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Sweet Garden - Rama x G.N Reader

CHARACTER USED : Rama from Blinding of Truth

SUMMARY : You and him <3 Farmhouse and a nightmare.

Rama is a disciplined man, bound by his own principles, but there’s a quiet warmth in the way he moves through the world—a patience cultivated through years of tending to the land, nurturing life where others might have let it wither. You admire that about him.

The morning sun is golden, filtering through the trees and casting long, dappled shadows over the field. Dew clings to the grass, soaking into the fabric of your pants as you kneel to pluck weeds from the soil. The earth is rich beneath your fingertips, dark and damp with yesterday’s rain.

Rama works a few feet away, sleeves rolled up, forearms flecked with dirt. He’s tending to the tomato plants, careful hands lifting each vine to inspect for pests. The sun hat he wears shades his sharp features, but when he glances at you, you catch the glint of his eyes—warm, assessing.

"You are pulling too quickly, mišiću," he says, voice even. "If you rip out the roots, they will return."

You exhale, brushing stray hair from your forehead. "I thought I was doing fine."

He steps closer, kneeling beside you. His hands are rough from years of labor, but the way he guides your fingers is gentle. "Here," he murmurs, pressing your hand to the base of the weed. "You must pull slowly, with care. Like this."

You follow his lead, tugging with just enough pressure to loosen the roots from the earth. It comes free, and you glance at him with a triumphant grin.

"See? You learn quickly," he praises, voice laced with quiet amusement. "Perhaps there is hope for you yet."

You roll your eyes but can’t suppress the warmth blooming in your chest.

At midday, Rama straightens with a satisfied sigh. "Enough for now," he decides, wiping his hands on his pants. "You must be hungry."

You nod, stretching out your sore limbs. "Starving."

Inside, the farmhouse is cool, the stone walls offering respite from the heat. The wooden table is worn from years of use, and the shelves are lined with jars of preserves, dried herbs hanging from the ceiling.

Rama moves with practiced efficiency, slicing ripe tomatoes, toasting thick slices of bread. The scent of basil and garlic fills the air. You watch him, chin propped on your hand.

"You do this every day?" you ask.

He glances at you. "Of course."

"Doesn’t it get lonely?"

He pauses for the briefest moment before resuming his task. "I am used to solitude," he says simply. "But now you are here."

Something in your stomach flips.

He sets a plate in front of you—a simple meal, but prepared with care. You take a bite, the flavors bursting on your tongue.

"Good?" he asks, watching you intently.

You nod, swallowing. "Perfect."

He hums in satisfaction, taking a seat across from you. For a while, the two of you eat in comfortable silence, the sounds of the farm drifting in through the open window.

The afternoon sun hangs heavy over the fields, casting long streaks of gold and amber across the expanse of Rama’s farm. The distant sound of cowbells rings softly through the air, blending with the occasional cluck of the hens from the coop. You stretch your legs out on the porch, the warm wood beneath you rough and familiar, while Rama moves about with the quiet efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times before.

He’s in the greenhouse now, silhouetted against the glass as he tends to the delicate sprouts. The sun filters through the panels, catching in his hair—a burnished bronze against the soft green hues of growing life. You sip from the water bottle he left for you, letting your eyes linger on the rhythmic motion of his hands as he works.

Rama is precise in everything he does. There’s no rush, no wasted movement—only the deliberate, patient care of a man who understands the value of time. And it’s not just the plants he treats this way. He treats you like that too. A patient teacher. A steady presence. Sometimes a mystery.

The door creaks as you rise to your feet, wandering barefoot across the cool grass toward the greenhouse. The earth is soft beneath your steps, and the faint scent of mint drifts up as you brush past a patch of herbs. Rama doesn’t look up when you enter, but you know he hears you. He always does.

"You’re quiet," he remarks, crouched over a bed of plants. His voice is low, steady—comforting in a way you don’t fully understand.

"I’m watching you work," you admit, leaning against the doorframe. "You’re kind of a perfectionist, aren’t you?"

He chuckles softly. "Only with things that matter." He lifts one of the leaves, inspecting it for signs of pests. "Everything deserves care if you want it to last."

You step closer, drawn by the calm weight of his words. The air inside the greenhouse is warm and fragrant—earthy and alive. Tiny green tomatoes cling to their vines, and further back, you spot rows of strawberry plants beginning to flower.

"You grow all of this by yourself?" you ask, brushing your fingers over a basil leaf, releasing its sweet aroma.

"For a long time, yes," Rama replies, rising to his full height. He wipes his hands on a cloth tucked into his belt. "But you help now, mišiću. I am grateful."

The nickname falls from his lips as easily as a breath. You’ve never asked what it means, but you’re not sure you want to. There’s a warmth to it—a tenderness he rarely allows himself to show in words.

"How did you even start all this?" you ask, gesturing vaguely to the greenhouse and the fields beyond.

He leans against the workbench, crossing his arms. "It was not always like this," he admits. "When I first came here, the land was wild. Untamed. But there is something satisfying about turning chaos into order." A small smile touches his lips. "Besides, if I do not do it, who will?"

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. "You make it sound simple."

"Not simple. Just necessary." His gaze softens as it drifts to the rows of seedlings. "There is peace in growing things. They do not lie. They do not betray you. They only give back what you put in."

You’re quiet for a moment, watching the lines of tension ease from his shoulders. He never says much about himself—not really—but the pieces he does give are enough to keep you curious.

"You take care of everything," you say softly. "But who takes care of you?"

Rama’s head tilts slightly, as though the thought has never occurred to him. For a breath, you think he might not answer. But then—

"I manage," he says quietly, his voice edged with something unreadable. "I always have."

There’s a weight to those words, heavy and immovable. You let them hang between you, unwilling to press further.

Instead, you gesture to the sprouting zucchinis. "So… what happens next? With these?"

He seems grateful for the change in subject. "These are almost ready to be transplanted. Would you like to help?"

You nod, eager to shake off the lingering heaviness. "Of course."

Rama hands you a small trowel, then kneels beside you as he begins to loosen the soil. His movements are slow, methodical, and you try to match his rhythm as best you can. The earth is cool beneath your fingertips—an oddly soothing sensation.

As you work side by side, the silence becomes something comfortable. Every so often, Rama murmurs instructions, his tone warm and patient. He doesn’t seem to mind when you fumble or ask too many questions. If anything, he seems… pleased.

"You are getting better," he remarks after a while, watching as you carefully place a sprout into the soil.

You smile, brushing dirt from your hands. "You’re a good teacher."

His lips curve into a faint smile. "Only because you listen."

The afternoon light shifts slowly as you work, the sun inching toward the horizon. Outside the greenhouse, the distant sound of the cows lowing drifts through the air. You glance toward the pasture, where the animals graze peacefully in the fading sunlight.

"You ever get bored out here?" you ask, settling back on your heels.

Rama shakes his head. "No. There is always something to do. Something to fix." He pauses, considering. "But… I suppose it is less lonely now."

You blink, surprised by the quiet honesty of his words. Before you can think of how to respond, he stands, brushing the soil from his knees.

"Come," he says, extending a hand. "I will show you the animals."

You take his hand without hesitation, letting him pull you to your feet. His grip is warm—steady in a way that makes your pulse skip. He doesn’t let go immediately, even as he leads you toward the pasture.

The cows greet Rama with a low, contented noise as you approach, their large eyes following his movements. He moves easily among them, scratching one behind the ears as she leans into his touch.

"They know you," you observe, watching the way the animals respond to him.

"They should," he says with a small smile. "I raised most of them myself."

Further down, the chicken coop bustles with activity. Rama opens the gate, crouching to gather a few warm eggs from the nesting boxes. One of the hens pecks at his sleeve, and he chuckles softly.

"You are nosy today," he murmurs to the bird, stroking her feathers with surprising tenderness.

You watch him in silence, something warm and unfamiliar curling in your chest. For all his quiet reserve, there’s a softness to him—a gentleness he rarely shows in words but reveals in moments like these.

By the time the sun dips below the horizon, the air is cool and sweet with the scent of grass and wildflowers. You follow Rama back to the house, your arms sore but your heart oddly light.

Inside, the warmth of the fire crackles softly in the hearth. Rama moves to the kitchen, setting the eggs carefully on the counter. You linger nearby, watching as he washes his hands and begins to prepare something simple—fresh bread, slices of tomato, a sprinkle of salt.

"You didn’t have to do all this," you say softly.

His gaze meets yours across the small kitchen. "I want to," he says simply. "You work hard. You should eat well."

The simplicity of his words sends a flutter through your chest. You lower yourself into a chair, accepting the plate he offers with a quiet murmur of thanks.

For a long time, the only sound is the quiet clink of utensils and the occasional rustle of wind against the window.

And when Rama speaks again, his voice is softer—more thoughtful.

"You will stay tomorrow?"

You look up, meeting his gaze. "Of course," you say. "I’m not going anywhere."

He nods once, as if that was the only answer he’d been willing to accept.

The night settles heavy over the farm, a velvet darkness broken only by the occasional creak of wood and the distant hum of crickets. The air inside the house is warm, thick with the lingering scent of earth and bread. Your muscles ache pleasantly from the day’s work, but your mind refuses to follow your body into rest.

Rama’s quiet presence lingers even after he disappears to his own room. You imagine him moving through the house—careful, deliberate—always anchored in the moment while your thoughts drift like loose threads.

When sleep finally comes, it does not arrive gently.

It pulls you under.

The first thing you feel is heat.

It’s not the comforting warmth of a summer afternoon or the soft glow of the farmhouse hearth—it’s fierce, swallowing. Smoke curls in the back of your throat, cloying and thick, but no fire burns. Only the scent of something ruined.

It starts with falling.

You don’t remember how, or why—but you’re falling, and it feels endless. Like the world dropped out beneath your feet and forgot to catch you. Wind rushes past your ears, sharp and cold, but your body is warm—too warm, like you’re being pulled back into something soft and heavy. Something waiting.

And then—impact.

You hit the ground, but it isn’t solid. It cradles you, soft and wet, swallowing your limbs like sinking into the heart of something alive. You try to move, but the earth clings to you—sticky, warm, as if it doesn’t want to let you go.

You open your mouth to breathe, and it tastes like copper.

A heartbeat echoes in the dark—slow and heavy, but it isn’t yours. It’s older. Deeper. And it’s getting louder.

When you lift your head, you see it—the tree.

It towers above everything, massive and gnarled, roots tangled deep into the earth. Its bark is pale as bone, and from its branches hang things. Shapes that twist and sway in a wind you can’t feel. You know what they are without getting closer.

Bodies.

New ones, old ones. Some half-formed. Some still twitching, like they never quite finished being born. They dangle like fruit, slick and pale, waiting to fall.

And at the base of the tree, something moves.

It isn’t a person. Not really. Its limbs are too long—arms and legs stretched past what a body should hold. Its hands are slick and red, raw to the bone, as it kneels in the dirt. And in those bloodied fingers—it cradles something small. Something fragile.

A shape.

A body.

Yours.

It’s not you—not exactly. But it looks like you, and the longer you stare, the more your skin feels too tight. Your ribs ache, and something deep inside you twists—like a cord being pulled taut, threatening to snap.

The thing tilts its head as if it feels your gaze. Its mouth—if it has one—doesn’t move, but you hear its voice in the marrow of your bones.

"Not yet."

You try to step back, but the ground won’t let you go. It’s holding you in place—pressing into your skin like fingers. Like roots.

"You were unfinished."

The air thickens around you—warm and heavy, sweet with something you don’t want to name. The thing rises from its knees, your shape still cradled in its arms, and takes a step toward the tree. Toward the hanging bodies. Its hands—God, its hands—shake as they press the half-made version of you against the trunk.

The bark splits open.

The tree swallows you.

No—not you. The version of you it holds. But it feels the same. You feel it under your skin—something crawling, writhing, trying to pull you apart from the inside. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

"You were not ready."

The thing turns toward you, empty sockets where eyes should be. You don’t want to see what’s inside.

"You will be better this time."

The bark groans and shudders as the tree begins to bloom.

And from its branches—something new begins to form.

It has your shape. Your face. But it isn’t you.

It’s better.

Sharper. Smoother. Perfect in a way you never were.

The thing reaches out a hand, bloodied fingers dripping as it beckons you closer.

"Come back."

You shake your head—your throat burns as you try to speak, but nothing comes out. Your skin feels like it’s coming undone. Like if you stay here too long, the version of you in the tree will be the only one left.

And the old you?

Forgotten.

"You don’t belong to yourself."

The words settle in your chest—too heavy, too final.

But there���s something else. A spark beneath the terror. Something that doesn’t want to give in.

You dig your nails into your palms, trying to hold onto the shape you know is yours. Trying to keep from being unraveled. If you let go now—if you let them take you back—

You won’t come out the same.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe they want to make you new.

But you don’t want to be remade.

Not like this.

You take a step back—then another. The ground groans in protest, but it lets you go. Whatever binds you here, it’s weakening.

The thing doesn’t follow. But you know it’s watching.

Waiting.

"Next time," it says, voice soft and full of promise. "You won’t resist."

And then—

You wake.

Your heart pounds so hard it hurts. Your mouth is dry. The weight of the dream clings to you—sickly sweet, like something half-remembered and wrong. You touch your face, your arms—everything still feels real. Still feels yours.

All of us will be reborn— A curse, a promise, a debt unpaid— Bones unburied by hands well-worn, A ghost of flesh that will not fade.

The sun will rise, and so shall we— Crawling back from earthen bed, Dragged by roots through soil and sea, Neither living, neither dead.

What breaks may mend, but never whole— The cracks run deep, they always do— A thousand lives, one shattered soul— The old self dies, but never you.

We bleed, we burn, we drown, we fall— Yet still we wake, as dawn must break— A whisper hums beneath it all— You will not sleep. You will not shake.

The grave forgets, but we remain— A shadow cast by fate undone— And through the dark, through blood and pain— The curse repeats—’til all is one.

No rest for hearts too weak to break— No peace for minds too sharp to sever— Each day anew—each step a wake— Bound to rise—and fall—forever.

[tillday]

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