dinner with him ever again. But that's fine it's fine is in Fi it-

FUCK

The dagger hit the wood stump down the middle, splitting it in two with a crunching crack. This wasn't my Logan. He looked like him yes and smelt like him and stared at me like him. But it Wasn't him.

How the fuck was I going to get him back? The early morning sun burst through the foliage with angelic rays of light that illuminated the grass below me. Like logans late night into early morning log runs. He would gather timber and old wood from the mill and bring it home. Would always say he'd turn it into toys for our children.

But he never did.

And we never had any children.

"Hey you!"

Logan. Still dressed in his suit, he marched through the thick ankle length grass toward me, that infamous scowl still printed on his face. Aged. Beautiful.

I cleared my throat "sorry" I stood up quickly "I can go if you'd prefer-"

"No" he interrupted "stay, you were here first I'm only stopping by to have a drink anyways"

Ever so grumpy and always so soft.

"I'm sure your wondering why I'm wearing the same suit as you huh?"

It was a terrible conversation starter. Because of course he wasn't. Why the fuck would he be?

"I was at first. But now I'm just thinking your some kind of fan" i sipped the liquid in his drink.

A fan.

a fan. A fucking fan. He looks at me like a fan. I took a bullet for him. I lost limbs and lost an eye. I kept secrets from my own family to protect Logan. Almost died protecting my own mind from Xavier to keep Logan safe. I killed myself so that Magneto couldn't trace him. Destroyed myself from the inside out for the possibility that it could save Logan. Helped him regain some memories back when he lost them. Stitched him up when he lost the ability to regenerate. Snapped a lot of metal bones back into place. Held him when he had nightmares and snuck out of bed. Trying to not wake him in the middle of the night to stitch the wound his claws had given me so that he wouldn't panic.

I held him in my arms while he died bleeding from the mouth. Choking. Coughing as I sobbed onto his clothing soaking my face in delicate tears of agony.

But what would I know I'm just a fucking fan.

"No. No, I'm no fan. I actually come from another earth like Wade. I'm the first female wolverine to grace the earth in that universe. Feels pretty amazing sometimes"

For a moment, I saw a glint of smile on his lips. "Damn, a female wolverine, huh? So, do I still exist or at all in your universe?"

Oh. Oh yes, does he exist. He's amazing. Oh, Logan, if only I could express it to you. Not even Odin above or any Oracle could give me the power to tell you about my wolverine.

"You do. Infact we know each other"

It was a risk. Fuck it was a massive risk doing this. I felt like I was going to throw up or worse faint. I thought death must be kinder than this.

"We do?" He furrowed his brows "hard to imagine anyone would even fucking look at me in Any other world" he drank his drink again.

"In," I sighed and scratched my head nervously. "In my universe, you're actually my husband"

Logan could have dropped his glass onto metal in a soundproof room, and it would have been quieter than the silence that fell upon the forest as I spoke. He shifted his head slightly.

"Sorry i-"

"No, no, you don't have to be sorry," he chuckled.

He actually chuckled.

"You look like her. My wife. I'm my universe. She's dead. She died saving me. You have her hair, her eyes. Hell, you even fucking smell like her"

He stared at the grass by his feet. I felt his thoughts working in his brain. I felt him try to pick what to say and how to say it. Like the earth was spinning, and he was the only one standing still. I just focused on him. That's all I could do

"I wish just once," he started, "that it could actually be her. Passed the hallucinations and the nightmares and the dreams and the constant agony. I just wish once that whoever is standing up there in the heavens would just let me see her again"

But you are. I'm right here. I'm right fucking here. The woman who died for you in your universe. The woman who saved you and lived in mine. The woman you married and loved and adore.

But of course, it's not actually her. I'm not his me. And he's not my him. It's all just one big agonising dream, isn't it? It's all just a tortuous slow and painful circle that we must endure to live peacefully.

"I'm sorry I wasted your time." he gruffly cleared his throat and walked away.

I should have grabbed his fucking hand.

But I watched him leave.

[mrs-avenger3000]

Seeing Red

Pair: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: After Steve went into the ice, HYDRA took out their frustrations on his doe eyed little sister Y/n Rogers. Now after being experimented on for half her life, she’s back in Steve’s life. She’s a part of the team. A team that included the elusive Wanda Maximoff who just so happened to have saved her life. An accident forced them together, but it seems something deeper, more mysterious, is keeping them together.

Word Count: 2.9K

Warnings: 18+ Violence, fighting, implied smut, kissing, smut, swearing, angst, fluff, soulmate au, PTSD

A/n: I had this idea whilst reading Vampire Academy. I loved the idea of Rose and Lissa’s bond, so I tweaked it a little and turned it into a soulmate story…

Please do not copy my work or repost with the intent to take ownership of my work :) Feedback is as always welcome as are reblogs, comments and likes

1945

Things were never easy for you, you've lived through a literal world war. You lost your boyfriend and then your brother. You had given up at this point. Without your family... what did you really have? Your parents? Dead. Brother? Dead. Your love? Also dead. The only person you had left was Peggy, and she was just as distraught by Steve's death as you were.

Despite this you kept going. You were determined to ensure your brother didn't sacrifice himself for nothing. You had made it your mission to destroy HYDRA. Every fibre of your body burned with pure rage as you saw what they were doing to your home.

You had mixed feelings about Steve's sacrifice. Because yes, he thwarted their plans, and saved millions of lives, but it cost him his life. And it cost you your brother. This was the guy who would light all the candles in your bedroom every time you had a nightmare. He'd tell you that as long as the candle burns, you were safe. He's the guy who nursed you when you were sick. He taught you never to back down from a fight; he is- was the only constant in your life and you miss him terribly.

You lifted your head as you heard the door to your apartment open. You smiled sadly at Peggy. Her eyes were reddened and puffy. It didn't take you long to deduce that she had been crying again.

"I wanted to stop by... to see how you were." She mumbled, her voice slightly hoarse. You sighed, looking at your feet..

"I'm okay." You say, still looking at your feet.

"I wish I could say the same... I really, really do. I miss him so, so much." She sniffles, her eyes becoming glassy. You took a sharp intake of breath, thinking of him always hurt now. You used to think of your brother and be nothing but happy, but now that he's gone, the happy memories hurt because you know you can never experience anymore.

Thinking for a moment, you glanced at the teary woman in front of you, sighing you turned and walked into your bedroom. Pulling a cardboard box out from underneath your bed, you smiled as you saw the black-and-white picture of you and your brother at the carnival. He had face paint on and you had drawn a silly moustache on yourself. Placing the picture in your pocket, you grabbed what you originally intended to and walked back over to Peggy.

"Here, it was his favourite... it... it still smells like him." You whisper, handing her his favourite jumper. You nodded as she held it to her chest, sniffing it slightly. This seemed to make her cry harder.

"Thank you." She whispered as she slipped the jumper on over her uniform. You smiled as she did so. You knew your brother would have married this woman. She was his future, and you understood why. She was a beautiful human inside and out and you felt extreme pride when you refer to her as your friend.

You two sat and talked for hours until there was a noise that had Peggy reaching for her gun. Your anxiety bubbled as you watched her go check it out. You grabbed a knife from the kitchen and gripped it tightly. There was a loud commotion and shots were being fired, the loud bangs echoing through the walls of the apartment. You could smell the burning of... something, as the air suddenly felt warmer. Something was burning. Your worry increased as you heard Peggy groan in pain. The sudden puff of smoke confirmed your suspicions. Your apartment was now burning. "Y/N! RUN!" Peggy yelled as she came rushing into the front room, only to be tackled by a large burley looking man. He pinned her to the ground, and you glared at him.

"Let her go!" You yelled as you rushed over. Before you could get to him, you screamed as the front door was smashed in wood flew everywhere as it splintered off the door. The door crashed to the floor and your eyes widened as more people filed into the room, they were dressed in a uniform, they were soldiers and you then noticed the marks on their uniforms. Your rage soared as the HYDRA men burst into your home. You gripped the knife tightly before going after them. Even though you had no idea how you were going to win against a small army of HYDRA agents, you were determined to win. You punched, kicked, stabbed your way through the agents, but it was no use. One guy punched you so hard in the face, stars clouded your vision and you felt your eyelids become heavy.

The last thing you heard before you faded into the darkness was Peggy's final scream for you. "Y/N!" she yelled as you hit the floor.

HYDRA had got you now. You were theirs. And nothing could be done about it.

Today

The ringing in your ears intensified as you began running through the halls. There was only one thought in mind. "I have to get out." Your feet moved quickly as you rushed down the hall. You were being chased, but you had one advantage your advisories didn’t. During your time in HYDRA, you had been turned into a super solider just like your big brother was before he died.

You saw the wall and something inside you knew that you were only on the second floor. So you braced yourself and launched yourself out of the window. Glass shattered all around you, slicing your skin. Even more so when you landed. You slid across the ground. A cry leaving your lips as you did. You rolled over before you pulled your body up and broke out into a sprint. All you could think about was not getting caught. It didn’t matter about the fact nothing looked familiar, or that your body was begging you to lie on the floor and give up. You didn’t care about the blood that was seeping into your clothes all you cared about was getting away.

You were so caught up in getting away you didn’t pay attention to your surroundings. You slammed straight into a couple. The man’s hands shot out to steady the girl as they looked angrily at you. Until they saw your condition. The noise of the world hit you at once and you kept turning around, your eyes squinted as you looked all around the place. Tall buildings, loud noises. And they’re way too many people. The man came into focus as he gave you a concerned look.

“Can you tell me your name, doll?” He asked, and you squinted at him. Your heart was pounding in your chest so loud you could barely hear anything else. You swallowed.

“Where am I?”

“New York.” He replied softly.

You shook your head defiantly. “No, no, this isn’t New York. I- no!” You grabbed him by the collar. “Where am I!” you demanded as you shoved him backwards before stepping back from him a few steps. His eyes widened as he looked to your left.

“Watch out!” You heard someone new yell. Suddenly, you were encased in a red glow. It’s spirals moving you. Your body instantly warmed, and you strangely felt comfort from this red embrace. But your comfort didn’t last long as a body knocked into you. You both went tumbling to the floor, causing you to groan as you scraped your already bleeding cuts. Despite the pain, you felt insanely warm. You opened your eyes to see a curious and worried green pair staring back. Your heart jumped into your throat as you gazed at her. She was truly beautiful.

You flushed as you realised that she was practically straddling you. Her cheeks turned red as she stared at you. “Wanda!”

That voice.

The girl you now know as Wanda got up and held her hand out for you. You took it. Her touch was warm, and it left soft tingles on your skin and for a second she didn’t let go of your hand. You blushed softly before your eyes widened. “S-Steve?” You whispered softly. His eyes teared up as he rushed over to you.

“Y/n! How? How is this-” you cut him off by throwing your arms around his shoulders hugging him.

“You died! I- I mourned you.” You cried. His tears wet your shirt as he hugged you tightly.

“Peggy… she said HYDRA attacked and took you and she hasn’t seen you since.” He mumbled. You nodded.

“I… I’m like you now.” You mumbled, and he pulled back, cupping your face with his hands as he surveyed you.

“You’re not my little sister anymore… you’ve grown up.” He smiled, kissing your forehead.

“I was so lost without you. When you didn’t come home… when you went into the ice. I thought you died, Stevie.” You mumble, your voice cracking as you started to cry again. He squeezed you and you gasped in pain, causing Wanda to step forward, worry present on her face.

“Steve, she’s bleeding.” Her voice was like silk, so smooth, and yet she sounded so panicked. You glanced up at your brother through heavy eyelids. The exhaustion was catching up quickly, and you struggled to keep your eyes open.

“I… I think I’m going to close my eyes now.” You muttered as the world started to darken. You remember Steve picking you up before your eyes closed fully.

Steve glanced at Wanda, his eyes widening. He scooped her up and held her to his chest. “Let’s get her back to the tower.” He rushed out as he began running.

~/~/~/~

Steve sighed as he watched Bruce work on his little sister, his worry increasing when Bruce pulled out surgical instruments. “Just need to throw a few sutures here, Cap. Nothing too serious. She's lost a lot of blood, so I'm going to have to replace it. I've already started a drip and she should be okay in a couple of hours.” He muttered, focusing on what he was doing. His focus was momentarily taken off you as he heard the door open. He smiled softly when he saw Wanda walk in. She had been feeling antsy ever since she left. She didn’t know what, but something was urging her to come seek you out. The way her heart fluttered when you and her locked eyes confused yet intrigued her. Her eyes widened when she saw Bruce stitching up her side.

Steve have her an exhausted smile as she took a swat next to him. Wanda frowned as she could feel how anxious he was. “You never mentioned you had a sister.” She commented with a snippy edge. He glanced at her, noticing her small smirk. He sighed, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“When I went into the ice, she was seventeen. She’s at least twenty-three now. She should be at least 80. Which means for 80 years she has been in HYDRA’s clutches for decades and I didn’t figure it out.” He whispered sadly. Wanda reached over to squeeze it.

“You couldn’t have known.” She whispered.

“But I should have. I should have known.” He repeated, seeming distraught. Wanda wanted to take his mind off it so she asked about her. It helped distract Steve enough, so he wasn’t constantly hovering over Bruce. It also helped to quench Wanda’s compulsion to ask about you more and more.

“When we were kids, our parents used to take us to this field and there was this tree that Y/n made it her mission to climb for weeks. She tried and then when she did. She fell off,” he chuckled. “She never wanted to get down. My father usually had to climb up and get her.” He smiled at the memory.

“And then our parents died, and we only had each other. And then Bucky. She lost him too. She lost everyone. I’m glad Peggy was there for her once I went under. I always wondered if Y/n had a crush on her.” He joked, causing Wanda to giggle.

Bruce had finished stitching you up. He pulled the gloves off his hands and stood up. “The sedation will wear off soon and I’ve given her some medication to help with the pain.” Bruce smiled.

Steve nodded, his eyes travelling to the door. Bucky walked in, his eyes widening. “Y/n?” He whispered, his voice strained. He looked at Steve and he nodded.

Bucky hugged Steve tightly, laughing in excitement. “I can’t believe it.” He whispered, pulling back.

“Me either.”

An hour later and you began to stir. The pain in your side was bearable, but you could tell it was numbed. “Steve…” you called out, reaching up to rub your eyes. You looked down and saw that the girl who saved you… Wanda was resting her hand on yours. You looked at your hands and then at her before your eyes shot up to see Steve.

“Y/n… how- how are you?”

You smiled. But then your smile dropped. “B-Bucky?” You gasped. He stood up and grinned, walking up to you.

“Hey doll, happy to see me?”

“Is everyone who is supposed to be dead not dead? Is Peggy?”

“No… no she, she died a few years ago.” Steve said sadly. You frowned.

“I’m sorry. Did you at least get some time with her?”

Steve smiled, nodding. “A little.”

That little piece of information made you smile. Peggy had always wished for more time, that was it, and you were glad that they had gotten time together, even if it was only a small amount. Bucky came around and held your free hand. He brought it up to his lips he kissed your hand, and then smiled brightly up at you. "Things haven't been the same without you. I've missed you every day." He sighs, and you cast your eyes over to Wanda. She seemed annoyed. There was a small crinkle in between her brows that gave away her annoyance. You wanted nothing more than to. Make it go away. You pulled your hand from Bucky's grip, a small smile on your face.

"I missed you too, Buck." He frowned.

"What happened to you?" Steve asked, and you sighed.

"Well... since you destroyed HYDRA's plan to blow up the world they were angry with you so they took their frustrations out on me, at first it was purely anger based torture, but then they decided they needed me, so they experimented on me and then once they successfully turned me into an enhanced super solider, they froze me I guess, I don 't really remember much, I woke up a few years ago. It was weird I was the same age, but it was like a million years had passed. The world looks so different now. I- I don't think I'll ever be able to catch up." You explained. They all listened to your story intently. Wanda squeezed your hand as if to remind you that she was still here, or to support you, you didn't know which.

"They tortured you?" Steve asked brokenly.

You looked up at him and shook your head. "I survived, I'm okay."

"You're strong." The girl spoke up. You looked at her and smiled softly. Her eyes captured you as she stared at you. You couldn't find the strength to look away. Her features were soft, her eyes assessing you. There was this connection like there was something about her that pulled you into her orbit. She was truly gorgeous, from her fair skin to her cute button nose. You swallowed. Clearing your throat, you smiled.

"You feeling okay?" She asked, her hand still on yours. Her warmth was comforting.

"I'm as okay as I can be." You say with a smile. She continued to stare until a noise blurted out, causing you to jump. Steve smiled apologetically at you. He then pulled out a small square thing and tapped it. You frowned.

"Yes, Tony. I know. She’s okay.” He said, talking into the tiny magic box.

“I’ll update you on this when she has rested.” He muttered. Shoving the square thing back into his pocket.

A sudden chill wracked through my body and in a second the room had warmed and the chill of the room replaced with a toasty feeling. You glanced at Wanda and saw the red tint in her eyes. You tilted your head slightly, looking at the glow in her irises.

“Your eyes change colour?” You asked.

"A side effect of my power." She said, her hands glowing as she showed me. The red glow is similar to the red shield that encased you earlier, only darker, more vibrant. You looked at her in pure fascination. Your hand came up to touch her glowing hand, but Bucky quickly intercepted grabbing your wrist softly.

"Careful, doll, that energy stings." He said, glancing at Wanda's frown.

"Only when I want them to." She said with a feline smirk. In the split second, she made a decision. A small ball of her power shot out from her finger and slammed into Bucky's hand that was still gripping my wrist. He hissed in pain, ripping his hand away. He started shaking his hand as if it would stop the pain. Wanda giggled as he swore at her.

You grinned at the interaction. Your mind was reeling from today. So much had happened, and there was still so much to learn. You were eager to learn all about this new era, but even more eager to learn about the powerful redhead at your bedside. As if she could read minds, she turned to you and smiled. You smiled back, loving the blissful look on her face. You didn't spare Bucky a second glance as Steve called him over.

Tag list

@blackxwidowsxwife @g-cordelia @causeitswhatjesuswouldfreakingdo @cristin-rjd @yeetus-thyself @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @upsidedowndanvers @wanda-nats-slut @i1ovewanda @littlewinchester15 @fishlikestuff @gengen64 @procrastinatingsapphictrash @liladoesfanfics @baller2412 @rice-wiife @tomy5girls @srtamercury @nothingisrealanyway @marvelwomen-simp @darshikaria @ria900 @ic-4u @atlas-nex @xxromanoffxx @kcthewifitheif @fairydxll @strangegardentaco @maxxione @pbeckn26

[mytardisisparked]

Jasmine and Teakwood

While working a case involving perfume, Mulder learns something new about his partner.

Read on AO3

Dana Scully had never understood the logic behind perfume stores; every one she had dared to enter had been so overpoweringly scented she simply couldn’t fathom how anyone was able to actually smell the individual perfumes. The concept was terrible on paper and even worse in execution – add the intense odor to the poor lighting and the overly-familiar salespeople, and the whole experience became a sensory nightmare. 

For her, at least. Her partner, Fox Mulder, seemed to be having the time of his life.

She only half-listened to the droning of the store’s leading expert as she watched Mulder move slowly down the display wall, picking up each bottle for a sniff. He was turned away from her, so she couldn’t see his face, but she saw him shudder at a few of the scents he sampled.

At least he isn’t tasting them, she thought as he moved further away.

She pulled her attention back to the perfumer – a short, wiry man of around 50 years with a low, droning voice – as he leaned over the sample she had brought him from their current case.

“Yes, yes,” he muttered, finally coming to a conclusion after rattling off a bunch of information about base notes and floral fragrances. “I believe this came from a bottle of Halberd Number 7.” He went to a nearby shelf and pulled down a bottle of the aforementioned perfume to compare. “Yes, I believe it is this. It’s a local brand, made in West Virginia.”

Scully smiled politely. “Could you give us a location for this business?”

As the man went to write it down for her, she tracked down her wayward partner, who was now four aisles away.

He was considering a couple of bottles. “Scully, do you have a favorite scent?”

With a deep sigh, she folded her arms over her chest. “I don’t really wear perfume. I haven’t had time to find a fragrance I like in the last few years.” And, she added mentally, I can’t stand to be in these stores for longer than 5 minutes.

Mulder nodded sagely. “What about cologne? Any preferences?”

Her brow furrowed. “I– I don’t know.” She turned to see that the perfumer was returning with the address. “Um, teakwood, I guess.”

Scully moved away to speak with the expert, missing the smile on Mulder’s lips and the quick motion as he dabbed a bit of teakwood cologne on the inside of his wrists.

—

Fox Mulder had never really cared for perfume before, especially after dating Phoebe Greene, who had worn what smelled like a quarter of a bottle every single day. 

He had also never really cared for cologne. He had tried a few at different points of his life, but they were often too strong or too subtle.

He wondered if that was the issue now, if the cologne was too faint for Scully to smell. It wasn’t that he needed her to smell it… okay, maybe he did need that. She had said it was her favorite - or was that just a random fragrance she had pulled out of her head to appease him?

Regardless, she wasn’t reacting. He had tried to waft the scent towards her whenever he turned the steering wheel in her direction, but he had about hit a curb attempting that maneuver and decided against trying it again. 

He glanced over at her when they stopped at a light and he realized she was leaning her forehead against the glass, eyes closed and swallowing hard. Her arms were folded around herself. There was a bright flush to her cheeks that would have been pretty if she didn’t also look miserable and pale everywhere else. 

“Scully?” Worry twisted around his chest and burrowed into his stomach. “Are you carsick?” If his stupid maneuver from earlier was contributing to whatever ailed her, he was going to take away his own driver’s license. 

She swallowed again and looked up at him. “No, I just–” she took a deep breath, “I have a headache.” Her lips twisted in a rueful smile. “Perfume stores and I don’t get along.”

Mulder nodded, even as a pang reverberated in his gut. Looking back, he could recall her visible discomfort in the store – her rapid blinking, her flushed cheeks, the way she breathed through her mouth. I should have put it together sooner.

He carefully took the corner as the light switched to green. “Let me take you home, get you some Tylenol.”

“It’s fine, I can–”

He ignored her and turned towards her apartment anyway. 

—

She didn’t react much after that, silently accepting the ride to her apartment building. And his insistence on helping her up the stairs. And the way he settled her on the couch with a blanket, took her shoes off, and brought her a cup of water and some medication. 

He liked doing this for her. There was a domesticity in caring for her headaches and bumps and bruises that made him feel warm, even as his chest ached. 

The fact that she was letting him care for her, that she wasn’t fighting to go lick her wounds by herself in a dark corner, was doing something funny to his chest, too. He didn’t know if it was a testament to their trust or if she was really just that sick, but he was grateful she was allowing him to be here with her.

“What are you doing?” she called out after him as he walked into her kitchen and dug around in her cupboards.

“Warming up some soup. What kind do you want? Looks like you have chicken noodle, creamy tomato penne, Italian wedding-”

“You don’t have to do that.”

He turned from the soups and saw she was standing in the kitchen entryway with the blanket draped over her shoulders, looking very small and very cute.

Mulder smiled. “I know. What kind of soup do you want?”

Her throat bobbed, eyes searching him for a moment. “Italian wedding.”

Without another word, he nodded and pulled the can from the cupboard, turned the stove on, and found a pot.

He wished he could be doing a homemade meal instead. He wished he could go to the store and handpick every ingredient to make this from scratch. He wished he could grow the herbs to put in the soup himself. He wished he could hand-roll dough balls and buy sausage from a little local butchery and pull carrots from a rooftop garden and clean them just for her.

But it was already 6:30 PM and Scully had a headache, so he would have to settle for opening a can and warming it for her.

He heard her settle into a chair at the table behind him and he smiled at the thought of her still snuggled up in her blanket.

The soup was hot and ready in only a few minutes, served in a couple of bowls. Scully’s arms poked out from under her blanket cloak to lift hot spoonfuls to her lips. 

Mulder watched her eat in between his own bites of soup. “So, why don’t you wear perfume? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’m just curious.”

She glanced up at him for a second. “I used to, back in college, but perfume stores are too overwhelming and its hard to find perfume that lasts from other stores.” She paused for another sip. “It’s no big deal. I’ve survived without for a long time now."

He tilted his head. “I’m kind of surprised you’re sensitive to perfumes. I’ve watched you spend hours with your nose over a dead body like it’s nothing while I’m in the corner gagging and rubbing vicks under my nose.”

To his delight, she huffed out a laugh. “I guess I’m sort of… noseblind to all that. And it’s not like individual perfumes bother me, unless they’re applied too liberally. Just the stores give me trouble, with all that scent mixed together in a great cacophony.” She shrugged. 

“I guess that makes sense.” He grinned. “Or, scents .”

She caught his wordplay and rolled her eyes, a grin playing at the corners of her mouth. “I know it’s kind of contradictory.”

“It is.” He smiled. “But bodies are like that sometimes. I knew a guy who hated the texture of bread because it stuck to the roof of his mouth, but he also loved croissants.”

“Those are almost the same texture.”

“Exactly.”

They ate quietly again for another moment.

“That cologne you put on smells nice.”

He glanced up at her. She was still looking at her soup, stirring it.

“Thanks.”

—

A few days later, the case was wrapped up and Scully was working on her report to Skinner. 

Mulder glided through the door, coat billowing in his self-generated breeze and a brown paper bag hanging from his hand.

He looked pleased with himself, which could be a good or bad thing.

Scully sat back in their desk chair, taking him in as he set the bag down in front of her and took off his coat. There was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes and a coloring to his cheeks that made her chest feel warm suddenly.

“Morning Scully. I got you a little something to celebrate our victory.”

She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t a little excited that he got her a present, but she maintained her reserved expression. “You never get me presents when we solve a case.”

He stopped moving and tilted his head. “Sure I do. Usually it’s food.”

“Is this food?” She pointed at the bag. 

“Not this time. Switching it up. Keeping you guessing.”

His smile was so bright and earnest that she couldn’t help but smile back as she reached for the bag. Mulder eagerly slid into the seat on the other side of the desk as she pawed it open and reached inside.

She pulled out a small, cylindrical bottle of perfume with a gold lid.

“I went back to that store we visited for the case. You don’t have to wear it if it bothers you but...” He suddenly looked – rather endearingly – nervous.

Scully's lips twisted in a small smile as she gave the little bottle a sniff. "Mm. Jasmine."

Mulder nodded. "It's my favorite scent."

Scully's stomach wound itself in a knot for a moment at the idea that he had bought his favorite scent for her, that he wanted her to wear it. She capped the bottle and set it down, searching for something else to say that wouldn't add to the tightness in her chest. "I like it, too. It, um, reminds me of my shampoo."

She snuck a glance at him and found that he was looking at her with a sort of warm intensity. She couldn't look away as he said, very seriously: "I know."

Her cheeks flooded with heat as he stood and turned away, leaving her to ponder what exactly that was supposed to mean.

[maracujatangerine]

82. Taking Note

CW: mental health issues, institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe, pet whump

The pale light of an overcast winter’s day flattened all the colours; the yellow curtains, the violet saintpaulia on the windowsill, the pet’s own blonde hair, everything taking on a washed-out tinge of grey. Coriander sat at the kitchen table, pen in hand, staring at a blue notebook. Miss Lydia had asked it to choose one of the notebooks at her bookshop yesterday.

“Perhaps you would like to try writing down your thoughts?” She had suggested, gently. “It is not for me to read. I promise that I won’t. Cross my heart, and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye!”

She laughed, but the look in her brown eyes was serious.

“You can write down anything you want, and it will be for your eyes only, okay?”

The pet had nodded and told her that it understood. Now, Miss Lydia was out. She had gone for coffee with Cecilia, and the pet had elected to stay at home.

The notebook it had chosen had a Japanese-style drawing of a cresting wave on the cover, the white tips of the wave rendered with splashes in glossy silver. The white pages were neatly lined in black.

The radio was on in the background, a piece by Händel tugging at some half-remembered string at the back of the pet’s mind. Cory knew that Miss Lydia had left Radio 3 on for the pet’s sake, but that she wouldn’t mind if it changed the station, just like she hadn’t minded that the pet had chosen to stay behind when she went out.

It used to agonise endlessly over such small decisions. Did Miss Lydia want it to say yes or no? Would this thing make it a better pet, or would that?

Nowadays, more and more, it felt like it could trust that its owner said what she meant. If she needed it to come, she would let it know. If she gave it a choice, she truly wanted it to make up its own mind.

That was an unprecedented freedom. Generosity beyond its wildest dreams. It knew it was extraordinarily lucky.

It should be happy, should it not?

And it was grateful, it was!

But happiness eluded it

In the beginning, everything had brought it joy. Or, well, at least relief.

Having its wounds treated, feeling its body healing, aches and pains receding to the back of its mind and gradually fading away.

Hunger, the dull gnawing of an empty stomach, the weakness and loss of focus that comes with days and days without enough food to eat. The terrible fear of feeling your own body consuming itself to stay alive. No more!

In its life with Miss Lydia, Coriander could still feel hungry, sometimes. At the end of a long day, before lunch at work, out on a hike in the woodlands. But it never felt truly hungry. That bottomless need for sustenance was a thing of the past.

These things brought relief. The joy came later.

Miss Lydia gently petting its hair, and Coriander genuinely wanting - and daring - to lean into her touch.

Playing the tin whistle for Miss Indira and the doctor responding with enthusiastic applause.

Laughing together with Miss Lydia without the pet having to carefully guard every word to avoid angering its owner.

Working at the shop and being given a nod of approval from Miss Carla at a job well done.

Sitting in the garden and watching flowers bloom from seeds they had sown together.

These were all things of joy, of beauty. Miss Lydia was consistently fair and kind. The pet felt healthy now, strong, even. Its damaged shoulder still impeded its daily life, its scars ached sometimes, and the nightmares refused to go away, but these were mere trifles in the grand scheme of things.

So, why wasn’t it happy?

It should be. It had been.

But now, lately, it was like some undefined malaise had taken hold of the pet. A depressing weight that suffused everything, that stole joy out of everything, just like the grey winter light leaked the colours away.

Looking down on the pages, the pet realised it had written the same sentence over and over.

Why did this happen to me?

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards-blog @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

What's the occasion?

Masterlist

A/N: What this was supposed to be: A fluffy comfort fic about reader's husband taking care of her after a rough day/week/month. What this isn't: A fluffy comfort fic about read.... you get me.

What this somehow ended up being: A not-so-fluffy not-so-comfort (?) fic about reader's husband taking real good care of her after a rough day/week/month.

You're welcome, I think? (I honestly don't have a clue how this ended up being some of the smuttiest smut I've written to date... But it happened... I'm not even going to question it.)

Pairing: Syverson x reader (you)

Summary: You come home from a terrible day at work, thinking you have about a thousand things still on your to do list, only to find your husband has taken care of all of that, and has also made you the first thing on his to do list.

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, SMUT, MINORS DNI. oral (m and f receiving), p-in-v sex, Sy being all dominant and massive, some light (yes, really) throatfucking, hair pulling, manhandling. Some of this can probably be considered blasphemy.

Also, fair warning: this story contains a man doing household chores without having been (explicitly) asked to do so. Just... Bear with me. I know it's not realistic, but we're here to have fun, right?

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @keanureevesisbae @fvckinghenrycavill @ellethespaceunicorn @peaches1958 @sillyrabbit81 @peyton-warren @summersong69 @mayloma @livisss

Parking your husband’s truck in your driveway is an absolute nightmare. It takes you twenty minutes and a breakdown – during which you fight yourself over whether or not to just go inside and ask him to park his stupid car for you – but you eventually manage. Now, it’s time to go inside, after the longest day at the office in the history of long ass days at the office, and do the six million other things that come for free with having a house, husband, and kids. Dishes. Laundry. Dinner. That stuff.

You toss your bag down on the bench next to the front door and put your coat on the overflowing coat rack six times – it keeps coming down because for some reason, your teen daughter owns 12 jackets, yet she still always asks to borrow yours seconds before telling you that all of your clothes suck – before you finally give up and leave it where it falls.

It takes you a minute to realize that you smell food. With three kids and your mountain of a husband, that can only really mean one thing: someone got hungry, your plans for dinner are now in ruins and your kitchen looks like an episode of Hoarders. And even though those are your expectations, your family still manage to exceed them every time, so God knows what you’re going to find when you round that corner and step into your kitchen...

It’s Sy. And it’s not just Sy, but it’s just Sy. Come to think of it... The whole house is suspiciously void of music, screaming or shoes scattered around for you to break your neck over.

“Where are the kids?” you ask as you walk towards Sy.

“With my mother,” he replies without turning around, “to be returned to us on Sunday night at eight, and not a second before then. Are ya goin' to make a habit of not sayin’ hello to me when you get home? ‘Cause I don’t care for it.”

“Well, excuse me for not taking the time out of my busy schedule for pleasantries, but I have a week’s worth of laundry to get to,” you snap. He doesn’t deserve it, you know that, but it’s the kind of day you’ve had, and... And it’s all on you again.

“Laundry’s done,” Sy says calmly, still not looking up from the lasagna he’s putting together.

“Oh,” you stammer. “Well, then I’ll just grab the vacuum and...”

“I did that, too.”

“Alright, I’ll give the garage a quick call to see if they can...”

“I changed the oil in your car this morning.”

“Groceries?”

“Done.”

“The bathroom?”

“Yep.”

“And you’ve obviously got a handle on dinner...” You have to admit it: you’re a little stumped. “What about...”

“Woman, if you’re lookin’ for somethin’ I didn’t do so you can blow up at me for it, I’ll just hand it to ya: I didn’t get to cleanin’ out the gutters today, so I’ll have to do that tomorrow.”

But you’re not planning on blowing up at him over anything...

“Well, hello Mr. Syverson,” you say, still completely in awe that your entire schedule for the night – and probably the whole weekend – just opened up. “Remind me... We got married in October, right?”

“Yes, Mrs. Syverson, we did.” He’s even less subtle than usual, skipping your hips and putting his hands on our ass right off the bat.

“So, what’s the occasion?” you chuckle. Sy pulls you in for a kiss, just passionate enough to leave you wanting more, but not so bad you beg him to take you right here on the kitchen counter. It’s a fine line, really. A tightrope you’ve tried to walk before, only to fall off on the wrong side and be late for yet another dinner with someone who was never going to be more important than having sex with your husband, anyway.

“The occasion is... You’re beautiful. You deserve it. You do so much for our family and somewhere along the lines I seem to have started takin’ that for granted. Take your pick, I’m sure there’s plenty more reasons to come up with.” He squeezes your ass. Hard. “This sensational ass could be the occasion?”

“You’re saying you got rid of the kids for the weekend and checked off my whole to do list to celebrate the existence of my ass?”

“Sugar, I celebrate the existence of that fine ass every damn day. Now, I’ve fallen a little behind on celebrating the existence of the woman attached to it... I’d like to make up for that.” There is absolutely no way you aren’t blushing right now. Sy doesn’t let go of you, but his hands move to your waist. You’re trying your best to not drown in his eyes, but you’ve been hopelessly lost in there for nearly twenty years. For a brief – but lovely – moment, you stand there, just holding each other and making eyes like you used to when you were young and in love. And young...

“This needs about half an hour in the oven, still, so how about I give you forty-five and you can take a nice, long shower?” Sy winks at you – or rather: tries to. “There’s something on the bed I’d love to take off of you later tonight, but I also understand if you just want to wear something comfortable.”

“Did you pick it?” you tease him.

“You’ll be more than happy to know that I did, but under the very strict supervision of Dana.” It seems like your dear husband has finally learned how to use the fact his best friend’s wife works in a lingerie store to his advantage… Took him long enough.

“Right on time,” Sy says as you step into the kitchen. You take the glass of wine he’s holding out to you and take a sip.

“Mmm...” The sound you make is almost a moan. One look at the bottle on the table tells you this is a really nice wine – one from a price range you can’t afford to shop at...

“Gift from a client. Walker said I could take it. I guess his wine cellar doesn’t fit any more.” Sy pulls you in for a hug. It doesn’t last long, but it’s nice, very nice.

Dinner is amazing. Sy is a great cook – when given means, motive, and opportunity – and he has prepared three courses of absolute heaven. He only has to assure you twice that the price of the ingredients won’t put your family in financial ruin.

You’re halfway through dessert – a deliciously indulgent, rich chocolate mousse you’re fairly sure he made from scratch – when you realize something.

“You can’t have done all the laundry. We don’t have the space to hang all of that...”

“I fixed the dryer,” Sy interrupts, “I’m sorry I only did that after it became a problem to me, personally.”

“That’s alright...”

“No, it ain’t,” Sy grins. He knows you.

“Very well, then. I accept your apology. You’re forgiven.” You remember the moment you knew you were going to marry this man: right after your first fight – he had been wrong, although you can’t remember what he’d been wrong about. It had had something to do with your mother. Either way, right after that fight, he’d apologized, and for some reason the lack of excuses had made you want to jump him right where you were standing. You’d almost broken up with him when you realized you weren’t half as good at apologizing as he was.

“Alright, well,” Sy smirked, still. It was incredibly attractive, and at least as annoying. “I was planning on makin’ up for that, but now that I don’t have to…” His voice trailed off for a moment before you gently nudged his leg with your foot.

“How about we finish this bottle upstairs?” You don’t need to tell him twice: he’s on his feet before you even finish the sentence.

“You go ahead, Sugar,” he says before kissing you as gently as a giant like him can muster, “I’ll make sure this kitchen is spotless before I come up.”

“Oh, Mr. Syverson, you are killing me.”

“Oh,” Sy adds with a grin on his face, “and you were right. The vacuum cleaner sucks, we need a new one.”

“Say that again…”

“The vacuum cleaner sucks?” He knows damn well which part you’re referring to. That wasn’t it.

“Before that.”

“Ah. You were right.”

“You have ten minutes to get to bed, or I’m starting without you,” you tease, knowing very well he wouldn’t mind one bit if you did start before he got there.

Sy is impatient as ever when he finally steps into your bedroom, pulling his shirt over his head before the door even shuts behind… Alright, maybe the door doesn’t close because he just leaves it wide open.

“Sy! Close the door!” you shriek, but he just takes a few more steps until he’s right next to the bed.

“Why? Kids ain’t home. We’re alone, we don’t need to close the door,” he says as he pushes you back onto the mattress. “We don’t gotta be quiet, either.” With a devilish grin on his face, he kisses you. First your lips, then your neck. His beard doesn’t tickle – not after all these years. He shaved it off once, only to immediately get on growing it back, because you wouldn’t give him any. You move your hands through the hair on his chest while Sy roughly pulls your shirt over your head. He groans appreciatively when the bra he picked out for you appears.

“Do you like it?” he asks. He doesn’t have the greatest track record when it comes to picking stuff that’s actually to your tastes, but you’d be lying if those items didn’t have their own special little drawer – that you definitely haven’t opened in far too long…

“I do,” you purr into his ear, biting your lip when he grinds his hips into you. He’s hard, seeking friction, release. You love when he gets this worked up over you. “You did a good job.”

“Hm,” he growls, “I didn’t like it at first. Thought it was kinda boring.” That’s not what you want to hear… It’s a good thing he opens his mouth again to continue: “But now that it’s your tits in there… Can’t decide if I wanna keep it on ya or rip it off…” To your surprise, he opts for the former, making sure to kiss every inch of skin that’s newly available to him as he makes his way down your stomach, dragging you to the edge of the bed as he goes along.

He can do it within minutes. Making you come on his tongue, that is. He never does, because the smug fucking bastard likes teasing you too much to ever give you what you want – nay, need – that quickly. That patience, however, is nowhere to be found when it comes to taking your clothes off. He admires you and your new underwear for maybe five seconds, and then your panties are somewhere in the room. No, you don’t care where, exactly.

“Fuck, Sugar, you’re beautiful,” Sy growls from between your legs. “I’ve missed this sweet little cunt.” His words used to startle you so bad you asked him to stop talking multiple times when you’d first started going out. Now, they just make you blush, and they make you wet, and that’s all that you need from him right now. Sometimes, you’re still grateful for the moments he can’t speak – when his mouth is otherwise occupied, so to speak. It’s the moaning, and growling, and the grunts and obscene slurping – hideous word, but sadly the only applicable description – sounds that get you. It’s the pleasure, and the way he knows exactly how and when and where to move his tongue to make you squirm, moan, and scream in his strong arms. Unfortunately, he still isn’t exactly at that point. He’s still teasing, and you’re still whining, and no one is coming.

In no time, you’re going nuts. It’s not bad enough to speak up. And by that you mean: beg him to finally eat you in that way you both know makes you see stars and seek God and scream His name – or Sy’s, but what difference does that make, anyway? Instead, he keeps you right there, at the point where you’re just invested enough in the fantastic feeling that you want to be consumed by it, but it just isn’t enough to keep you from getting distracted. By the feeling of his beard against the inside of your thighs. By the fact that your panties somehow ended up on the lamp on his bedside table. By the gentle pulsing of the vein in his forearm your finger currently rests on. And he keeps you there, and keeps you there until you’ve almost convinced yourself you’ve gotten so used to this – to him – that he can’t do it anymore, forgetting that he really isn’t even trying. That twenty years of ‘this’, whatever the fuck that may mean, just means that he’s found so many different ways to take care of you that he couldn’t go through all of them in one night even if you could physically take it, simply because he’d run out of time before he made it halfway through the list.

And when you get there, to that point where you start thinking he might just not be as good as he used to, you’ve lost. Because from then on, it’s a minute. Thirty seconds. Maybe even twenty, or ten, or less – not that you’d know, because you couldn’t count to three anymore if you tried.

“Darlin’, you taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he mutters, never taking his lips off your skin completely. His fingers tease your entrance, pads coarse and calloused. It appears that, even after all these years, you still haven’t learned that if your mouth won’t beg, your body will. Unconsciously, you angle your hips, lean into his touch, use your legs to pull him closer – and he answers. As always. Sy knows what you want, and he doesn’t think twice to give it to you, even if – possibly especially when – what you really want isn’t what you think you want. He’ll know, just like he’ll know exactly when his name is on the tip of your tongue, waiting to be released along with everything he’s building up inside of you.

A loud moan escapes you when his fingers curl inside you, diligently working the perfect spot while his tongue laps at your clit, looking for the perfect move, speed, pressure, everything, until you shriek the words ‘oh God, Sy, don’t stop’, or you gasp, or moan – or one of the million other ways in which you tell him what needs done without saying a single word. And he doesn’t stop. Not until he unravels you completely. Not until you remember why you normally close and lock that door and keep quiet. Not until you know with every fiber of your being that he holds back, and he reminds you of everything he’s capable of.

When he comes back up, caging your body in between his strong arms and broad chest, pinning you down on the mattress, you hope he’s had enough time to catch his breath, because you immediately pull him into a long, deep kiss that says more than just ‘I missed you’. If it was at all possible to stress every syllable of a sentence, now would be the time. But who’s got time for talking when that impatient bulge grinds between your legs, the heavy, coarse fabric of Sy’s jeans harsh against your sensitive skin.

You push against his shoulders – it’s usually pointless, but he seems to have grown at least as impatient as you have, so he gets up. Four hands reach for his belt. You always make a great team, but this is madness, and neither of you are surprised you don’t get anything done this way.

“Move those hands if you wanna keep ‘em, Syverson,” you say with a sly smile on your face. He grits his teeth when you look up at him – it’s one of the things you know he loves to hate, because it drives him insane, and he doesn’t like that. Sy wants to be in control. Tough luck. Getting him naked is child’s play now that his hands aren’t in the way anymore, and you can’t stifle an appreciative moan when his cock appears in front of you.  

“I’m not saying I married you for this big dick, but it didn’t hurt your chances.” You bite your lip and look up at him. The amusement at your words fades off his face within seconds, making room for something darker and more sinister than you usually get to see.

“If you can use that mouth to talk, you can use it to suck my cock,” he says. You’ve played this game a thousand times, yet you’re still stupid enough to open your mouth in protest, and he seizes the opportunity. “That’s a good girl.” There’s a hint more… savagery to his naturally dark and gravelly voice than you’re used to hearing under normal circumstances. It’s a possessive, almost animalistic sound. It’s something that used to scare you when you were first going out. Something he didn’t let you get too closely acquainted with until he knew for sure he could trust you with that side of him – the side of him that sometimes just loves to shove his cock down your throat in one smooth thrust until you’re gagging and fighting back tears. Tonight is exactly the night you want every inch of him in the exact way you haven’t had him in for the longest time.

Your eyes beg, and once again he listens. How one man can be made up of so many contradictions, is something you’ve accepted you might never find out. ‘He gently fucks your throat.’ It sounds completely insane, but it’s possible. And you know it’s possible, because it’s happening. To you. Right now. If that weren’t the case, you probably wouldn’t have believed it yourself. He’s kind and ruthless at the same time, moving in and out of your mouth with controlled movements while moans and profanities escape him with reckless abandon. His hand is tangled in your hair, gathering a good portion of it in his fist, gripping just tight enough to remind you he’s there, but not so tight you’re in pain.

“God, baby, I love fucking this pretty li’l mouth of yours,” he says, teeth gritted, eyes closed, and the expression on his face warped in such a way that tells you it’s taking everything he’s got to keep whatever composure he has left at this stage. “But I gotta tell ya,” he continues as his breathing grows more and more ragged, a low growl barely audible on the exhale, “this ain’t what I need right now.”

He effortlessly tosses you back onto the mattress, finding his way between your legs in no time.

“Baby, I want you,” he growls before he kisses you again. “I need you. Need your tight, wet, fucking pussy around my cock right now.” He doesn’t move away from you much as he lifts your legs onto his shoulders. He’ll be deep, too deep, maybe, and you know you’ll regret this in the morning – but what good has regret ever done anyone, anyway? As he pushes into you, you realize he’s on his last bit of restraint. You take one last good look at him, because after this, it’s going to hurt so good you won’t be able to keep your eyes open for so much as a split second.

“Careful,” you chuckle, already far more out of breath than you like to admit, “you’re too much for me.”

“What’re’ya talkin’bout, woman?” Sy grumbles. “I know you can take me.” He’s not wrong. Exhibit A would be the fact that he buried his cock in your tight pussy with that one, agonizingly slow thrust. The next one is neither slow, nor even remotely as gentle, making you moan as you pull his face down to yours and kiss him. Your legs are trembling on his shoulders within minutes, and you find yourself chanting his name religiously – making it just about the only thing in your life you’ve done in that particular manner.

“Good God, you’re amazing,” Sy growls in your ear as he bottoms out with every erratic thrust. You watch as his jaw clenches when you dig your nails into the flesh of his back, careful to avoid the scars – an unwelcome souvenir from his time in the army. Most of the memories of the times you accidentally caught one in the heat of the moment have faded away by now. It hasn’t happened in years. You could draw a map of his back: every muscle, every scar, every mark on his skin is etched into your brain, and will stay there until the day you die. He’s yours every bit as much as you’re his, although he likes to put a little more emphasis on the latter.

“Want me to fuck another baby into you?” Hearing him say that makes you realize how incredibly happy you are that he can’t make good on that threat anymore. Sy hadn’t been happy when you’d informed him that you were bestowing upon him the incredible responsibility of contraception after having baby number three, but appointments were made, surgeries were had and all was right with the world. He’d only pouted and moaned about shooting blanks for about six months until things went back to normal.

“Do your worst, big guy,” you tease. You heard his breathing when he asked his question, felt the sheen of sweat covering his whole, massive body as he continued pounding you into the mattress with the same relentless pace as before, only slightly wavering in rhythm… You pull him close, gritting your teeth to get through the cramp in your leg as the weight of Sy’s body forces your legs closer to yours. “Fill me up.”

“That was mean,” Sy mutters, out of breath.

“As if you would have lasted any longer!” you say as you slap him in the face with a pillow. “I was about to tap out, anyway.” Not one word of that is a lie. You wouldn’t have walked for a week if you’d let him keep going. It really was a good thing he was a little on edge already…  

“Fine, woman, have your victory,” he growls as he pulls you into his arms and lifts you off the bed. “Ready for another shower?”

[megamindsecretlair]

Be My Little Darling - Chapter 12

Chapter 11 Interlude

Pairing: Loki x Black!Fem!reader / Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+. Minors DNI. You are in charge of your own reading experience. ANGST. There's ANGST. Mentions of grief, violence and suicidal ideation (please seek help, it's never a light subject). Soft Loki.

Summary: Loki is the exclusive owner of the hottest club in New Asgard. Dubbed the Nine Realms, each of the nine rooms represent a different realm. You are his second in command, working the floors and ensuring everyone is having fun. An attack on the club affects everyone, you most of all.

Word Count: 4,604k

Masterlist

A/N: See! Not too long between updates! Alsooo, had to rework some things in the outline. I don't think it's going to require all 22 chapters and I like the condensed version. I don't want a story to linger just because I can't say goodbye to it eventually. LOL. Likes are always awesome. Please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! I block ageless blogs!

Taglist: @cantstayawaycani @braverthanthenewworld @monaeesstuff @chaos-4baby @dayjlovesromance @soft-persephone @mybonafidefeelings @nerdieforpedro @browngirldominion @thecookiebratz @we-outsiiiide @foxherder @itzgabz22 @iv0rysoap

You and Loki ran towards the screaming. Your heart leapt in your throat. Was there no end to this bullshit? Your headache from earlier only increased tenfold. The shrill, loud screaming grated on your nerves. Working here was becoming a dangerous hazard. Once you found this blasted saboteur, you’d have to worry about people leaving this job. 

Responsibilities were starting to stack like those colorful block things Midgard children played with. The blocks would topple soon though. Some errant wind or careless leg would crash into it and bring the whole thing crashing down.

Would you survive it? 

The screaming was coming from the Helheim room. Patrons and performers were leaving the room, shrieking with a terror reserved for their worst nightmares. The entrance was surrounded by dark smoke but there were no alarms and the sprinklers weren’t on. Was it a fire?

You took a deep breath but didn’t feel anything burning. You attempted to enter, but Loki held you back. “I don’t like the way this looks,” he said. His calculating sapphire eyes took in the entrance and the people spilling out of it, but you didn’t see two of your performers. 

There was still so much screaming. You were not one to ignore it. You constructed two batons in your hands and rushed inside anyway with Loki calling after you.

The smoke was thick. Tangible in a way that let you know that magic was afoot. You called out for the staff members that were assigned to the room at the time. “Sweetie! Baby!” 

Yes, you knew the names were stupid. But Loki was terrible with names and it provided an extra layer of mystery for the patrons. Not to mention privacy. There were too many drunk tourists that you had to kick out for trying to get handsy with your wait staff. 

“Darling!” Loki called after you. You looked behind you but the smoke was too thick. Too cloying. You breathed it in and it was like sweet fog from a fog machine, except thicker and blacker. The dark decor in the room did little to help. The fog obscured everything. You couldn’t see two inches from your nose.

You coughed around the thick fog, grunting every few minutes as you ran into a table or a chair. You didn’t know how far you traveled into the room or where you were. “Call out!” You yelled. 

“Oh gods!” 

You turned to the sound. “Call out!” You yelled again. You moved to your right. If you only traveled a few feet in the room, you should be approaching the small bar area. Your stomach crashed into the corner and air whooshed out of you in a painful sigh. 

You clutched your stomach and dissolved one of the batons. You checked your stomach by feeling alone. It didn’t seem broken. And nothing cut you, you hoped.

“Darling!” Loki’s voice echoed. 

“Loki!” You yelled. 

You coughed. The fog in the room seemed to get thicker, crawling into every nook and cranny that you possessed. It went up your nose, down your throat. It burned your eyes. The coughing only got worse as you uselessly searched for your employees. 

Flashes of green light turned your attention to the far left side of the room. Whatever Loki was attempting, it did little to combat the fog. However, it was a beacon that you stumbled towards. You held out your hands to try and avoid obstacles or getting hurt in the process.

Screaming from outside of the room was still driving your headache up the wall. Everything hurt. Your heart, your head, your eyeballs. The green light continued to flicker every so often. The more you walked towards it, the more it bobbed away at the last moment. 

“Loki!” You called out.

“Darling!” Loki sounded like he was behind you, distant. The flickering green light was in front of you.

The fog must be playing tricks on you. You coughed, trying to clear it from your mouth but the chemical taste remained. “Loki!” 

The green light hovered mere feet away. You reached out your hand, prepared to grab a piece of Loki’s suit. An arm or Hel, you’d take a leg at this point. When your hand swiped through the light, Sweetie appeared. 

Her eyes glowed green, a twisted visage of anger. You screamed and tripped back, crashing over a chair, and falling into the ground with a painful thud. 

“Is this all the attention I’m worth, Loki?” Sweetie asked. Her voice sounded amplified as if she were speaking through the stereo system in the room. 

“I leave you clues to know who I am and yet all you concern yourself with is your pet?” Sweetie moved in an angry line, pacing back and forth like a warrior gearing up for a fight with a frost giant.

“Why the games? Why not reveal yourself?” You heard Loki but you didn’t see him. 

Another pair of glowing green eyes emerged from the dark fog. Baby. She joined Sweetie as they paced, of one mind and body. Similar to those jerks who attacked the club. 

“I want to see the look on your face when you figure it out. Until then, the fun must continue. But I will not be ignored!” Sweetie and Baby spoke in unison. It was creepy. It was wrong. 

Pain bloomed up your leg but you had to get up. You had to help. You got to your feet and limped towards your employees. “Sweetie!” You grabbed her hand and shook her, trying to get her attention. She had to still be in there.

Sweetie - or whoever was controlling Sweetie - tilted her head at you. Her hand came up to gently caress your cheek. 

“He will break you too,” she said, softly. 

“Sweetie, I know you’re in there. Fight it!” You yelled. You shook Sweetie but she remained stiff, strong, and unyielding. 

“It’s what he does. And you will help my revenge,” she said. The fuck was that supposed to mean? 

You moved around her, heading towards Baby. Either she closed her eyes or the entity left her because the green light went out and you could no longer see. You coughed and spread out your hands, waving your remaining baton. You didn’t want to hit either one, but maybe pain helped. 

A strong hand gripped your neck and you screamed, turning to bring your baton down. Thanos emerged from the fog, like a devilish mountain. He grinned, his purple face transforming into a satisfied smirk. 

He moved methodically around the space, illuminated by some inner glow to where you could see everything. Icy fear wrapped a bony hand around your heart and squeezed painfully. You stumbled away from Thanos.

Gold glinted off of his gauntlet. The monstrosity was half complete, filled with glowing rocks around the knuckles. “It should have been you,” he said, kindly. Patiently. You hated that most of all about him. The way he spoke as if this was some divine duty he had to perform and not the massacre it was. 

You couldn’t breathe. Combined with the thick fog, your head swam. The lack of oxygen made your steps falter. You backed away and couldn’t take your eyes off of Thanos. You tripped over something and fell hard on your ass. You patted the ground around you and clutched fabric.

The lump you tripped over felt like a body. A man by the feel of it. He wasn’t moving or breathing. Thanos continued his slow steps towards you. “It should have been you,” he said. 

Tears sprang to your eyes but did little to obscure his face. That terrible face that haunted your every waking moment. Your dreams. Your thoughts. Beside him, a figure emerged.

“No,” you gasped. Your friend, the one Thanos snapped away, stood beside Thanos as if she were his daughter. She leaned her head on his thick, protruding arm. 

“It should have been you instead of me,” she said. Her voice was just as you remembered. Clear and loud as a bell. Soft and feminine. She had thick ropes of dark hair, a small elven face, skin like butterscotch. She used to read those silly little pamphlets out loud to you while you walked to the playhouse. Gods, you missed the playhouse. You missed her.

Tears flowed freely now. You had thought of her so often, but her image had started to fade away. Asgard didn’t have those…camera things that Midgard had. There was no way to capture someone’s image except by painting their picture. 

Silly commonfolk like you and her didn’t have need for such things. Asgard seemed endless. Like a paradise in the universe. You had forever with her. Forever to live. And it was savagely ripped away. 

“It’s time to right that wrong,” Thanos said, bunching up his brow. He was so hideous. Disgusting. Hairless and cruel. 

“It’s time for you to die this time,” your best friend, Erian, said. Even thinking her name hurt. 

“No, no, no, I’m sorry!” You screamed. 

“Darling!” Loki’s voice was a distant buzz that faded too quickly. Your thoughts were wholly on Thanos and Erian walking beside him. 

You scooted along the floor. You knew better than to turn your back on an enemy but you flipped over and crawled along the floor. Your tears were a haunting, ugly thing leaking from your eyes. Snot dripped from your nose. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

“Look how she cowers. You’re a craven, rotten piece of trash,” Erian said. 

“I know,” you whispered. Your fingers gripped the disgusting floor as you pulled yourself towards the direction of the door. There was a faint, pale light there. Your head continued to swim. A painful throbbing made your eyes ache. Your throat burning from your mumblings and apologies and the thick fog. 

“Stop this, at once!” Loki’s voice was still too far away. You were alone. Alone. 

You would always be alone. You were too stupid, too weak, too desperate to do things right that it only turned out wrong. You couldn’t take care of your siblings. You couldn’t find your family. You couldn’t take care of the club and deduce who the saboteur was. You couldn’t get Loki to admit his feelings. And now Thanos has returned.

How did he find you? How did he know? Could he scent your uselessness across the galaxy? Had he realized his mistake? That he should have taken you and not Erian? 

You didn’t know what force propelled you forward. You longed to stop crawling. To let him take you. To let him trade your life for Erian’s. Still you moved forward. Cravens still had a tiny drive for self-preservation. Some ancient, deep knowledge in your bones told you to move forward and escape the danger.

Thanos’ taunting laugh made you shriek with fear. Your heart felt like it was going to shrivel in your chest. You didn’t have enough air to breathe let alone scream out for help. Who in the world would help you? 

Loki. Loki would help. 

All Loki cared about was himself. He was more interested in owning you, torturing you, than ever seeing you as a true partner. How could you think such a thing? That you were worthy of a god? 

You weren’t even worthy of the skin you occupied. “I’m sorry, Im sorry,” you cried. 

“Do you think I want your apology?” Erian asked. Her soft voice sounded wrong. Twisted. Cruel. 

Sobs wracked your body, making you shiver with fear. You didn’t want to be crushed under Thanos’ thumb. You thought you’d die doing something else. Perhaps in old age or in a fight. Perhaps by your own construct if anyone ever got the better of you. Not like this. Not like this.

Your thoughts were violently pulled back to the day on the ship when Thanos attacked. How his minions showed no mercy. No capability of the sort. Thor tried to fight but after dealing with Hela and Surtur, not to mention the total and complete destruction of your homeworld, he was powerless to stop him.

Thor, the golden Prince who summoned lightning, was powerless. It was laughable if it weren’t so sad. Loki attempted to fight him as well, going so far as to summon a knife to drive into Thanos’ neck. The gauntlet prevented him from doing so and Thanos blasted him against the ship’s hull, knocking him out. 

Thanos’ minions separated the rest of your people. You could smell the fear and despair in the air. There was misery and heartbreak aplenty. You clutched Erian’s hand in yours, desperate to stick together. 

You watched his minions shove people back and forth but they were paying more attention to the other side. You pushed Erian. You pushed for her to go to the other side so she would be safe. She cried and shook her head. You needed her to survive.

You tried to push your siblings as well but they clung to you instead. You tried to join Erian but there were too many hulking beings in your way. One such creature shoved you back to your side. Without warning, they turned their blasters to the opposite side and began firing.

“No!” Your scream only joined the ones on your side. The lucky ones. You watched Erian crumple into a heap on the floor and you screamed and you screamed and you screamed. 

You finally reached the entrance to the Helheim room and crawled out into the hallway. There were others there, lost in some kind of trance. Your staff’s eyes glowed green as they stalked through the halls.

The black smoke spread to the other rooms, invading like a malevolent parasite. People screamed and coughed. Pandemonium raced through the club as muzak played an upbeat song, mocking the current situation. 

“Coward,” Erian said.

“Pathetic,” Thanos said. 

You were a coward. You were pathetic. You were responsible for your best friend dying. You heard someone calling your name but you were useless. You crawled with no destination in mind as Thanos’ boots thundered behind you.

Didn’t anyone see him? Didn’t anyone hear them? Was that why everyone was screaming? Thanos’ minions must be in the club terrorizing your staff and patrons. No one would ever want to come here again. 

A keening whine left you. You cried and cried but there was no one to help. Nothing to do but wait for Thanos to catch up to you and finish what he started on that ship. 

Hands gripped your arms and tried to pull. You still had no air to scream. You fought whoever it was, fought to get away. If it was Erian, you didn’t want to go with her. She was free now. She could escape. 

“Darling, Darling,” you heard.

You were flipped over. Loki’s face swam in your eyes and you reeled away from him. “Loki, look out!” You yelled. Thanos hovered behind him. Thanos approached and smiled, bringing his gauntlet across his chest. 

“No! No! No! Not him! Take me!” You yelled with a raw, singed throat. You fought with Loki, fought to climb to your knees. 

“Darling, gods,” Loki breathed. He tried to hug you or press you to his chest. You fought him. You fought him with what little remaining strength you had left. 

“Take me! Take me! Take me!” You said, over and over. A prayer to the ancestors in Valhalla. You could not enter like this. Not dying feebly on the ground unwilling to protect yourself. You didn’t care. You’d spend eternity in Hel if it meant that Loki was alive and safe and whole. 

One of the stones on his gauntlet glowed a bright purple. Your head felt like it was being squeezed like a watermelon. You yelled, voice rough from overuse and passed out to the sound of Loki calling your name.

Sound was the first to reach you. Soft murmuring that sounded like prayer roused you and you turned to the sound. If this was Hel, it was awfully cold. You made a noise. 

Gods, you hurt. All over. Your fingers especially.

“Darling,” you heard. 

Your mouth was dry. You smacked your lips trying to work up some saliva to clear it but it was still too scratchy and raw. “Cold,” you said.

A moment later, a blanket was draped over you. You sighed.

“Darling, open your eyes. Please.”

The only person who called you Darling was Loki. And he was safe on Midgard. If you heard his voice, that must mean he was dragged to Hel with you. Your consciousness swam to the surface, fighting to get to him. 

“Safe,” you mumbled. 

Loki gripped your hand and delicately kissed your fingers one by one. “Please,” he whispered.

You were trying. Your eyes were glued shut. You tried with all of your might and was able to crack one eye open. The crust in your eye pulled your eyelashes painfully but you persisted. 

Loki smiled softly. “Thank you, Mother,” he sighed against you. He leaned his head down towards your chest and rested his cheek against you. 

“What…”

“Shh, shh, you’re safe,” he said. He lifted his head and scooted closer to you. He looked haggard. Haunted. His eyes were sunken in, ringed in dark purple ridges from lack of sleep. He grasped your hand in his, rubbing his thumb softly against your skin. He leaned down and kissed your thumb. 

You searched his eyes. “Hel?” You asked.

He grinned. “No. You’re alive. You’re alive,” he sighed, relief flooding his tone. 

You bobbed your head and it swam, roiled. You dry heaved and Loki shushed you, rubbing your hand. He told you not to move, that you were safe and sound in his office. 

Tears gathered in your eyes. “Club?” 

Loki used his other hand to gently wipe away your tears. “No one’s dead. The club stands. Figures you would be more worried about that than yourself,” he said. 

His voice was soothing, working to bring you more and more to the present. You looked down at your combined hands. He was pale and practically shaking. 

“Loki?” You rasped. 

“You fucking scared me, Darling,” he breathed against your hand. 

You licked your lips and groaned at how dry they were. What the hell happened? Sleep tugged at you however, your body too stiff and achy to deal with the present. 

“Sleep, Darling. I will be here when you wake,” he said.

“Mkay,” you mumbled. Sleep claiming you once more. 

The second time around, you were able to wake up with less difficulty. True to his word, Loki sat on the floor by his couch. His dark hair was disheveled and plastered all over his face. His suit was dusty and chalky as if he walked through plaster. 

He rested his cheek against the couch cushion, still holding your hand. This couldn’t have been comfortable for him. You watched him anyway before you woke him up. He looked like he needed sleep. 

You wanted to reach out and brush his hair from his face. Even the thought of moving hurt. Gods, you ached. 

As if Loki sensed your desire to move, he slowly blinked his eyes open. He smiled when his gaze connected with yours. 

“How are you feeling?” Loki asked.

“Like Hel spat me back out,” you croaked.

Loki laughed and kissed your hand. “Everyone is safe. The club is safe,” he said, already knowing the direction of your thoughts.

“What happened?” You asked.

Loki took a deep breath and told you about the fog that induced fear. Whatever you saw, whatever you heard, it was a hallucination. The fog affected everyone. Loki sent them home until further notice. Loki caught the shiver that ran through you at the mention of what you saw. Thanos was just an illusion? 

“I won’t ask what you saw. But you kept screaming for them to take you. What did you mean?” 

You took a deep breath and rolled your bottom lip between your teeth. “I didn’t want them to take you,” you said softly. You avoided looking at him. Loki scooted closer to you and gently raised your chin to look him in the eye.

“Hallucination or not, you will never, ever, trade your life for mine. Do you understand me?” Loki asked. His voice was gentle but his tone was harsh. His eyes pleaded with you, demanding that you understand him. 

“I can’t make that promise,” you said. Tears gathered in your eyes. When it came down to it, you would always choose him. It was stupid and girlish and you really ought to have more self-respect. “I love you too much to ever live without you.” 

Loki’s eyes widened a fraction. His nostrils flared. “You don’t know–”

“This isn’t because I almost died or got hurt. I’m telling you I love you because I do. You drive me up the fucking wall and sometimes I wanna murder you myself, but I know what I’m saying.” 

Loki placed soft lips to your hand and held that position for a long time. So long that you worried that he was trying to gather courage to tell you that he didn’t feel the same way. That these past five years were no more than a game to him. A cat playing with its favorite toy. 

Loki looked back up at you, eyes blazing. “I love you,” he said and called your name. “I love you and you’re mine. Always have been. Always will be.”

“You don’t have to say it–”

“I’m not saying it because you did. I’ve always been drawn to you, Darling. I prayed to Frigga, to…my mother. I prayed that if she let you wake up, if she let you return to me, then I would earn you. I would tell you anything you wanted to know, do anything you asked of me. Even if you asked me to leave you alone,” he said. 

“I shouldn’t have given you the ultimatum,” you said. 

“No, you were right to. I was a coward and selfish. I like the way you look at me. If I told you about Thor, I’d have to tell you all of it. And I can weather many things, Darling. Your pity is not one of them.” 

“Loki…”

“And I would rather you look at me with pity than never look at me at all.” He took a deep breath and smiled briefly. “I will tell you what happened with Thor.”

You licked your lips, at a loss. Your curiosity about it was winning against your need to assure him that you were not entitled to his secrets. You opened your mouth to tell him that; it was the right thing to do but he squeezed your hand. 

“Please. I have a vow to uphold and I want to.” 

You nodded. You weren’t going to stop him and you really were dying to know the story there. Why he snapped at you like that and looked at his brother as if he wanted to jump into the nearest black hole. 

“Thor and I didn’t leave Sakaar on the best of terms. We were always at each other’s throats growing up. Hundreds of years of resentment. I hated him when he was sent to Midgard. So pathetic. So weak. And he still managed to find happiness. It was like no matter what, the sun shined on Thor and left me it’s cold embrace.”

“We agreed to go our separate ways, in fact I tried to trick him one last time. Leave him there and escape. Make him suffer at least in some small way. For him to feel what it was like to be me for once: hopeless. We managed to leave together only to come home and deal with our sister. You know the rest.”

“Something changed with him after Thanos. He broke.” Loki shook his head as if he just realized that the word described Thor perfectly. After what you saw, you’d say it was accurate. Thor had always been loud and boisterous. The life of the party. He managed to make friends easily and make everyone feel included. He was bright. In your face.

When everyone’s eyes were drawn to him, your eyes were on Loki. On how his smile didn’t match his eyes. It seemed like the brighter Thor shone, the more Loki was forced to the shadows. Forced to move aside and make room. You knew what that was like. Your heart called out to him before he knew you existed, no matter what he said. 

Seeing Thor reduced to the town drunk, overweight, and likely depressed was horrible to watch from afar. Loki saw it up close. Felt like he had a hand in it. It hurt you to think that Loki had been carrying this by himself for so long.

“We settled here and I checked on Thor every week. But there’s too much bad blood between us. We fought, over and over. And he got worse and worse. I still show up, but Thor…let’s say it hasn’t gotten better these past five years. I wanted him to suffer but I never wanted him to break. Never. I never wished that.” 

“I believe you. But Loki, it doesn’t sound like you had anything to do with how he’s feeling now.”

“Don’t try to make me feel better about this. I’ve earned this guilt and I’ve got to make amends on my own,” he said. 

You rubbed his hand in yours. “I don’t pity you, Loki. I’m proud of you.” 

Loki tilted his head, the question hovering in his blue eyes. You smiled at him. 

“It takes a brave person to admit what you did. And braver still to face it head on week after week,” you said.

Loki sighed and shook his head. “You continue to surprise me, Darling,” he said.

You took a deep breath. “Since we’re in a sharing mood…”

You told him about Erian. You told him that even in paradise you felt lonely. Abandoned. You had family but felt like the odd sheep out. Erian helped. She was the only one who didn’t judge you for your permanent state of melancholy. She didn’t try to fix it with parties, ale, or a man. You worked in the dye house, dyeing fabrics for the palace. 

The one vice you had was visiting the playhouse. Hearing and seeing magnificent plays by brilliant writers. You told him that you thought his play was hilarious. He smiled at that. 

You told him how you pushed Erian to go to the other side to be safe. You thought your side was going to get killed. Erian’s bright light deserved to keep going on, not your black mood. 

But you only pushed her to her death. You watched as you got your best friend killed. The only one who saw you. Loved you despite your mood swings. 

“Darling,” Loki said.

“Aht, aht. I can’t make you feel better about yours so you can’t make me feel better about mine. I’ve earned this guilt,” you said. 

Throwing his words back in his face made him roll his eyes and smile. He sighed and looked at you, content to just see you. Really see you. 

“We are two fools, you and I,” he said.

“Two fools trying,” you said and smiled.

“For a night of confessions, I have one more.” He took a deep breath. You rubbed his hand and looked at him. Whatever it was, you truly felt like you could get through it together. 

“I know who the saboteur is now.”

Masterlist | Chapter 11 | Interlude

[aegon-targaryen]

Ghosts That We Knew

Zelink Week Day 2: Fading | TP Zelink | read on AO3) | @zelinkcommunity

Link dreamed of a golden wolf.

He bounded through a forest of mist, weaving through the towering trees that stood guard over this ancient place. Link’s paws kicked up leaves as he raced to catch up. Snatches of sound caught his attention from time to time—music, voices, a child’s giggle—but he kept to his course.

Yet the bright coat of his quarry disappeared from view, and when he slowed to a halt, he found himself in a clearing he would recognize anywhere. A sword waited at its center. He was padding forward to answer its call when the golden wolf emerged from the fog, his single eye glowing with crimson sorrow.

Turn back, he said with all the terrible gravity of time. Go and do not falter, my child.

Link sat up sharply, grasping his surroundings with the speed of someone shaped by deadly times: Ordon, safety, a sword within reach, Zelda in his bed.

Zelda in his bed. A foolish grin tugged at his lips. They’d spent plenty of nights together in the castle, but something about having her here was so enthralling. She was stirring now, rolling over to face him, and he tried to wipe the stupid look off his face.

“Link?” she mumbled sleepily. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“Just a weird dream,” he assured her, laying back down under the dark oaken ceiling of his treehouse. Dawn and the journey back to Castle Town were still a few hours away. As always, a part of him longed to stay, but at least he would take with him the memory of Zelda dancing under the harvest festival lanterns, of Ordon welcoming her the same way they’d welcomed Link when he was only a lost little boy.

“I had one too,” Zelda said. “The scribe’s meeting minutes transformed into a Chu that terrorized my Council.”

He laughed. “You would dream about meeting minutes.”

“Now tell me about yours. It’s only fair.”

Go and do not falter, my child. Those words had been with Link when he dealt Ganondorf the ending blow, the final mercy, just like he’d been taught. “Well…did I ever tell you about the Hero’s Shade?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“He was a spirit, I guess. Sometimes a wolf, sometimes a skeleton in armor. He brought me into some…other realm and taught me some of his techniques.”

“The Hero’s Shade,” Zelda mused. “He called himself that?”

Link frowned, trying to remember. “I’m not sure. But it felt right to me.”

She was quiet for some time, though he could practically hear the gears of her mind turning. Eventually she reached through the darkness to touch his cheek and said, “Can you go back to sleep? Or shall we take a walk?”

Wide awake now, he followed her outside, where the harvest moon bathed the sleeping village in its silver glow. Other than the crickets singing in the tall grass, Ordon was quiet in a way Castle Town never was. Link loved his tiny room above Telma’s bar and his work in the Resistance; he’d even grown to love Hyrule Castle, because Zelda was there. But coming home was always like drawing his first breath after days underwater.

They passed by their sleeping horses and continued on to the Light Spirit’s spring. This place always felt different at night, cast in a strange glow unlike either the sun’s heat or the moon’s gleam. Zelda’s boots sank into the white sand as she wandered along the water’s edge.

“I know you don’t like to be called Hero,” she said quietly. “But—you are aware there was one before you?”

“Yeah.” Link had worn his tunic, carried his weapons, walked in his footsteps. “I figured the Shade had something to do with him.”

“He lived hundreds of years ago, but perhaps some part of him…lingered, as ghosts sometimes do.”

He’d seen plenty of ghosts as a wolf, but only one had spoken to him. Without asking a single question, the Shade understood who Link was and what he needed to learn. He’d understood the enemy, too. “He faced Ganondorf, didn’t he? Before the Sages sent him to the Twilight Realm?”

“Yes. The hero’s story is largely forgotten across Hyrule, but he was close with an ancestor of mine. She kept a journal, if you’d like to know more.”

Link couldn’t help but remember the curse Ganondorf had uttered with his last breath: The history of light and shadow will be written in blood. There had been so much weight to those words, a sense of that history reaching back further than Link could conceive, a sense that it would continue long past his lifetime.

The full force of it felt suddenly awful here in this spring, where fate had come roaring out of the forest to claim him last year, where he’d returned as a wolf and killed his first shadow beast in the same spot where Ilia used to bathe Epona. His predecessor had been hurt in the same way. All that sorrow had been evident in his rusted armor, his heavy sword, his single crimson eye.

Yet he hadn’t been alone. Link looked at Zelda and remembered hearing her name in passing as a child, thinking to himself: I know her. Remembered meeting her eyes in that tower, feeling like the sun had broken through stifling twilight to clear away any doubt: I know her.

“There was another you,” he breathed. “And there was another me.”

Her brow creased thoughtfully, such a familiar expression that his heart twisted in his chest. “I hadn’t thought about it that way, but…yes.”

“It happened before. Will it happen again?”

Zelda drew closer, glowing like magic in the spring’s unearthly light, her dark hair spilling loose over her white nightgown. She touched the scar on Link’s cheek and said softly, “Not for a long time, I hope. But if it does, we will face it together.”

.

.

.

After breakfast came the hardest part of home: saying goodbye. While Uli stuffed Link’s saddlebags with as many snacks as possible, Beth tried to convince Zelda to bring her back to the castle and make her a princess. Rusl lost the battle with his wriggling toddler and handed her to Link, who was happy to bounce her up and down on his hip until she settled.

“She likes you more than me,” Rusl grumbled.

“Hey,” Link said, tapping the Triforce on the back of his left hand. “I already had this when you found me in Faron, right?”

Rusl raised his eyebrows. “Yes. Are you wondering about your birth parents?”

“It’s all right if you are,” Uli said, pausing her struggle with the saddlebags. “I only wish we were able to find you some answers.”

Link was wondering more about the wheels of time, the Goddesses who spun them, and an ancient ghost who called him my child. “No,” he answered, ruffling his little sister’s hair before he handed her back to Rusl. “You gave me everything I needed.”

Uli inspected his face with a smile, then turned to hug Zelda, who accepted the embrace with her slow smile—the kind that bloomed so uncertainly across her face, as though she was afraid someone would come and take it away. But she held onto it this time, beaming at Link over Uli’s shoulder, and the sight made him happy enough to lessen the pain of leaving.

.

.

.

Tucked away in a forgotten corner of Hyrule Castle was a graveyard accessible only to those who knew its secrets—at least, that was what Zelda said as she waved the illusory entrance away. It felt like stepping into a different realm blanketed by silence and thick grey mist, where there had just been sunlight and clear skies on the other side of the wall.

Since the Twilight, the crooked headstones had been straightened and the rubble cleared away. The thought of her coming here alone to weave her magic through her family’s resting place made Link proud and sad in equal measure.

“I’ve…actually been here,” he admitted sheepishly. “I was looking for a key to get me inside the castle, so…I burrowed under the wall. Sorry.”

Zelda’s mouth twitched. “Don’t be. My mother, at least, would have found that amusing.”

She halted under an enormous oak tree, its branches reaching far enough to brush the courtyard’s stone walls. Link still remembered the words inscribed on the tombstone, because they’d itched at the back of his mind on his first visit: The cursed swordsman sleeps beneath the sacred tree.

“He’s buried here?”

“I don’t believe so,” Zelda replied, pulling a weathered book from the pocket of her cloak and flipping through until she found a certain page and handed it over. “This is what my ancestor wrote.”

All they found were broken pieces of his armor, the journal said. People keep telling me he could have survived. But I am old enough to prefer hard truths over false hope. He’s gone. I know it in my soul. 

Tears sprang to Link’s eyes. “Where did he die, then?”

Far away, said a voice that creaked like the branches of the old oak, and they turned to find the golden wolf behind them, his image blurring and reforming into the spectral skeleton who had trained Link. Too far.

“It’s you,” Zelda breathed.

The Shade’s gaze snagged on her face as she drew closer, and he went still, his sword hanging loosely from his ruined fingers. His translucent form pulsed in and out of being with every breath. Princess, he said in a faint whisper.

Zelda had been queen for some time now, but she just smiled at him sadly. “Have you been here all this time?”

His red eye shifted to Link. I returned when the beast did. It should never have fallen on anyone else.

“No, that’s…” Link’s throat was tightening. When Zelda touched his arm, he swallowed hard and continued. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. You made me strong enough to win.”

And now you have won. Stay the course. Leave the sword where it lies. Do not falter as I did.

“I—I never do, thanks to you.”

Stay with her, the Shade insisted. Treasure her. Be there long enough to say goodbye.

Zelda raised her head suddenly, digging around in her cloak pocket. Link only caught a brief glimpse of what she produced—a painted miniature of a golden-haired woman—before the Shade choked out a sound that was undoubtedly, devastatingly human.

“She treasured you too,” Zelda promised. “She felt you go, and knew it wasn’t your fault. She…she wrote…” Her free hand brushed Link’s, tilting the journal towards her so she could read aloud. “I buried those pieces of armor in a garden we both loved. The cursed swordsman and all the weight he carried will rest here. But the rest of him is free. I can feel him in the earth, in the wind’s song, in the beat of my heart.”

“She was right,” Link realized. “You’re what he left behind. But the beast is dead, and we’re—we’re going to be okay. You can rest now. Is that why you’re here? Because you’re ready to rest?”

The Shade stared at him in wordless disbelief.

Zelda wiped her eyes and kept reading. “Neither of us were strangers to regret—how could it be otherwise with the lives we’ve led? But we had so much sweetness, too. It was worth the sorrow. I hope he remembered that at the end.”

I did, the Shade whispered. Of course I did.

“She would want you to find peace,” Zelda told him gently.

She…she would. Yes. I believe it’s time.

His form was blurring around the edges. Link blinked hard, finally allowing his tears to fall, and searched himself for the right words to give the spirit of his predecessor, who had fought so hard and lost so much, who had returned to help him take down their common enemy.

In the end, all he could say was, “Thank you.”

The Shade looked down at the portrait, then at Link and Zelda, huddled together in the graveyard with tears in their eyes. Write a happier story, he told them as he faded slowly into the mist, replaced by a golden wolf that bounded towards freedom.

Wind gusted through the courtyard, so sudden and so strong that Link wrapped his arms around Zelda to keep them both anchored to the earth. When he raised his head, the tears had dried on his cheeks, and the Hero’s Shade was gone.

Zelda brought the portrait closer, turning it around to study the golden-haired woman. Though the only crown she wore was a simple circlet of rubies, there was something in her proud shoulders that made it clear she was a queen. Her forehead was creased with worry lines, but her smile was bright, and her eyes…

Link took Zelda’s face in his scarred hands, meeting her gaze: the color of an early morning sky, after the dawn dwindles and a new day begins. No wonder he’d known her so instantly, so naturally. And that was before he understood what it was like to love her, to be graced with the trust she found so hard to bestow, to unravel the parts of himself only she could understand.

Maybe she was thinking the same thing, for she pressed a soft kiss to the scar on his cheek.

“I wouldn’t choose anything else,” Link breathed when he finally found his voice. “I—no matter what happened before, or what happens next…”

“I wouldn’t either.” Zelda held the portrait close to her heart, and though her eyes were her ancestor’s, that small, precious smile he’d first fallen in love with was all her own. “She was right. It was worth the sorrow.”

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[sosa2imagines]

I had my dance and now I'm where I belong. Part 5

----------------------------------------------------- Warnings- Angst for Bucky, Fluff for all (This part will mostly focus on Bucky facing the consequences) ----------------------------------------------------- Part 6 -----------------------------------------------------

Saying yes to go on a date with Steve was the best decision of your life! On your first date he took you to an Italian restaurant and was the perfect gentleman, on your way you had notice few girls drooling over him trying to get his attention but he kept looking ahead and at you, ignoring everyone else. Like only you existed on the planet. Steve made you feel better, feel worthy of love again like there was a light at the end of the dark tunnel.

On the other hand ever since Bucky thought about you his head has not been in the right place. Sharon did finally showed up that night in a disheveled state hair a mess, lipstick all over her mouth but Bucky was too tired to notice, but that didn't stop Sharon from being mad at him for the mess in the room ignoring his painful state she kept the lights on purposefully to annoy Bucky which resulted in him sleeping on the couch, you would never do this to him he thinks about you again.

But that was just the beginning, they would have little and minor arguments here and there like any other couple would but than they turn into more serious and loud arguments. It was only few months into the relationship when the arguments started getting intense that led to resolving their issues by having make up sex and things would go back to normal for awhile. 

Even when some random girl would flirt with him Sharon won't confront him unlike you, again he compared you and her. Sharon had a simple solution for everything 'sex'. It would be a huge lie if Bucky said he was not getting fed of it. Sharon was in the mood but Bucky gently denied her instead suggesting her to cuddle and talk, naturally she scoffed still determined she cupped his dick but that only made Bucky yell at her "Can't you for once do something else other than sex?" Sharon removed her hand only to hit Bucky with the pillow which again resulted in him sleeping on the couch for god knows how many times in his own room!

That made him think about his situation relationship with Sharon. She knew Bucky was dating you, yet neither of them pulled away from the kiss and one thing led to another and Bucky slept with her for the entire trip. He knew he shouldn’t have continued things further with Sharon after that mission, yet the sneaking around gave him an adrenaline feeling, he enjoyed it. Their sneaking and love affair continued, at one point Bucky did find himself beginning to fall for Sharon and he was also beginning to be even happier with her. 

But than Steve came back, of course he beat him up and Tony did to but both of them said the same thing Sharon will screw this, but how? He started to miss out the little things like hanging out with his friends, enjoying movie nights, playing games, cooking, then he also started missing you the time spent with you how it was not just about only sex, you guys would cuddle, talk for hours without getting bored, go for long walks and help him whenever he had nightmares. Sharon eventually did helped him in the beginning but later on she started to get annoyed she would tell him to suck it up be man enough, on those nights he missed you and Steve terribly, you both would help him in unique ways that made him sleep peacefully.

But now those are only memories and now he lost his friends that are family along with you now he is living with just friends who barely talk to him. Somewhere deep inside he was realizing his mistake he was no longer enjoying infact he was suffering but his ego and pride was bigger at the moment to make him accept the truth.

Few days later few important CIA agents had come to work along side Shield and Tony was more than happy to entertain them especially one particular person 'NICK FOWLER' no one knew he was with the other agents. When Sharon saw the agents she knew instantly helping them would do wonders to her career. So she was casually chatting, flirting, all this was being witness by Bucky who was fuming smoke coming from his ears. He drag Sharon away from them to a corner she was quick to yank her arm away "What the hell are you doing?" She yelled at him "What I'm doing? what are you doing flirting with them?" "That's rich coming from you" "What's that suppose to mean?" "As if you don't flirt with others" "So is this payback?" "Oh honey I don't do paybacks now suck it up you look so cute when jealous" she patted his cheek and left. Their bickering did not go unnoticed by Nat who was smirking.

But Bucky went into a guilt trip as soon as he heard those words 'you look so cute when jealous' that's what he used to say to you whenever you would talk to him about his behavior, in that moment Bucky realized how you must have felt. He never even said sorry to you. Just then he saw Sharon again not just flirting but getting way to close for comfort. The way they were glancing at each other, the way his hand was roaming on her something, no not something, everything felt wrong. "That's Nick Fowler" Tony cuts his train of thoughts "What?" Bucky asks in confusion "CIA agent Nick Fowler, rest of the agents will head back but he is going to stay for a day or two" Tony smiled. "Rogers hates him if he was here that man would have been dead." Tony adds more to Bucky's confusion. "Why?", "Hmm" Tony acts like he thinking smirking he shrugs "Ask Capsicle, a little friendly advice though, keep an eye on those two Cap was lucky not so lucky can't say the same about you" "Wait, what?" Before Bucky can ask anything Tony was gone.

Back at home after another awesome date- "You are quiet today" he asks playfully "I'm thinking" "Can I know what are you thinking about?" You nod looking at the ground blushing hard "I think I'MFALLINGINLOVEWITHYOU" in one breath you confessed what Steve was dying to hear. Steve literally choked on air you had to pat his back "Jesus I didn't know you would react this way, are you okay?" "No I mean yes what did you say? slowly please" You wide your eyes closing them taking a deep breath opening again you look into his eyes "I love you Steve" you tell him pressing your lips back to his. Steve made you feel safe, feel like he would never hurt you in anyway, especially in the way Bucky did. Unlike with Bucky, being with Steve felt secure. There was no doubt that he would be a loyal, loving man.

Ever since Nick Fowler had entered the Tower Sharon was spending more time with him. Bucky was losing his patience. She was hardly with him. Bucky even tried to lure her with promise of a mind blowing sex but she just pushed him away saying she is busy working. "Hey man how does it feel?" Sam asks enjoying the frustration of Bucky. "What do you want?" Bucky asks him clearly annoyed "Y/n felt same when you ignored her only difference is she was not cheating on you" Sam furrowed his brows trying to put some sense into Bucky's brain. But before Bucky could say anything the elevator door opened revealing Sharon and Nick giggling, random blabbering and holding hands. Sam whistled and left the trio alone.

"Where were you?" Bucky barks anger clearly visible, Nick just smirks he hugs Sharon and not so gently squeezes her waist giving Bucky a look and heads towards his room. "What was that?" "What was what Bucky what's gotten into you? We just went out for dinner", "For four hours?" "We lost track of time, aww are you angry? baby you look so cute when you are jealous" again those words something snaps in him he drags Sharon to their room pushes her against the wall he tears apart her shirt and before he can proceed he stops. "What are these?" he asks pointing his finger to the marks on her neck and collarbone. Sharon looks in the mirror and all the color drains out from her face. Bucky's mind flashed him the image of Sharon's disheveled face from many nights ago. "GET OUT!"

----------------------------------------------------- Part 6 ----------------------------------------------------- TAGLIST- @differenttyphoonwerewolf @nouk1998 ----------------------------------------------------- (Hey lovely people why do you think Steve hates Nick? Hope you all enjoy this part finally Bucky getting what he deserves, I know I have dragged it long but I really don't won't to make the parts way too long to read. As always feedback is appreciated lots of love to you all 😁❤️. Sneak peek- Since I dragged it too long, Sharon will be kicked out tomorrow but she will ask someone else to help her and someone else of that some else will slap her 😂) -----------------------------------------------------

[dracowars]

Hi you can write a draco: late at night he's in the main hall studying for an exam and he can't concentrate because he's already tired so a paper bird flies towards him where it says something like "rest your mind a while" bit" and then he looks up and sees that the paper came from an unknown Ravenclaw who also studied there. So they do something like, have fun in the hallways, something like running away from Filtch and his cat. Draco doesn't know her but she has always watched him from afar.

can't you see me | draco malfoy

pairing: draco x ravenclaw!reader

word count: 1,5k

summary: where y/n gets draco's mind off an upcoming exam

a/n: this was such a cute idea, hopefully i could do it justice. feedback & reblogs are always appreciated!

warnings: none

universe: harry potter

To say that Draco’s brain is spinning is an understatement. His head is throbbing, his eyes are dry, and his lips are a little chapped. He is balancing on the verge of shutting his eyes, just for a few seconds, but he keeps shaking his head in an attempt to stop himself, pushing his hands in his eye sockets to keep them from falling shut. Studying for this test for Professor Snape’s class really pushes him to the limit. He doesn’t even remember how long he has been sitting in the Great Hall, he is so engrossed in his work he doesn’t perceive anything happening around him. Lately, Draco comes here every night when he can’t fall asleep because he is plagued by those terrible nightmares once again. He feels safe here, surrounded by warm light that defies the darkness outside, and even though he is alone, it somehow makes him feel good.

However, he is not as alone as he initially thought or as is so often the case. Because just as he is about to pick up his quill again, which he had previously put aside to give his hand a break for at least a few minutes, something enters his field of vision. Out of nowhere, a white paper crane lands in front of him, carefully folded from parchment paper. Motionless, Draco stares at it for a few seconds before slowly raising his gaze and making eye contact with the most beautiful eyes he has ever locked eyes with.

You sit at the Ravenclaw table, studying, just as alone as Draco, but when your eyes meet you immediately lower your head and the letters on your paper suddenly seem so much more interesting. You know there is no point in pretending you weren’t the sender of the message when you are clearly the only two people in the Great Hall right now. In fact, you are probably the only two people in this castle who are still awake at this hour.

Draco, whose breath got stuck in his throat unnoticedly as he looked at you and saw your reaction, turns his attention to the paper crane still perched on his notes. Carefully, he unfolds it and his gaze wanders over the beautifully written words.

‘You should take a rest – Y/N’

An unfamiliar feeling washes over Draco, and heat rises in his cheeks as he scans the words over and over again, his gaze catching on the small peculiarities of your handwriting. Suddenly, despite your presence which he hasn’t noticed until now, he feels even safer and more comfortable in this place. Even though those are just written words, he feels seen, he feels cared for. From a person he doesn’t even know and who he has never noticed before, at least not that he knows of.

“Hi, uhm. Did you send me that message?”, Draco asks, wanting to bury himself in the ground and never come out into the open again after uttering those stupid words. ‘Of course the message is from her, you idiot’, he inwardly chides himself.

Although you are seated at a different table, the distance between you isn’t so great that you couldn’t have heard him, and for a moment Draco thinks that maybe you didn’t, perhaps you were too engrossed in your own tasks. But when he tries to start again, you interrupt him with a shy smile that makes Draco’s stomach churn.

“Y-Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb. You.. just looked a bit exhausted”, you smile sheepishly, fidgeting with the quill in your hands, always avoiding Draco’s gaze.

“No, no, no. You didn’t disturb me. I just didn’t see you there is all..”, Draco laughs nervously and then falls silent again. “B-But thanks. For being worried about me. I mean- Maybe you aren’t even worried and just-”

“May I show you something?”, you ask after you have gathered all your courage, stopping his rambling in an instant. You have already sent him that message, so why not take it one step further? You want to take if further, mainly because he is so completely different than expected. Of course you already knew he is different alone than when he is hanging out with his Slytherin friends. You have watched him from afar long enough to be able to tell. But while you always see him, he has never seen you before.

“Yeah, sure. What is it?”, Draco asks curiously, snapping you out of your thoughts. Usually, it is not like you to lose yourself in them. Actually, you always know what is happening around you, always having a plan in mind, but Draco just seems to shatter these laws that you set up for yourself with ease.

Taking a deep breath, you stand up from your seat, stow all your books in your bag and look over at Draco, who didn’t expect that what you want to show him requires him to actually get up, but he does it anyway, following your every move without a word. At the entrance of the Great Hall, you stand directly opposite each other for the first time, each looking at the other directly.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I’m Draco, but, uh, you probably already know that”, Draco introduces himself, an uncertain smile on his lips as he scratches his neck in embarrassment.

“I’m Y/N”, you reply, beginning to walk in one direction, with Draco following you suit. You didn’t expect that this banal introduction, this simple getting to know each other, would immediately lead to deeper discussions, but you suddenly find yourself hanging on his every word as he talks about his last lesson in Potions class or how much some of his friends – if you can even call them that – annoy him. From this moment on, it feels like you have known each other for ages.

“What, precisely, do you want to show me again?”

“See for yourself”, you smile at him, leading the way up a winding staircase before opening a heavy door at the top, revealing complete darkness that stretches beyond. Together, you step out onto the astronomy tower and into the cool night air. Draco, who suddenly fell completely silent, is now standing close to you, your hands only a few inches from touching.

“This is absolutely breathtaking. Wow!”, Draco marvels and you smile to yourself, proud to show him a place in this huge castle where he has apparently never been to before. It is your personal favorite place when you are feeling down, your safe space when you need to gather new strength. You always regain your focus up here, and you hope that Draco feels the same effect at right this moment.

You can’t enjoy this pleasant togetherness and sudden proximity for long, however, when suddenly you hear noises in the distance, faintly sounding like footsteps, which can only mean one thing: Filch. Draco, without much thought, takes your hand in his and drags you down the stairs behind him, going for a record-breaking sprint. Filch, running around the corner with his trusty cat, can’t see you anymore but he is still able to hear your footsteps and, especially, your laughter. You want to stop laughing, but right now you couldn’t care less about what would potentially happen if he caught the both of you. As long as it happens with Draco by your side, you will be fine.

Quickly, you wind your way through the corridors of the old castle, past the sleeping paintings and hundred of staircases, your final destination being the Ravenclaw common room. Along the way, your heart painfully pounds in your chest a few times because you do not want this night to end yet. You wish you could spend the whole night, or, at least, what is still left of it, with him.

“Here we are”, Draco smiles breathlessly as you arrive at the door without a doorknob or keyhole, but a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle. “Get in quick, don’t let the old man catch you.”

Another laugh escapes your mouth at these words, something you realize you do quite often around him. And Draco loves every single time he can hear this beautiful sound erupting from you. Smiling, you nod and reach for the knocker, but hesitate and turn to Draco, who seems to be waiting for something.

“This was.. great fun.”

“I had a lot of fun today”, you say at exactly the same time, your words overlapping each other, making you both giggle, before Draco speaks up again, this time without you interrupting.

“Thank you, Y/N. That was.. unbelievable”, he thanks you sincerely and you can see that he is more than serious about this. The way he is looking at you in that moment like there is only you in this world causes butterflies to flutter in your stomach.

“Can we.. meet again?”

His question catches you off guard for a second, but you couldn’t be happier about it. Suddenly the courage that got you into this situation in the first place returns, grabbing its hold on you. Gently, you place a kiss on his cheek, stepping back with a smile and looking at his flushed face before actually hitting the knocker this time.

“Same time tomorrow. I will wait.”

[adventuringblind]

The Void: Chapter One

Max Verstappen x reader x Charles Leclerc

Summary: Reader and her brother Michael are hiding from their father. A man with a special ability that she inherited. When Max is in danger one night, she's forced to confront her fear to save him.

Warnings: gore if you squint, monsters?, blood, talks of murder, talks of abuse and neglect

Notes: PLEASE READ THIS! Void walking is my own original idea! I'm writing this as an experimental way of actually seeing how it would work. Please do not copy this idea!

Masterlist

Sometimes, she hates that it's the rich people of the world that could get away with murder. Other times, she remembers that technically, they are the ones who pay her.

Well... they pay her brother. She just exists. Pretending to useful.

Michael had said she needs keep herself as hidden away as possible. Their father would most likely only come looking for her since she inherited his terrible ability.

He'd called it a few things; void walking, reality shifting, hell, the works. The fact she and him can see into a world that's different and yet so similar is terrifying. One moment there is no door then you simply shift realities and then the door is there for you to escape through and people are left to wonder how you just walked through the wall.

The terrible part is that the alternative is terrifying to look at. Like every odd creature and demonic figure has been placed there. Scary monsters from her nightmares and blood spatters from unknown entities.

At fist she didn't know how to control it at all. Somehow ending up in the world where things where constantly trying to kill her. But then she learned that nit all monsters are bad. Some of them do their best to help her and keep her safe or even provide things her father couldn't.

Michael had taken her and ran when he turned eighteen. He promised to start new where they could live freely. She wouldn't say this is very 'free' but it's better then living with her serial killer father.

He'd managed to worm his way into the world of F1. How? She has absolutely no idea. He did his time and moved up the ranks and is now one of the top engineers with Redbull. The garage she spends her time hiding away in.

It's not like she's elusive. She's always orbiting around her brother and helping his out even though she's not being paid.

Michael just lets her help him woth his work because it keeps her busy and out of her head. Well - out if the secondary world she lives in.

Now she finds herself aimlessly reading a book in the Redbull hospitality. Her phone lighting up with Michael's caller ID.

"Hello? You know I'm not that far away right?" She answers sarcastically. The huff in her brothers voice is less then amused.

"Yes, I know, but I need a favor."

"What kind of favor?"

"The kind where you bring me something to eat because it's past noon and I'm starving and I'll let you explore the city tonight." He proposes. Hesitant woth the way he says it. Michael rarely lets her go anywhere alone. Monaco seems like the worst place to do so but the thought of escaping his eagle eye for an hour is enough to make her not question it.

"Deal."

~

The walk down would have been swift. Had a certain Dutch driver been paying attention and she wasn't lost in her own thoughts.

Now she's frantically apologizing and he's just looking at her smiling. The stupid smile that makes her melt.

Since her brother is one of Max's highest engineers, she spends a decent amount of time around him. They'd become fast friends since they met.

They were much younger then. She was seventeen and Max was nineteen. Now Max has just turned twenty-three and is on his way to a possible title.

It's been hectic and they'd barely had time to talk as of late. So it's a bit funny that their first conversation they'd had in a couple weeks is her frantically apologizing for running straight into him.

At least she wasn't void walking and ran through him instead. That would've been awkward and hard to explain.

"Why are you apologizing so much?" He chuckles. The action only makes her more flustered.

Her choulders eat her ears in embarrassment. "Just feel bad, I guess."

"I'm assuming you're heading to the garage for your brother?"

"He's getting hangry." She rolls her eyes. Mostly just annoyed that she had to put down her book for this.

Max holds out an arm for her to take. Almost like something out of a medieval romance which does nothing good for her imagination. "Can I walk you then?"

"What's your angle, Verstappen?"

"Can I not just want to spend five minutes with my friend?"

~

That evening Michael makes good on his promise to let her out alone. Max had invited her over to his apartment that night if she had time to spare.

Even offered to meet her halfway. An offer she accepted because she comes to Monaco for one weekend out of the year and has a tendency to get turned around when she doesn't have a set route.

She walks around the dock waiting for him. The moon light bounces off the water as the soft sounds of the water moving about fills her ears. It's peaceful here.

Until it's not.

Shadows are the dominate species in the void. Ghastly figures that could terrify most. And most do terrify her. But not all of them are evil and she's formed a few close bonds with the kind shadows she's met.

Her father's shadows were terrifying to look at and even more terrifying to fight. She thinks this is why as a child, the shadow she effectively called Fang because her small mind saw big fangs and decided upon that, came to her aid. It bore its teeth to protect her and has done so since she was five. Sometimes when she is upset, Fang will shrink into a small soft creature and lay over her lap. Like a really demented looking dog. That doesn't mean Fang isn't cute, just the only comparison she can make.

Now Fang is attempting to get her attention. Something or someone is here and it's not anything good.

She breathes before letting her mind lets her body slip a little into the void. The red sky and dirty water make her want to vomit but the sight of Fang makes it tolerable.

She follows it's lead around the corner and she's grateful the layout of the dock is the same. Aside from it being broken and rusted of course.

The muffled shouts are what takes her off guard. She can now clearly see Max being attacked. By who she has no idea. But the world she grew up in showed her that people do crazy things for no reason other then the high.

"Hey Fang, wanna play fetch?" The shadow looks at her with a glint of excitement. The bare eyes still light up with emotion even if it's hard to see." Just don't kill anyone."

The void deals a lot in energy. If her energy surrounds something enough then she can interact without regardless of how she's seeing it. That, in turn, means Fang also can because of their bond.

The female slips out her pocket knife and walks steadily towards them. Three unknown and a Max. Simple enough.

About 6 meters away, they finally notice her. She can faintly hear Max's muffled shouts through the unknown figure clamping their hand over his mouth.

She throws the knife then shifts again to the void. She just continues walking as Fang snatches it out of the air and land directly of the figure hold max. The knife sinks into their thigh. The shifts back to check the damage and Max is now scrambling to stand up and the knife has disappeared. Still in the void with Fang.

"Let him go unless you want more!" She shouts. Her voice melding with the sound of the water.

They look at each other a debate whether it's worth it. They obviously aren't prepared for a real fight.

She can feel Fang brush against her leg. Another great thing about their bond. Being able to feel the other despite not being shifted.

The three end up running away with their tail between their legs. Then she walks to Max to make sure he's okay.

They hug as soon as their proximity is close. Her head hurts from shifting so much. She doesn't normally do it that much they quickly. Even as she's walking her vision keeps switching between navy blue and deep red.

It switch back to blue and she takes a moment to assess Max. "Are you alright? You're not hurt?"

"No and I definitely owe you one for saving me. But what was that? I mean- how did you...?" He starts to maxplain but doesn't get far as her vision switchs once again. This time revealing something terrifying.

She knows what's going to happen. She'll get stuck between worlds. This power is far from perfect and has a tendency to set somone perfectly inbetween worlds. She can feel and see Max and also the shadow with spindly claws that's approaching her.

It's not a nice shadow and she's pissed it off somehow. Probably just disturbed it.

It's arms reach around Max and it caresses her cheek drawing. It burn as it pierces her skin and draws a line across her cheek.

"Y/N? You okay?" Max is shaking her shoulders to get a response. "You're bleeding now. I watched it appear out of thin air!"

Fang is immediately in protector mode. It's massive teeth and now exponentially larger size then before makes them intimidating.

The two end up in a brawl. She can hear the whispers of other memories and entities in the void. It's never a kind place to end up and she feels for the gentle shadows who endure daily.

She sinks to the ground and clutches her ears. Her attempt at blocking them out is futile. The whispers always make it in. They creep around her skin. They paint out the ugly lies.

Then her body is being jostled. It's a miracle she can even be moved from the outside. Normally she becomes a ghost because she can only be tied to one at a time. Her body only interacting with one even if it's still see in the other.

Being stuck between makes twice as many things in the way. But here in Max's hold she tries to think about how she's safe. She thinks about how his skin is warm and how he smells like citrus and the sun.

~

To say Max is panicked would be an understatment. The girl in his arms keeps getting stuck on things that aren't there and he's about to lose his mind.

Whatever sort of mime work this is needs to stop. She's bleeding and hyperventilating and now her sleeve is torn open.

He needs to get her to his apartment so that they can talk about what's going on. Which is what he would've done if she didn't completely pass out in his arms.

The entire walk back is painful. It's even painful trying to get her to sit down because she's still hitting non-existent objects.

She ends up in the tub. He'll apologize later but right now is not the time. He pulls out the first aid and puts her brother on speaker. He sends a silent prayer that he's still awake.

"Max? Everything okay?" He sounds perfectly ready to take on a five mile sprint. How does he have so much energy after he worked on the car for ten hours straight?

"Actually I have you sister and I think some invisible force is trying to kill her." He realizes how stupid it sounds after he says it. The silence on the other end makes him think Michael is about to die of laughter.

"Is she awake?" His tone completely changes into something serious and Max begins to panic just a little more.

"No, she passed out halfway to my apartment."

"I need you not to panic about anything, okay? Just do as I say and then I'll explain later."

"Okay."

~

Ten minutes. It took him ten minutes to wake her up. Her screams and thrashing from the initial wake up were calmed when she realized it was him. Her brother still on speaker talking her through something.

"Y/N, I need you to relax. Is Fang there?"

"Yes." The crack in her voice hurts him. He'd known her for years now but had never seen her like this.

"Is there something attacking you?"

"Not anymore."

Attacking? Max does his best to hide the shock. Has she been getting attacked by invisible things? For some reason he feels a bit selfish for never noticing it. She noticed everything. Knew Jos was not the greatest person with a single look. She always knew how he was feeling. How had he not been able to reciprocate?

Max shakes himself of his thoughts. Hew needs to be present for her right now.

"You have to shift the balance again. I know it's hard, but I need you to lean into my voice and Max's presence."

Her eyes screw closed in concentration. Max can't help but admire the way she looks when she's concentrated because it's different from how he looks. His is angry and fierce concentration, but hers is almost curious and welcoming.

When her eyes flicker back open she heaves a sigh of relief. Her head twists around as if to fully understand where she is.

"I did it." She almost beams. Max has no idea what she did but he smiles proudly anyway. If only to be supportive of his friend.

He's never liked that word for them. Friend. He needs to get a handle on his thoughts. She almost died and he's thinking about his relationship status. But maybe this is a good thing. Daniel would say it's probably a sign he should Confess. Has told him to do so for a year now.

"So the options now are that I can explain to Max, or you can explain to Max."

She ponders for a moment. Her eyes stare into him like she's assessing something. "I will."

"Do you want me here or do you want to do it alone?"

"I'll be okay."

~

Max stares at her for the fifth time. She'd explained it to him multiple times and answered his questions the best she knows how.

"It's a lot to take in, I'm sorry I'm struggling to understand." He shoots her an apologetic glance.

She just shrugs in return. "To be fair, I don't even completely understand it."

"I'm also sorry about your dad."

"Not like yours is any better. No need to compare, we've both been through things." She smiles him.

They're sat on his bed, limbs sprawled out comfortably. Soft music plays in the background.

"Can I... I want to... follow me?" Max starts speaking with his hands instead and gestures to the balcony attached to his room.

The two step outside. The fresh air is nice after breathing in the ash of the void.

Max faces her. The eye contact is terrifying, but she holds it. She knows it's how he tries to communicate his feelings. "I have a confession." She nods her head to show she's listening. Max's hands tentatively sup her cheeks, but he relaxs when she lets herself lean into it. "I've loved you for a while now. Ever since last year, when you sat with me for hours, consoling me over something stupid."

"It wasn't -"

"Not the point." He shushs. "I'm trying to tell you that my heart hurts thinking you've been hurting all this time and I want to be there for you in a way that I can't as just a friend." He finally confesses.

She stares at him wide eyed but her smile is radiating. "I love you too, Max. I panicked when I saw you pinned down. Couldn't bare the thought of something terrible happening and losing you." She places a hand over his.

It happened so quickly. The feeling of his lips on hers. Then they were gone.

"I'm gonna be there for you now too. No more hiding away from me."

She finds herself getting lost in the blue of his eyes. How could she refuse him such a thing? "I promise."